Heart and Soul

Gonna' Live 'Til I Die

2006-01-11T17:21:00.000-08:00

I am dying.

But then, that’s the ultimate irony of life, isn’t it.

From the moment we are born ….every morning we rise to begin again…everything we do…it all brings us that much closer to our final breath.

Yet for the most part, we humans put on imaginary blinders and pretend that life is eternal. We live in a self-delusional cocoon where death is something that only happens to others. And in adopting that mindset, we not only lose sight of our mortal reality, we tend to waste precious time in activities and actions that really don’t matter.

I was starkly reminded of that life and death reality during a post holiday dinner with a friend of mine. She is a wonderful person who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. This woman is a spirited and positive-thinking individual who more than once has served as my councilor and confidant in times of need. Yet on this particular night the tables were turned. This time, I was the one listening as she described the severity of the disease that has invaded her body and against which she is now waging a battle for her life.

As my friend detailed the various treatments she is undergoing and the physical and mental side effects she is enduring, I found it impossible to equate her words with her appearance. Outwardly she looks the same as always---attractive and healthy, with a smile that warms the heart. Yet, my friend has changed dramatically in the life she now lives since receiving her cancer diagnosis.

She has taken a leave of absence from work and now spends time each day painting and quilting, two of her favorite hobbies. Her husband, a man usually busily engaged in his own activities, has reorganized his schedule and become a marvelous caretaker and a compassionate ally in her healing battle. And her friends, myself included, are making an extra effort to call and spend more time together.

And so it is I wonder, why does it take something like a brutal medical diagnosis with an immediate life-threatening dimension to force us to treasure life and those in it?

Why do we insist on wearing those blinders that encourage us to believe that the life we cherish and those we love will endure forever and therefore can be set aside or put on hold?

Why do we continually fool ourselves into believing that offering a kind word, giving a special hug, reading a book, playing a game, taking a walk, sharing a meal, or simply enjoying time with family and friends is a luxury allowed only after fulfilling work and professional responsibilities?

Why don’t we get it, that from the moment we are born, we begin dying---and that we need to spend time enjoying who and what we’ve got, while we can?

Like I said, I am dying. Matter of fact, we’re all dying.

But more important then concentrating on that inescapable and depressing fact, we need to focus on the joyous option that we are also given from the moment we are born…and that is to live fully, each and everyday, until we die.

Making Changes

2006-01-11T17:20:00.000-08:00

MAKING CHANGES

“A New Year, A New You.”

As we turn the calendar to the New Year of 2006, many of us follow the trend of resolving to make ourselves over. We self-promise renewal in a continual quest to become thinner, richer, smarter, younger, healthier and, of course, better looking.

Never one to be left behind, I’ve made my list of New Year’s Resolutions with one central theme: to become “cool.”

I came to this resolve several weeks ago when my daughter and I were planning our family’s Christmas Eve Dinner. My “in-the-know” child suggested that “Tapas Style” would be a good way to serve this year’s holiday feast. I responded that I had no idea what “Tapas” meant, at which point she gave me a look that I clearly remember using on my grandmother when I talked to her about trendy subjects as bell bottoms and go-go boots.

It was at that precise moment that I clearly understood I had officially fallen into the out-of-touch generation. However, unlike my mother and her mother before her, I have since decided that out-of-touch is not where I want to be. So this year I’m dedicating myself to keeping up with all the latest trends and becoming “cool.”

As a lover of fashion, I decided to begin with my wardrobe. My New Year’s Motto a simple one of change and renewal. Out with full sized sweaters, high-heeled pumps and regular fit jeans and in with shrugs, uggs and low riders, baby!

So I set off to my favorite clothing mecca to shop for a new and trendy wardrobe, which now hangs in my closet, ready to wear. There’s just one small problem. I have no idea how to wear this stuff!

The uggs aren’t so bad. In fact, they’re downright warm and toasty. However, I must admit that I find the current fashion trend of pairing the oversized furry boots with dresses of satin and lace, a bit disorienting. But I’ve started out slow, putting together uggs with my best 3-piece suit and it seems to be working out ok.

Where I’m really struggling is in the shrug and low rider jeans department. Now every time I see a nubile young woman wrapped up in a body hugging cropped tee shirt topped off with a shoulder to shoulder shrug, I absolutely love the look. However when I attempt to pull off that same fashion statement, I end up looking like someone wearing a half knit sweater that’s unraveling as I wear it. Then when you add to that a pair of low rider jeans that not only fail to cover my love handles and healthy belly, but tragically over emphasize them and cause them to hang out from underneath my too-short shirt, it’s definitely a bad picture.

The good news is that I’ve found a solution to my fashion dilemma and it’s right out the pages of my grandmother’s stylebook. I’ve discovered that if I simply trade-in my cropped tee for a full-length model, I can wear the lowest cut jeans in the universe and appear as cool as anyone. I just have to add one simple undergarment…..a corset.

Yep, that’s right. I now put on a one-piece, shoulder to leg, hold-it-all-in, elastic body armor and I’m good to go for any fashion trend on the market. The only drawback I’ve found so far is that after about three hours, my internal organs start to feel as if they are being compacted and I have a little trouble breathing. But it’s a small price to pay for being cool.

Next on my cool resolution list… tattoos. I’m thinking maybe a cute little butterfly on my ankle.

Undoubtedly way cool!

'Tis The Season

2006-01-11T17:19:00.000-08:00

This week in the midst of the traditional Ho-Ho-Ho shopping frenzy, I find that I have experienced a personal epiphany. It’s a magical revelation related to the task of shopping for that perfect Yuletide gift. In a nutshell, I’ve come to realize that holiday shopping is an art practiced by two types of people. “The Listers” and “The Wanderers.”

Listers initiate their Holiday Shopping by creating multiple lists that encompass all of their gift giving needs. They categorize their lists into groups of family, friends, and neighbors, and then create appropriate subcategories of malls and plazas where they plan to shop. They know the exact store, aisle and shelf containing all of their gift items and, just to be on the safe side, they memorize the appropriate UPC codes, style numbers, and manufacturer’s names.

Well-prepared Listers also maintain a cross-indexed stash of neatly clipped coupons to compliment their gift lists. In addition, they create strategic GPS maps of various shopping excursion routes. These charts are precise and help to guide Listers from store to store in a perfectly ordered plan, which of course includes suggested stopoffs for lunch and snacks.

Traditionally, Listers are categorized as females.

As for “Wanderers,” they also start their holiday shopping quests armed with lists…usually prepared for them by caring Listers. However, these shopping guides almost always end up rebelliously stuffed into Wanderer’s back pockets, for this breed of shopper believes that lists are for wimps. And so they bravely exhibit their trailblazing spirits by surging into crowded malls and plazas and attacking their shopping tasks mano-a-mano.

As a result, Wanderer’s shopping excursions are often marked by multiple journeys up and down mall hallways, circling in a stupor akin to first time tourists in a big city. They rub their eyes, they scratch their heads and dazedly gaze up at storefront signs as if the words are foreign and unfamiliar.

Every once in a while Wanderers actually venture into a store in an attempt to capture the gift of their dreams. Yet, within minutes of entering a shopping wonderland, Wanderers often find themselves frightened and disoriented. In desperation, they blindly decide to snatch the closest object at hand. They then stumble to the checkout and shove the randomly selected item at the clerk, all the while feebly pleading for complimentary gift wrap.

When Wanderers finally emerge from the depths of their holiday shopping hell, they instinctively head for the nearest first aid station, where they find comfort in the administration of medicinal barley and hops.

Traditionally, Wanderers are categorized as males.

Yet the good news is that cell phone technology has provided Listers and Wanderers with a compromise means of connecting and achieving a much greater Holiday shopping success. With a flip of a phone and a flick of a speed dial, Wanderers have found a way to continue their proud tradition of shopping without lists, while searching the sky for Lister saviors to guide them step by step to the exact gift of their holiday dreams.

Not exactly a star, 3 Wisemen, and a baby, but definitely some essential Holiday Salvation!

A Hershey Kiss and Hot Chocolate

2006-01-11T17:18:00.000-08:00

Between the eggnog and the cookies, the tree and all the trimmings, the shopping and the wrapping, and my family’s 6 December Birthdays, this month is always a hectic one for me. Yet this year, I’ve even managed to ratchet up my holiday chaos to a whole new level by scheduling signings of my Chicken Wing Wisdom book on weekends and many evenings. The end result of this temporary insanity is that I am quickly becoming THE MASTER of multi-tasking.

For example, last Saturday while sitting in the middle of a local mall, meeting/greeting/signing books, I was also writing this Heart and Soul commentary. The topic was one I’d been chewing on since Thanksgiving and the commentary was shaping up as a real doozy. Basically, my Irish sensibilities have been totally inflamed by the current, “politically correct” demand to displace the centuries old, “Merry Christmas” with the new and insipid “Happy Holidays.” Personally I think the debate swirling around this issue insults people’s intelligence as well their valued personal traditions. If I want to say Merry Christmas, as I have done throughout the Decembers of my life, then I should be able to do so freely and without fear of offending anyone.

However just as I was rolling into paragraph three and really getting to the meat of the issue, my creative juices came to a complete and total halt as I heard a voice say, “My daughter is going to write our story one day.”

I looked up from my writing pad to find a middle aged woman standing before me, her appearance clearly defining her as a woman more of labor, than luxury. I immediately remembered her as someone who had passed by my signing table earlier in the day. Specifically I recalled that she paused only briefly, as she was pushing a man in a wheelchair and had 2 children tagging alongside. That poignant image, along with the directness of her statement, begged my undivided attention as she spoke.

“My husband is blind and my son is autistic. I’m the one who takes care of them. Since they take so much of my attention, my daughter, who is perfectly healthy, gets left out a lot. So we have this special thing that we do. When she needs time with me, she leaves a Hershey Kiss on my pillow. And when I need time with her, I leave a Hershey Kiss on her pillow. So when I see that Hershey kiss, I know that I need to make sure that we to have time to talk and drink hot chocolate.”

The woman’s words poured out so quickly that I initially found them somewhat stunning. Yet as I began to grasp the story she was telling, I found her spirit irresistible and her love for her family most remarkable. I also found that I was suddenly much less concerned whether people were wishing me Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Blessed Kwanzaa or Happy Holidays. For in her simple story, this worn and weary woman reminded me of the true message of the season…love.

So, I’ve decided to take a page from this wise woman’s life story and change my focus on “the acceptable greeting” for the holidays. Whether it’s Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or Blessed Kwanzaa, who really cares? As long as the wishes come from the heart and are given with love, that’s what’s important

Just like a Hershey kiss and a big steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Gobble Til You Wobble

2006-01-11T17:11:00.000-08:00

While Thanksgiving is unquestionably a holiday all about the food, my personal turkey day traditions also include a focus outside the realm of, "Gobble ‘til you wobble."

Like many Americans, I spend days preparing my dining table with freshly polished silver, sparkling crystal, and fine china plates on which to serve our family’s treasured recipes. Yet I also find that each Thanksgiving, my day is defined by memories of two special people---my former mother-in-law and my mother---both women of determination and common sense, who occupy a special place in my heart, and in my Thanksgivings Past.

My former mother-in-law could easily be defined as a hard headed and tough German woman with a heart of gold. From the time I first met her in 1967, it was clear that family was her life’s sole focus. One of my strongest memories of her familial devotion occurred in 1971, when my former husband and I were new parents spending Thanksgiving 500 miles away from home.

That year, not only did my mother-in-law load her two younger sons into the car and undertake the long trek to spend the Thanksgiving Holiday with us, she also brought the entire meal with her. Yes, that’s right. From a 20 pound turkey to mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy and of course, her famous squash, every element of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner arrived completely prepared and, amazingly, still warm!

Being young at the time, I principally appreciated the dinner for its face value of excellent food and nourishment. Yet now, some thirty-four years later, I more fully understand and value the loving effort my former mother-in-law made that Thanksgiving, in bringing family and food to our doorstep. The memory also serves as an enduring reminder of the importance of family above all else. And for that constant tweak, I am eternally indebted.

As for my mom, she was a whole different story. She was a tough independent businesswoman who, while she loved her family, was also satisfied with the pleasure of her own company on holidays and everyday. However, on Thanksgiving Eve 1998, her solitary lifestyle changed.

Mom had been suffering from a variety of ailments for some time and that November the varied diseases and conditions finally got the best of her aging body. As a result, a doctor admitted her to a Senior Care Facility a week before Thanksgiving. However, the first time I walked through the doors, I knew I couldn’t leave her there.

So, that dark and rainy Thanksgiving Eve, I packed up my mother’s meager belongings, bundled her into my car and brought her home to live with my husband and me. Little did I know she would die a short four months later, and further, that my memories of her sitting at the kitchen table that Thanksgiving Morning---blanket shawled around her shoulders, glasses askew on her nose, polishing rag in one hand and silver serving pieces before her --- would be one of the most long lasting and affecting memories of the Thanksgiving Holiday--- and of my life.

So now each year as I rise early on Thanksgiving Morn and begin last minute holiday preparations, I hold a little gathering in the kitchen. Quietly and respectfully I call together the spirits of my mother and my former mother-in-law. I thank them for all the valuable life lessons that they've taught me and for being women of distinct value and honor. And I ask that they to continue to watch over our family and care for us on Thanksgiving and everyday.

My Father's Child

2006-01-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

Shortly after my mother’s passing in 1999, I started including a new line in my writer’s biography that I still retain today. It reads, "Christina will always be her mother’s daughter."

That statement is important to me because despite our many differences, my mom and I were close and, quite honestly, I miss her now that she’s not around to drive me crazy anymore. It was also my hope that those simple six words might serve as a comforting reminder to all readers that no matter how permanently death separates us from those we love, it cannot change the reality of people’s individual significance in our lives.

For instance, as I continue to age "gracefully," I quite often find myself replicating many of my mother’s mannerisms, phrases, and god help me, her Irish sense of humor. There are even moments when I purposefully use some of her favored sayings as a quietly reverential way of keeping her spirit alive.

I’ve also recognized that some of the professional traits that have furthered my career are directly attributable to my mother. Although she never earned more than a high school diploma, mom capably worked her way through the secretarial ranks into management, eventually becoming one of the first women executives of a prominent Western New York Bank. Her work ethic, coupled with her tough as nails can-do attitude, still provide an excellent professional template for any businessperson to follow.

And so it was, for all those reasons and more, that six years ago I officially adopted my "mother’s daughter" bio line.

Yet several months ago I was shocked by the discovery that while I may always be my mother’s daughter, I am, by nature, my father’s child.

This bit of wisdom came as a surprise to me, in part, because I really haven’t had much contact with my dad in more than twenty years. He and my mother divorced in the early 1980’s. From that point on, my father pretty much went his own way, using an occasional card or phone call to stay in touch.

However since my mother’s passing, my father has made somewhat of a return appearance into my life and this past January he requested that I visit him in Florida where he now lives. Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.
During our three days together I began to realize the many similarities between my father and myself. Not traits that I mimic or mannerisms I have adopted, but talents and innate sensibilities that exactly match.

My father is a writer, a fact I never knew until he began sharing his poems and stories that he’d crafted over the years. The interior of the condo he now calls home reveals my father’s flair for decorating, a talent of his that I recall from my youth, and one for which I am also often given credit. My father is a lover of music, regularly playing a wide range of performers on his stereo , just as I do in my own home.

In between our Florida sightseeing trips and shared meals my father told me a number of stories about his youth and mine, in much the same way that I tell my children tales of our shared pasts. That particular similarity became even more startling when I recognized that my father and I are inveterate storytellers, right down to the common words and phrases we use. In browsing through his stacks of books and videotapes I discovered that my father and I share exact tastes in literature and movies. We also have the same likes and dislikes in food and drink. Most essentially, we are both ice cream and chocolate addicts….milk chocolate only, thank-you very much.

Since returning from my mid winter visit it has taken quite some time to process all that I learned about my father. It has also been somewhat disorienting to come to grips with the reality that the essence of who I am, the inner part of my being, is truly connected to my father much more than my mother. After so many years of his absence from my life, it’s been a surprising lesson revealed.

In the end though, I’m grateful that my father reached out and allowed me to learn something about who he is, which, in turn, has helped me to discover more about myself. While the experience had its fair share of challenging and even painful moments, by becoming re-acquainted with my father I've definitely formulated a stronger foundation from which to live the second half of my life.

And I have also reaffirmed the truth that despite all of my inborn talents and characteristics, I will always be my mother’s daughter.

Trick or Treat

2005-10-09T08:19:00.000-07:00

Devastating floods. Killing wars. Political upheaval. Economic downturn.

Everywhere around me these days the world seems so distraught.

So yesterday I took a break from the realities of life and went for an evening walk around my county block, far from the maddening crowds. What I discovered along the way is that the Halloween Season is definitely upon us, and further that it has become as prolific a decorating season as any Yuletide I can recall.

At almost every house I passed there were the traditional front porch decorations of pumpkins, mums, corn stalks and scarecrows. Yet alongside the conventional I also discovered the spooky and at times macabre adornments that definitely lent a whole new meaning to Martha Stewart's "good thing" ideal of seasonal home decor.

Strings of orange, black and purple lights highlighted archways, doorways, porch railings, lamp posts and fences, glowingly heralding the color based tradition of this trick or treat time of year.

Massive spider webs spread across porch walls fashioned from thick black lengths of yarn. Off center in the webs often sat my own worst nightmare ---multi legged, furry spiders with menacing purple glow eyes.

I saw skeletons, bats, and witches -- oh my -- all in life size proportions and all lurking menacingly around what I usually observe as cheerful and welcoming home entranceways.

Oversized nylon pumpkins, witches, and ghosts, of a scope so large that they requited tethers and stakes set in the ground, bobbled from side to side on front lawns, one after another. Their rhythmic motions made it appear as if they were engaging in some sort of spooky secret code of communication, known only to them.

Headless humans complete with detached craniums sat on usually unoccupied ornate park benches wearing their best and bloodiest attire. Alongside cardboard grave markers heralded the poor soul's RIP epitaphs.

And then of course there were the overachieving Halloween decorators who felt compelled to add ghostly sound effects and chilling howls to their overall outdoor displays.

I'm not exactly sure when we Americans made the cross over from trick or treat penny candy and dime store plastic masked costumes into a product laden Halloween season of Easter peeps morphed into Halloween pumpkins, commercially created costumes with detail and accessories to rival Hollywood's best designers, and of course those lawn decorations of a scope traditionally reserved for only Santa and Rudolph.

Perhaps the Halloween hubbub has its roots in the 1980s horrific outbreak of the poison candy/razor blades in apples that infiltrated our nation's protective radar. Sort of an anti-nasty reaction to the unimaginable defamation of the holiday.

Or maybe this recent explosion of Halloween mania has evolved as a result of the stress and strains of our ever evolving technology based world. Anything to distract our attention from the harshness of life and make it fun again.

Who's to say?

All I know is that inflated pumpkins and wild and wooly spiders aside, the singular element that will undoubtedly stir my Halloween Heart and Soul this year is when my one year old grandson puts on his brown and furry lion costume and issues his first official Halloween roar.

For my nickel, there's nothing that so truly defines Halloween like a kid in a costume standing at my back door, demanding in a voice loud and strong, "Trick or treat, money or eats."

Kind of makes you feel like bobbing for apples, doesn't it?

I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE

2005-09-14T14:30:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe what I just heard on a local news report. In fact, the words spoken by the broadcaster were so unbelievable that I waited for the next newscast to absolutely ensure that what I heard was correct.

Unfortunately, everything I heard was true.

The gist of the radio report is that a judge has decreed that reciting the pledge of allegiance in American public high schools is against the law because the word “God” in included in the pledge.

Is this some kind of bad joke?

Is it really possible that high school students across the United States will now no longer begin their day by reaffirming their loyalty to their homeland with words that generations before them have proudly learned and repeated?

There have been a lot of wacky court rulings over the last few years, but this one is absolutely the most infuriating and unacceptable that I can recall.

From what I understand, the reason for the ruling is a lawsuit brought against the United States by an attorney/physician Michael Newdow, on behalf of three parents and their children. Newdow previously brought the same lawsuit against the US on behalf of his own daughter. In that suit he was stonewalled by the US. Supreme Court who ruled that he had no right to sue as he is not the child’s custodial parent. So this time, apparently Dr. Lawyer Newdow borrowed three families to further his anti-pledge cause.

What concerns me about this whole muddled mess is that a lawsuit such as this can be seriously considered. I mean really---can the fact that the pledge contains the words, “Under God” really cause a high school student to suffer some kind of religious angst?

As I recall, most kids reciting the pledge of allegiance first thing in the morning were barely awake and hardly focused on anything other than standing up without falling asleep. I’d like to meet the young man or woman who finds the two word phrase so disturbing that they feel driven to beg their parent or parents to actively sue an entire country to change a century-long, revered national tradition.

At this point I don’t know what the long-term fall out of this judge’s ruling will be. Hopefully when the inevitable appeal of the ruling arrives at the US Supreme Court, the justices will again find a way to dismiss the messy suit. But if they don’t then I think the consequences could be disastrous.

At a time in our country when we are still trying to recover from the devastation of the Oklahoma City bombing and the 9/11 tragedies, we are losing valuable American men and women in Iraq everyday, and natural disasters like Katrina are rocking the very core of our nation, I think the last thing we need to do is divide our people even further over the legality of a Pledge of Allegiance to our homeland.

I hope when the time comes, the Supreme Court agrees.

A Flood of Emotions

2005-09-03T05:17:00.000-07:00

I am stunned, I am shocked, I am angry, I am frustrated, I am saddened, I am relieved, I am proud, I am grateful, I am prayerful and I am selfish---all in varying degrees, from moment to moment. And all as I watch the unimaginable tragedies of Hurricane Katrina’s aftermath unfold in Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana.

I am stunned by the images of people laying dead in the Super Dome and bodies floating lifelessly along French Quarter Streets.

I am shocked by stories of helpless babies and handicapped elderly wasting away and dying from dehydration.

I am angered by the reports of thievery and rape, and worse, of snipers shooting at rescue helicopters.

I am saddened by the realization that when the flood waters finally recede it will be years before the tortured faces flashing across my television screen will again, if ever, experience normalcy in their lives.

I am frustrated by the incredibly slow moving delivery of aid and assistance, as our government seemingly has failed to do for our own what they have ably done so many times for devastated people and nations around the world.

I am saddened as I watch people rummaging through scattered shards of glass and strips of wood that represented the remains of their homes, searching in vain for scraps of personal possessions.

I am relieved that the people of America jump-started the rescue efforts that our government seemed incapable of undertaking.

I am grateful over and over and over again as I awake in my warm, dry bed, dress from an array of clothing and shoes within my closet, enjoy a bounty of late summer fruits and vegetables with every meal, turn on the tap for water any time I desired, and know that my family and my friends are alive and safe.

I am prayerful each time I see a mother begging for help for her dehydrated child, or people desperately waving from rooftops of their immersed homes, or tears streaming down the cheeks of seasoned police officers as they attempt to describe the flood of death and destruction.

I am proud of the people and corporations in Western New York and across the United States who have given so generously and caringly of money, food, clothing and supplies to help their fellow Americans.

I am selfish as I take comfort in the fact that this incredible tragedy did not directly affect me, my family, my friends, my community, my world.

And I am well aware that no matter how far removed this tragedy may be from my own life, the memories of this past week will unquestionably make a difference in the way I go forward, forever more.

WHY WALK WHEN YOU CAN FLY?

2005-07-20T05:18:00.000-07:00

There’s something about summer that brings out the kid in me. Hot sunny days arrive and I find myself thoughtlessly reverting to activities, clothing styles and even foods that suggest memories of my long ago youth.

My latest seasonal blast-from-the-past relates to a constitutional bike ride that I recently started taking each day. It’s an around-the-rural-block trek that amounts to approximately a five-mile journey. Now I have to tell you, it’s been a few years since I’ve undertaken bicycle cruises. Twenty to be exact. So the prospect of hitting the hilly country roads surrounding my rural home was initially somewhat daunting.

However, as June’s official point of summer demarcation brought forth festivals, and fun, it also set my mind to believing that the lengthy time lapse and considerable age span since my last cycling adventures were irrelevant. Suddenly, somehow I thought I was totally capable of climbing on my tortuously butt-busting bike seat and magically pedaling away with ease.

RIGHT!

Week one: I managed to accomplish each complete, around-the-block circuit without once dismounting and walking. It was an achievement in which, on the downside of age fifty, I took great personal pride. Although I will tell you that during this period, my husband several times made mention of the fact that I seemed to be walking a lot like John Wayne.

Week two: I began to recover my old muscle memory and recall the concept of power pedaling, to the point that by day ten, I was cranking my riding machine up into the double digits of its twenty-one gear capacity. Soon I was embarking on actual trips with destinations such as the post office, the supermarket, and town meetings.

My bicycle was no longer just an object of excruciating exercise, rather, it had become an open-air transportation option. As I set off on my trips with a backpack over my shoulder and a Walkman cranking out my favorite tunes, I was once again a kid again……at least in theory.

Week three: Having fully re-mastered the basics, I began to playfully consider the joyful challenges of long forgotten bicycle stunts. Hands free, pop a wheelies, spinning a 360. Eventually my more mature nature coerced me into pursuing the one stunt that posed the least danger to my aging, breakable bones…. hands free.

I chose a downhill stretch of my preset route, a point where the incline would minimize my need to pedal and allow me to concentrate solely on my balance. As I picked up speed I tentatively let go of the handlebars… and immediately re-grabbed them as I felt my two wheeler drift wildly out of control.

"Perhaps not a good move" my mature nature cautioned. To which my summer-child sense issued a "Don’t be a wimp" challenge.

Needless to say, I tried again.

This time, I succeeded in leaving the handlebars unattended for a thirty second span. Victory! Score one for reclaiming my youth.

The next day, at the crest of the same hill, I once again attempted to abandon the security of my bike’s handlebar guidance system. Thirty, forty, sixty seconds passed and I was still hands free. Then with the wind whistling through my hair and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s "Why Walk When You Can Fly?" blasting from my earphones I decided to go for the gusto.

Slowly I extended my arms up over my head inch by inch until they reached for the clouds. It was a moment directly relived from the best memories of my youth.

Who says plastic surgery and expensive moisturizing creams are the only way to look and feel younger? Give me a bike and a good down hill run anyday!

THE TRIBUTE

2005-07-20T05:10:00.000-07:00

THE TRIBUTE

I took a little vacation from life last week.

I didn’t cook. I didn’t clean. I didn’t grocery shop. I didn’t go to the office. Didn’t answer the phone, check e-mail, or watch TV. I didn’t even work on my newspaper, Internet or radio Heart and Soul columns. In fact, during my entire retreat I only put pen to paper once. And that was to write a eulogy for my Uncle Dave.

For long time Heart and Soul readers, my uncle may be a familiar character, as I have written about him a number of times. For those new to Heart and Soul, Uncle Dave was a man who went to great lengths to stay connected to me and my children after my father (his brother) vanished from our lives. He was also the man who, throughout his life, provided me with a true and valuable role model as a faithful marriage partner, an always-caring parent, and a visionary career person.

In short, he was more father than uncle.

When my cousin first called with the news of her father’s passing I was saddened, but not surprised. It had been 3 years since my uncle’s unreliable memory and questionable health forced the trade of his independent lifestyle for the security of a senior care facility. And though he dreamed of attending his grandchildren’s college graduations and one day dancing at their weddings, when we last spoke he intuitively acknowledged playing out the final innings of his life.

As my family and I headed to Virginia for his memorial service, I thought a lot about my uncle’s place in my life and his role in our family. In review, each memory provided a treasured moment always made better by his caring presence.

Yet upon our arrival in his hometown of Radford, a number of local and regional front-page news stories reminded me that my uncle was a man who made a difference in the lives of many, outside our family.

Uncle Dave was the Radford Recreation and Parks Director for twenty seven years and a part time Radford recreation employee for the twenty years following his 1978 "retirement." During that time, Uncle Dave pushed and pulled the small southern town’s rec program to a level of excellence that made it a recognized and honored statewide prototype.

He also diligently hammered away for a number of years at naysayers and non supporters of his dream to create a town park. His vision included playgrounds, picnic shelters, bike and jogging paths and a swimming pool, all set alongside the New River floodlands in downtown Radford. When my determined uncle ultimately won his park battle, he was rewarded for his civic vision by Radford town fathers as they officially named the land, B. David Bisset Park, in his honor.

Considering my uncle’s prominent role in the community, I expected his memorial service to be filled to overflowing with men, women, and young adults whose lives were touched and influenced by this wonderful man’s caring ways. However, as it turned out, only several dozen residents attended.

I was somewhat puzzled and a little frustrated that the people of Radford didn’t make a greater effort to recognize this man who had given more than half of his 86 years to their community. But then I began to recall the previous day, before my uncle’s memorial service, when our family set off on our own pilgrimage to Bisset Park.

As we turned onto the park’s entranceway, we were immediately halted by a long line of cars waiting to gain entry into the recreational grounds. As we slowly made our way into the park, we were surrounded by men, women and children of all ages, walking, biking, jogging, boating, playing on the slides and swings, picnicking under the protective shelters---fully enjoying every element of the park, just as my Uncle Dave envisioned. Ultimately, I realized that by enjoying Bisset Park, the people of Radford were paying their own form of tribute to this special man, not just for a few hours at his memorial service, but every single day, 365 days a year.

And I also came to the undeniable conclusion that, knowing my uncle, their homage was exactly what he would have wanted and most enjoyed.

LOVE IN BLOOM

2005-06-29T03:03:00.000-07:00

Ok, I know that there are a million and one earth shattering issues out there to be concerned about. And I realize that if I waste my brain cells on useless trivia I might very well deaden them permanently.

But I gotta tell you, I am fascinated with the red-hot love affair going on in full-blown paparazzi flash bulb passion between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.

I’ve never been an overly devoted Cruise fan, although Top Gun, Cocktail, A Few Good Men and The Firm are some excellent films of his that I’ve enjoyed. As for Ms. Holmes, I didn’t even know the Dawson Creek star existed before the term "TomKat" was cleverly coined by sound bite media types.

So I’m wondering exactly why I’ve become bewitched with this hot and heavy romance that is flooding across televisions, newspapers and magazines around the world?

Perhaps it’s that I’m attracted to Tom Cruise, and secretly wish that he would leap frog from Oprah’s couch in public proclamation of his love for me?

No way…..I’m almost five feet ten inches tall and that height thing would drive me crazy. Although I must admit the idea of a guy buying me a three carat diamond and proposing at the top of the Eiffel Tower at 4 am in the morning after a romantic night on the town does hold a certain appeal.

Maybe I’m jealous of Katie Holmes, wishing once more to be young, thin, and hormonally in love?

Again, a big no thank-you. Every time I see Ms. Holmes silently fawning over her husband to be, I imagine her future shock as she one day outgrows her long held teenage dream of marrying Tom Cruise and wakes up to the reality of an old guy snoring in the bed next to her….an inevitable reality far removed from the hunky Hollywood posters she once taped to her bedroom walls.

Then again, maybe it’s all about the hype and hysteria surrounding their convenient coupling in conjunction with their individual blockbuster summer movies Batman and War of the Worlds?

Nah. These two may be a lot of things, but neither one appears to be a studio pawn type willing to carry out an elaborate charade just to sell a movie.

Could it possibly be all about the wonderful world of two people meeting and falling madly, deeply, passionately in love that has hooked my romantic heart and soul?

Not a chance. While some may consider this to be the love affair of the century, in my book it doesn’t come close to measuring up to Edward and Wallace, Hepburn and Tracy, or even Rhett and Scarlett for that matter.

So what is it?

I really am at a loss to understand why in the last few weeks I have taken to watching every Hollywood Access, Insider, ET, late night gossip show for Tomkat updates. Or why when I go to the supermarket I direct other shoppers ahead of me in the check out line, so I can scan the tabloids for my darling duo’s latest lip locked photos.

It’s gotten so bad I’m worried that I’m developing some type of addiction. Which brings up a whole new problem. Based on Cruise’s marital track record, I know that I only have between 3 and 10 years to cure my insatiable Tomkat mania.

But then again, maybe Bran and Jen will reunite soon and give me a reason to refocus.

Hey, a girl can dream can't she?

MY FATHER'S CHILD

2005-06-19T10:40:00.000-07:00

Shortly after my mother’s passing in 1999, I started including a new line in my writer’s biography that I still retain today. It reads, "Christina will always be her mother’s daughter."

That statement is important to me because despite our many differences, my mom and I were close and, quite honestly, I miss her now that she’s not around to drive me crazy anymore. It was also my hope that those simple six words might serve as a comforting reminder to all readers that no matter how permanently death separates us from those we love, it cannot change the reality of people’s individual significance in our lives.

For instance, as I continue to age "gracefully," I quite often find myself replicating many of my mother’s mannerisms, phrases, and god help me, her Irish sense of humor. There are even moments
I purposefully use some of her favored sayings as a quietly reverential way of keeping her spirit alive.

I’ve also recognized that some of the professional traits that have furthered my career are directly attributable to my mother. Although she never earned more than a high school diploma, mom capably worked her way through the secretarial ranks into management, eventually becoming one of the first women executives of a prominent Western New York Bank. Her work ethic, coupled with her tough as nails can-do attitude, still provide an excellent professional template for any businessperson to follow.

And so it was, for all those reasons and more, that six years ago I officially adopted my "mother’s daughter" bio line.

Yet several months ago I was shocked by the discovery that while I may always be my mother’s daughter, I am, by nature, my father’s child.

This bit of wisdom came as a surprise to me, in part, because I really haven’t had much contact with my dad in more than twenty years. He and my mother divorced in the early 1980’s. From that point on, my father pretty much went his own way, using an occasional card or phone call to stay in touch.

However since my mother’s passing, my father has made somewhat of a return appearance into my life and this past January he requested that I visit him in Florida where he now lives. Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed.
During our three days together I began to realize the many similarities between my father and myself. Not traits that I mimic or mannerisms I have adopted, but talents and innate sensibilities that exactly match.

My father is a writer, a fact I never knew until he began sharing his poems and stories that he’d crafted over the years. The interior of the condo he now calls home reveals my father’s flair for decorating, a talent of his that I recall from my youth, and one for which I am also often given credit. My father is a lover of music, regularly playing a wide range of performers on his stereo , just as I do in my own home.

In between our Florida sightseeing trips and shared meals my father told me a number of stories about his youth and mine, in much the same way that I tell my children tales of our shared pasts. That particular similarity became even more startling when I recognized that my father and I are inveterate storytellers, right down to the common words and phrases we use. In browsing through his stacks of books and videotapes I discovered that my father and I share exact tastes in literature and movies. We also have the same likes and dislikes in food and drink. Most essentially, we are both ice cream and chocolate addicts….milk chocolate only, thank-you very much.

Since returning from my mid winter visit it has taken quite some time to process all that I learned about my father. It has also been somewhat disorienting to come to grips with the reality that the essence of who I am, the inner part of my being, is truly connected to my father much more than my mother. After so many years of his absence from my life, it’s been a surprising lesson revealed.

In the end though, I’m grateful that my father reached out and allowed me to learn something about who he is, which, in turn, has helped me to discover more about myself. While the experience had its fair share of challenging and even painful moments, by becoming re-acquainted with my father I've definitely formulated a stronger foundation from which to live the second half of my life.

And I have also reaffirmed the truth that despite all of my inborn talents and characteristics, I will always be my mother’s daughter.

The Porch Swing

2005-06-11T08:57:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago this June I made a real estate deal to purchase the house of my dreams.

Ten years ago this June, everyone who knew me was sure I was buying the house of my worst nightmares…and didn’t hesitate to mention that fact…on more than one occasion.

However as time has passed, I’ve realized that the reality of my decade ago housing purchase falls somewhere in-between these two assessments. For there have been days when I’ve felt almost cursed by the challenges of renovating my one hundred and fifty five year old home. Yet for the most part, I arise every morning grateful for the life that I enjoy within this wonderful old house.

My favorite part of my home is the porch. It’s a full wrap around model that gracefully spans the front and gently encircles the side. From the first time I visited the house in 1979, it was the singular element that remained most strongly in my memory. It was also the main reason I decided to purchase the house some twenty six years later.

While I love the bead board ceiling and ornate turned spindles that define my open air living space, what really captures my heart and soul is the spectacular view. From almost any spot there is a vista of verdant grape fields, lush rolling hills, acres and acres of untouched forest land and a distant vision of Lake Erie on the horizon. Undoubtedly, a perfectly perfect vantage point.

When I purchased the property the former owners had already vacated the premises. So, once the required John Hancocks were inked, I was given legal permission to spend time on the grounds until the final closing.

Without pause, I went directly to a local outdoor store, purchased a white wicker swing and deposited it and myself on that porch for the duration. On warm summer nights I even slept there, lulled by the midnight lake breezes that kept my swing gently rocking in its cradle like motion.

Five years later the porch became even more meaningful to me as my husband and I married on its front steps. Following the ceremony, we proceeded to the wrap around side to greet our family and friends and bask in their good wishes. It was almost as if the old covered porch had been precisely made for our special day.

Yet, as so often happens, over the last few years my life has been overtaken with what has seemed like more pressing issues then whiling away summer days on a wicker porch swing. While each June I have made the effort to return my swing to its rightful place, for the last few years, it has gone greatly unused save for the occasional summer party or drop-in guest.

Then this week my grandson came to stay for a few days, and with his arrival the lure of my porch swing magically returned. This sweet child and I enjoyed his morning bottle, took afternoon naps and whiled away the evening’s twilight while rocking to and fro. And as he lovingly snuggled his head to my chest and tucked his tiny hands in mine, I remembered the reason that I fell in love with my house and its wrap around porch so many years ago.

Whenever I’m there, life is just the way I always dreamed it would be.
.

GABBING WITH GOD

2005-05-24T14:51:00.000-07:00

I have to admit that I was disappointed over CBS’s recent cancellation of their prime time drama series, Joan of Arcadia. While I do think that the story line has weakened, there’s a part of me that will miss the chance to watch Joan gab with God as she moves through her college years and into her adult life.

For those unfamiliar with the family oriented program, it is based on the premise that God (under the guise of everyday men, women and children) regularly appears to a typical teenage girl (Joan). These appearances are timed to deliver life defining messages and instructions to Joan, relative to problems she’s facing. When the teen wisely deciphers the messages and/or follows the instructions she is, in turn, graced with invaluable life lessons.

Now there’s no question that this show is for the soft of heart. Reality TV junkies, or cops and robbers fans need not tune in, for Joan is all about suspending belief in the real world and accepting the television "reality" that God chooses to walk, talk, and advise people right here on earth.

Being a romantic and Irish Catholic to boot, I have no trouble suspending my belief in the real world. It’s the part about God advising people, face to face, that has placed me in a quandary during the program’s two-year run.

In Joan’s initial season, I found the series interesting and often amusing in the way the show’s writers creatively intersected teen and Creator. Yet by year two, the idea that the Almighty might actually take the time to meet and greet people for the purpose of changing their lives started to settle into my brain.

Suddenly halfway through the second season I began experiencing "encounters" with people where, afterwards, my mind suggested that perhaps that person had been a messenger of God, or even God her/himself. On occasion these chance meetings almost seemed to be in direct answer to a question or problem with which I was struggling, really sending my thought process into overdrive.

Now being of reasonably sound mind, I never mentioned my "Joan type" encounters to family or friends. No sense giving them ammunition, I figured. Rather, I continued to keep my own counsel, thoughtfully analyzing each time it seemed that God might have appeared in my life.

Then last week, my daughter told me about a walk she took in her neighborhood. Along the way, a little girl she’d never seen before approached her. The child was followed immediately by a man who identified himself as her father.

Being a kind person, my daughter stopped to chat. Being in need, the father immediately and urgently began talking about his family and recent challenges they’d faced. As my daughter listened, she noticed that the man seemed to be lightening his emotional burden with every word. Moments later, when they parted company, the man then genuinely thanked her for her time.

As my daughter finished telling me this story, she said, "You know Mom, when I walked away I felt as if I was in one of those Joan of Arcadia shows. It almost seemed as this man and his child were sent to remind me how lucky I am."

Like I said, I’m disappointed that Joan of Arcadia has been cancelled….but then again, in the end, maybe the broadcast of a prime time TV show wasn’t really what it was all about.

MEMORIES OF A LIFETIME

2005-05-17T05:15:00.000-07:00

I have a very special cousin who lives in Kansas City. Throughout our lives the two of us have never been particularly close, due more to the distance between our homes than any other factor. So in an effort to become more connected, a few years ago we decided to regularly stay in touch, using e-mail as our steadfast communication form.

My cousin’s most recent e-mail started out in what has become our shared pattern. We apologize for the long lapse since our last correspondence and offer a litany of business and family obligations that always derail our best intentions. Then we generally launch into the latest batch of family news, which this time for my cousin included a rash of health problems suffered by her father, the most significant being the advancement of his Alzheimer’s.

In describing her father’s failing health, my cousin noted that once her dad’s physical condition stabilizes, he will be relocated from the hospital into a facility that specializes in Alzheimer care.

I stared at my cousin’s e-mail for a number of minutes, reading select passages time and again. With each review, I kept hoping that somehow her words would reveal a different message. That my brain would make a new order of her carefully scripted report that my uncle no longer recognizes his only daughter. That the whole thing was really my comprehension error, rather than her true-life reality.

Finally, I stopped reading and allowed my cousin’s words to incisively make their mark. Tears compassionately released the pain from my heart. Cherished memories comforted my soul. Images of my uncle surrounded me—summer days at Crystal Beach Amusement Park, backyard baseball games, twilight captures of magical lightening bugs, Buffalo Bills football games in sun, wind, rain and snow, Disney movies, silly jokes, joyous laughter, and, always, an ice cream cone along the way.

Yet more painful than recalling those special memories was the knowledge that the person who helped to create those moments that literally defined my life…the person who knew about my family -where we came from, how we evolved and even where we might be going…that one-of-a-kind person has been lost. No matter that his body is still with us, the part of my Uncle that made him so uniquely "him" is now locked away in a prison without keys and with no guardian aside from his own territorially defensive mind.

It was only a year ago that my husband and I traveled to Virginia to visit my uncle. He had just moved out of his home of over fifty years into a senior residence. As an aging widower it was a needed move. It was the right move. It was also a painful move, clearing out the home where he and his "bride" Irene once raised their three children and become pillars of the community, he as the town Recreation Director and she as the ultimate "mom" to all who knew her.
I can still see him, sitting in that small apartment that newly defined his shrinking world. He was surrounded by objects that held the greatest meaning—photos of his family, sports trophies, team memorabilia, and a baseball game playing on TV. After his family, sports were my uncle’s life. No matter how confused he might become over names and faces, he always knew the box scores and the latest Buffalo Bill’s updates.

As I re-focused my attention to my cousin’s e-mail, I briefly considered getting in the car and driving to see my uncle. Yet the words embedded on the computer screen before me clearly indicated that my trip would be largely in vain. So instead, I went in search of a blank journal long ago tucked away. Bringing it to my desk, I carefully folded back the cover and on the first page inscribed my uncle’s name. Underneath I began transferring my carefully preserved memories of this special man.

Since then, little by little, I have been working to recreate my life experiences with my uncle so that all of our family who know and love him, and those who never will have that chance, will be able to recall and experience his kind and caring ways.

While I can’t change the evolution of life I can at least create a lasting memory of a man who in his own quiet way always made an effort to better the life of every child he knew… including me.

THE TEN WOMANDMENTS ...PLUS ONE

2005-05-10T18:34:00.000-07:00

Recently while discussing a number of life issues with a college-age friend, I came to the realization that women are often sadly deficient in the advice department. While we instinctively possess a world of wisdom and are incredibly capable of learning and creating, generally we have been poorly taught and sparingly advised on ways to strategically plan our lives.

So after considered thought, I have come up with a list of life advisories that I’ve entitled, Womandments. And while clearly every woman has her own distinct means by which she lives, I think these eleven little gems are worth considering.

1) Listen to your heart and become who you want to be. Your dreams absolutely can come true.

2) Never allow anyone to diminish your personal value. No amount of money or power provides another human with the right to judge your worthiness.

3) In choosing a profession, always seriously consider retirement plans and pension options. If none are offered, then with that first paycheck, start your own. One of life’s greatest freedoms is having enough money accrued at age 40 or 45 to retire, or at least regularly shop at T.J Maxx with complete abandon.

4) Children are a choice, not a requirement. If you should choose to become a mother, know in advance that the job will be demanding and exhaustingly endless, but also know the years will fly by and your caring devotion will return to you in magical ways you could never imagine.

5) Do your best to avoid envy or jealousy in your life. Have confidence that you are a unique gift to the world, and don’t diminish your brilliance by demeaning the talents of others.

6) Who we are, the good and the bad, is greatly influenced by the actions of our parents. Yet at some point in our adult lives we need to acknowledge that mom and dad did their best and begin taking responsibility for our own actions, rather than blaming our parents for our faults.

7) Set goals for yourself, personally and professionally. Write them down and update them so that you are aware of the passage of time and the progress of your life.

8) Understand that behind every great marriage there is a strong and caring group of family and friends. Cultivate and cherish them for they are the direct path to years of happily wedded life.

9) Spiritual faith is integral to your well being. However a meaningful connection to the God of your choice does not necessarily require a steepled church or a holy preacher.

10) There are two things that will ensure a life well lived: laughing fully and loudly and giving to others, both on a daily basis.

11) Last but far from least, love can be everything, but it is not the only thing. If love should leave or never appear, make sure that there is enough of you to make your life whole.

And I guess I would be remiss if I didn’t include the two memorable pieces of advice that my mother shared with me throughout her life. First, to always realize how lucky you are. That glass can be half full, as easily as it is half empty. Second, to never go to sleep angry…at yourself, your significant other, your family, your friends, the world….life is short, don’t waste it.

THE GIFT OF LIFE

2005-05-02T19:25:00.000-07:00

Since my mother’s passing six years ago, Mother’s Day has served as a regularly painful reminder that for the rest of my life I’ll be without a mom. Further, the fact that my children are both grown and involved in their own lives often leaves me in a less than celebratory mood come that dreaded second Sunday in May.

Yet the good news is that this year my life has changed.

This Mother’s Day, instead of dealing with melancholy over the fact that I'm a motherless daughter and an empty nester parent, I will be celebrating the fact that I am a Nana. And so, for the first time in a long time, I am looking forward to the upcoming Mother’s Day Holiday with a true sense of joy and anticipation.

I’m not sure exactly what it is about my newly titled nanaship that has so completely lightened my heart and changed my life’s perspective. Obviously, there’s the delight of experiencing pure and innocent love from a child of my own lineage. Then there’s also the gratification factor of suddenly become a font of infinite wisdom in the eyes of my "new mother" daughter.

Yet there’s something more significant at work here. Something outside the realm of schmaltzy Hallmark Cards, thoughtfully crafted Popsicle-stick picture frames, and specially prepared-for-mommy dinners. It’s an intangible sense that somehow through my newly acquired Nana status, I’ve received a renewed opportunity to live my life.

Let me explain.

During my short stint as a Nana I have yet to make any mistakes, do any wrongs, disappoint anyone, or fail to keep any of my promises. Also, I have consistently made my grandchild smile, showered him with kisses and hugs, read aloud his favorite book five times in five minutes, and capably soothed away his tears simply by rocking him in my arms.

In other words, to this point, I’ve been perfect!

Furthermore, I believe I have a good shot at maintaining my perfect Nana status for quite some time, as I have absolutely no responsibility for this child’s life in any way or form, outside of my Official Nana’s sworn duty to provide him with all of the love I have to give, everyday of my life.

So while I am sure that this year on Mother’s Day I will still desperately wish for just one more chance to talk with my mom, and I will dream about fun filled days when my children were young and clamored for hugs and kisses from mommy, I also know that I will no longer spend the day in mourning for a past that I can’t change or relive.

Rather, this year I will spend the day kissing and cuddling my grandson, thoroughly enjoy every minute of the present and looking forward to the future, as a new-lease-on-life Nana.

I guess you might call it the gift of life, in reverse.

A SPECIAL PAJAMA PARTY

2005-04-25T17:31:00.000-07:00

Recently I attended a pajama party.

Ok, so maybe I was the only one in pajamas, but never the less it was still a party where women gathered to eat, gab, hang out and get to know one another in a truly fun and supportive atmosphere.

However, this particular conclave of Western New York women differed from pajama parties of my past in that all who gathered (excluding yours truly) are currently battling or are survivors of breast cancer.

Officially, the weekend was titled The Sisterhood Wellness Center Renewal Retreat for Breast Cancer Survivors. It’s an event begun 9 years ago under the leadership of Derby, New York resident, Nancy Timm Bowen, herself a survivor, diagnosed in 1994.

While undergoing treatment, the well known SouthTowns Businesswoman realized that little existed in the way of common sense support for women trying to manage the cancerous disease invading their bodies. So in 1995, Nancy began the Sisterhood Wellness Center with the express goal of giving those diagnosed with breast cancer a chance to associate with other women who have had the same experiences, and felt the same anxieties.

My entry into this group came via an invitation from Nancy to attend the retreat and share some of my Heart and Soul experiences with the women, to help them laugh. That was the crucial part, Nancy insisted. Laughter is essential to these women and, while tears are allowed, the central point of the weekend is to promote positive thoughts and feelings.

So, with humor in mind, I set off for the retreat location stylishly garbed in my pj’s, armed with my special stuffed bunny and copious amounts of chocolate. Upon my arrival Nancy introduced me to a group of 20 women of all ages and sizes. Remarkably, it was only minutes until we were all sharing chocolate and discussing families, marriage, sex, religion, shopping, friends….the typical topics women dissect when gathered in groups. We laughed and enjoyed getting to know each other despite having no real commonality other than our gender.

Then amazingly, in what seemed like only minutes, my allotted time with these women came to an end as it was announced that lunch was served. Never one to pass up a free meal, I accepted Nancy’s kind invitation to join my new found friends in their noon time meal. Once seated and served, these women and I again launched into conversations about everyday topics in a manner free and easy.

I could have been anywhere, with any women.

Yet slowly, the conversation wound it’s way to health, or rather to these individual woman’s health and the distinct battles in which they are, or have been, engaged. Suddenly I was adrift in a sea of medical terminology and prescriptive medications that were foreign to me, but completely second nature to the women surrounding me. As I sat and listened, they openly talked about their diagnoses, their surgeries, and their reoccurences. Some even showed scars as evidence of their surgical battles.

The "veterans" of the group questioned newer members about medications and readily volunteered side effects they had suffered. They also suggested alternative medicines they thought might be more effective or easier to withstand. The group conversed about smoking and the difficult task of quitting, even after being diagnosed with cancer. One woman quit while on retreat hoping that the time spent with other survivors would help strengthen her resolve. Another woman spoke of the recurrence of her cancer after ten years of remission, which in turn brought more stories of remissions, and even death.

Sitting and listening, as an outsider, I found these conversations somewhat frightening and even a little overwhelming.

However to the women with whom I had just shared a morning of laughter and bonding, it was life…their lives…. in the most real form. And thanks to the remarkable Nancy Timm Bowen, for one pajama party weekend, that reality was just a little bit easier to bear.

AS THE SEASON CHANGES

2005-04-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

Spring has finally arrived and summer is on the way. Here in the Western Region of New York State, that exciting bit of seasonal news means we New Yorkers are almost out of comfy, oversized, concealing winter wear and, soon, will be doing our best to wriggle into summer shorts, sleeveless tops and, dare I say it, bathing suits.

Personally, every year about this time, I go through the same painfully repetitive process. I get foolishly lulled into a false sense of fat security by long winter skirts and bulky sweaters, all of which ably convince me that I am as slim and svelte as Jennifer Anniston.

Then, the thaw hits.

Winter and wool are suddenly supplanted by spring and skin, wherein my Jennifer Anniston body is flabbily revealed as something more akin to a "pre-Trim Spa" Anna Nicole Smith. Accordingly along about April Fool’s Day I launch into my traditional "gotta loose ten-pounds" panic plan which calls for healthy food, regular workouts, and absolutely no chocolate, no fudge sauce, and/or no ice cream within three miles of my personal radius.

In discussing my annual winter weight woes with family and friends, I have come to realize that I am not alone in my springtime fat blasting routine. In fact, lately it seems as if even the media is evangelizing the need for Americans of all ages to trim down and lighten up.

Which makes me wonder, if most Americans need to take off a pound or ten, why is it that Burger King has just come out with a new breakfast sandwich weighing in at 700 plus calories (400 of which are fat) and 1860 mgs of cholesterol? Or that Hardee’s Hamburgers has given birth to a Monster Thickburger offering a calorie count of 1,417? Or that Pizza Hut recently began satiating our appetites with a Full House XL Pizza with calories too high to even imagine?

When asked about their role in cultivating America’s fat laden bodies, these fast food denizens simply turn the pointed finger around at we, their accusers, and unequivocally state, "It’s what the consumer wants."

So I guess the question, at this point, is how much fat will we Americans tolerate and ingest before the light dawns? How widely will heart attack and stroke statistics engulf our nation before we decide to put strong bodies before super sizing, and healthy eating habits before over-the-top, fat laden foods?

Personally, I’m fully aware that my extra winter weight is driving up my blood pressure and taxing my aging joints. As a result I have responsibly committed to exercising more, modifying my eating habits, and controlling my serving portions, year round. I know it’s important, I know it’s life saving, and I know it has to become a way of life.

I also know that as long as there’s a Reese’s peanut butter cup left on the face of this earth to consume, "healthy eating" will be a very relative term in my life!

A FOND FAREWELL FOR THE AGES

2005-04-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

It was a colorful pageant equal to the greatest Hollywood extravaganza. It was a major political summit uniting allies and enemies from around the world. It was a multi-cultural rally embracing citizens from all points of the earth. It was a world wide spiritual retreat from relentless global pressures and disasters.

It was a moment in time when the world literally seemed to stop… to pay tribute to the man known as Pope John Paul II.

In viewing the Pope’s funeral, it was somewhat of a challenge to define the singular element that made it so significant. Clearly the attendance of 70 world leaders, 5 kings, and 3 queens lent a quality of importance. The worldwide status and power of the Papacy also demanded a certain respect.

The flawless execution of the logistically overwhelming occasion, seemingly tailor made for terrorist tragedy, made it riveting. The Vatican’s picture perfect backdrop, complete with tolling bells and angelic choirs, made it entrancing. The pageantry and ceremony of the outdoor funeral mass, made it awe-inspiring.

Yet when all was said and done, Pope John Paul’s final farewell was compelling for the same reason that his papacy was so forceful…because of the people.

The sea of humanity endlessly flowing through Vatican City and into St. Peter’s Basilica was stunning, not only in it’s size and scope, but in it’s demeanor and purpose. Media reports detailed 24-hour line-ups, dehydration, exhaustion, and physical collapse, all willingly exchanged for a brief mourner’s moment and distanced glimpse of the man who touched so many, so often.

The hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who gathered provided the perfect formulary for possible jostling, fighting, rioting, and even stampeding. Yet, from start to finish, those who made the pilgrimage completely exemplified the spirit of humility and love that characterized John Paul’s papal reign.

From young to old, black to white, nationality to nationality, not a mourner gave evidence of self-importance or a demand to be considered before another. Rather they were united as one in the wish to simply share in their fabled pontiff’s last public moments.

What made this outpouring of devotion even more remarkable was that it was purely true. No director was organizing the tens of thousands gathered. No computer was enhancing their appearance. When a flag was waved, a cheer given, or applause delivered, the action flowed directly from the hearts and souls of the tens of thousands of total strangers, standing together in love and devotion to their Pope.

Without a doubt, it was one of the most amazing displays of humanity to occur in generations, if ever. Without a doubt, it was also evidence enough that during the course of his life, John Paul II truly earned the title of, "Great."

MULTIPLES OF THREE

2005-04-03T08:57:00.000-07:00

We Irish believe that significant events tend to occur in multiples of 3. It’s a bit of folklore that seemed especially prophetic this past week as Johnny Cochrane, Terri Schiavo, and Pope John Paul II all passed away within days of each other.

Now it may seem odd to link together the deaths of 3 such diverse people. Yet from my way of thinking the lives of these two men and one woman represent significant turning points in our society, past, present and future.

In the past, Johnny Cochrane was a man of distinction in his law career and in his always-immaculate personal appearance. He served as a relentless civil rights attorney from the mid 1960’s to the recent past. Yet the singular moment for which he will forever be remembered is that historic instant when a jury declared Orenthal James Simpson innocent of killing his wife and her boyfriend.

Who can forget Cochrane’s summary rhyme, "If it doesn’t fit, you must acquit" or the dramatic follow-up courtroom scene where Cochrane’s head dropped onto Simpson’s shoulder upon hearing the jury’s innocent decree. That trial changed the way the media pursued and reported such stories and it definitely forced the first crack in the pedestal persona of national sports figures. And Johnny Cochrane was a part of the process every step of the way.

In the present, the terrible tragedy and family feud surrounding Terri Schiavo’s life and death represents one of the most gut wrenching segments of American Life that I can remember. No matter which side you took, family or husband, the manner in which the whole disturbing struggle played out on a national stage, complete with questionable political involvement, was riveting and upsetting. It was also motivating as it stimulated many of us into attorney’s offices and online in search of living wills and DNR documents.

That death has not ended the dispute between Schiavo’s husband and family only further serves to painfully reinforce the fact that life is unpredictable and none of us can ever afford to rely on that irregularity.

As for the future, while Pope John was a remarkable religious statesman who definitely changed the world, his passing has me wondering about the future of the Catholic Church. John Paul clearly set a standard for the Catholic Faith that adhered to strict guidelines on a number of controversial issues, including that of the role of women. Basically he allowed women nothing more than subservient involvement, which alienated many with a desire to serve in more significant ways.

I wonder who will succeed this Pope and how the next man to wear the Ring and carry the Scepter will carry on. Will he continue the policies that keep women disconnected from the Church’s hierarchy? Or worse yet, will he further sink women away from the responsibilities and decision-making rights that would provide them a true role and a voice in their religion? I have no ability to predict the future, only a gut instinct that tells me that John Paul’s influence on this matter will carry on for a very long time.

Three people whose lives followed divergently different paths. Three people whose lives curiously converged at their deaths. Three people who, in living and dying, changed the world and ultimately our lives.

If you know someone who would like to receive Heart and Soul or if you would like your local newspaper to carry this column, please contact Christina at http://by103fd.bay103.hotmail.msn.com/cgi-bin/compose?curmbox=00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000002&a=913938c8ad7b3332617ab4d0f727646f&mailto=1&to=christinaabt@hotmail.com&msg=3EAEB1EC-1CC3-48D7-821F-A1F3C5A80F90&start=0&len=5498&src=&type=x

A MATTER OF PERSONAL CHOICE

2005-03-22T07:52:00.000-08:00

Recently I contacted my attorney about revising my Last Will and Testament. While I was in the mood, (unquestionably one must be in the mood to consider one’s own mortality) I also requested that he prepare for me a living will and a health care proxy. Having dealt with such issues for my own mother while she lie dying in a hospital, I was bound and determined not to leave my family in the same painful lurch.

A few days later in my attorney’s office I read over the defining documents with pen in hand, ready to sign. That is until I got to the last paragraph of the living will ---the part where the legalese defined life and death.
What threw me for a loop was a supplemental stipulation. A simple statement that explained if the medical community should declare me legally dead while simultaneously force feeding me, an appointed family member can request removal of the nutritional life line.

I sat back and read the statement again. And again. And once more, for good measure. I then looked at my attorney and blurted out, "I’m not signing this. If being on a respirator is the only way to make my heart and lungs function, then unquestionably I cannot survive on my own. I am basically dead. However, if I’m being forcibly fed, that feeding tube is not a machine artificially making my body operate. It’s nourishment. So disconnecting the tube, in effect, starves me to death and that’s wrong. I won’t allow it."

My attorney’s response was simple. "It’s your choice."

That fundamental right of choice is exactly what I believe is at the heart of the current controversy surrounding Terri Schiavo. Schiavo never took the time to legally make her own life and death choices. Now sadly, due to an unimagined medical tragedy she will never have that chance. Yet equally distressing is the fact that since her combative family members cannot agree on how to best handle this situation, a battery of lawyers, judges, congress people, media, everyday citizens, and even the President of the United States all believe they’re now somehow entitled or compelled to make the choice for her.

In my opinion, this tragedy turned international news story shouldn’t involve the media, it shouldn’t extend to unrelated strangers and it definitely shouldn’t be used for any sort of political posturing or gain. Rather Terri Schiavo’s tragedy should serve as a reminder for us all that we have a choice to bypass our inate human fear of death and clearly and legally state exactly how our loved ones should proceed in the worse case scenario.

Perhaps if as a result of this controversy more of us willingly step forward and make that choice, then Terri Schiavo’s death, however it happens, will not be totally in vain.

Searching for a Cure

2005-03-20T14:48:00.000-08:00

To date, there are no emergency bulletins being issued by the American Medical Association. Shocking health reports aren’t being touted by the media. No Celebrity spokespersons are speaking out, no charity telethons underway.

Never the less, I’m here to tell you that there is an invasive malady worming its way into our lives. It’s a relentless illness attacking both men and women with a vengeance, often leaving victims disoriented, drifting, and unable to speak.

Currently there is no official name for this infectious disease, but as one who has suffered its effects I feel that it’s my duty to bring the medical affliction to light. So in an attempt to create public awareness and support, I have officially christened the endemic woe, "Parkinglatte Automobilum Missingus (PAM)" or more simply stated, "Hey…I can’t find my car."

This disease is generally transmitted in mega mall parking lots where it lies in wait below the blacktop for just the right moment to attack. As innocent men and women confidently emerge from their cars and securely lock their doors, PAM germs begin spreading in weblike formation. While unaware victims focus on their various mall missions, these insidious germs begin their warfare, slowly lifting cars and relocating them, rows and even entire sections away from where their defenseless owners left them.

PAM symptoms become full blown as unsuspecting car owners emerge from the mall and head for their parking spots, only to find their autos mysteriously missing. The immediate effect is one of cool disbelief wherein sufferers calmly stroll around the general area trying to appear as if in total control, while desperately searching for their vehicles.

As the malady progresses, increased body temperature causes beads of perspiration to form across the bridge of sufferer’s noses and rivulets to flow down their arms. The infected then exhibit preliminary signs of incoherence as their walking patterns evolve into circular paths and they softly begin babbling about the F1 lightpost under which they clearly remember parking.

As the affliction advances to the final stages, sufferers loose all sense of security and succumb to the ravages of disorientation, stridently pacing up and down row after row of vehicles. Within minutes, the fast spreading disease stimulates a delirium that forces victims to accost total strangers, loudly ranting what doctors agree upon as the defining symptom, "Hey…I can’t find my car." At this point the emotional variation among patients ranges from lopsided grinning, to tears, to unabashed anger. However, the good news is that all symptoms eventually diminish upon the sufferer’s re-discovery of their car, which fortunately, always happens.

Unfortunately, even though victims do manage to overcome PAM, research clearly indicates that this is a recurring disease which, once suffered, will not only continue but increase over time.

So I’m calling on my fellow disease ridden sufferers to join with me in forming a PAM SPAM coalition for the purpose of eradicating this terrible disease. The organizational meeting will be held Sunday at high noon in the nearby mega mall parking lot. Just pull in the main entrance and look for me.

I’ll be the one bungee tied to the top of my car with a bazooka….just in case.

IRISH MEMORIES

2005-03-16T16:33:00.000-08:00

March 12 marks the anniversary of my mother’s death. Like any sorrowful commemoration, this day is filled with melancholy and longing as I reflect on the passing of the woman who gave me life and provided me with the Irish backbone that has served me so well. However, as in all circumstances involving the Irish, there is always a strong thread of humor woven through my day of tearful memories in recalling classic "mom moments" that always make me laugh.

Mingled in with those favorite lighthearted moments is a tale related to my mother that actually occurred after her passing.

The story goes that three months after my mother’s death, my daughter and I traveled to the Emerald Isle. Our purpose was to try and locate our ancestors by relying on a notebook of family tree information my mother had long collected. We considered it our posthumous tribute to mom and also a means of remaining somehow connected.

As we made our rounds through the various Irish towns marked upon mom’s genealogy map, the pieces of our family’s ancestral puzzle gradually began to fall into place. Then to our delight, one brilliantly sunny afternoon, we made a connection with a farmer who knew of our family’s whereabouts. Further, this kindly stranger assured us that there were indeed two members of our clan still alive. Brothers, both in their eighties, spry and active.

My daughter and I speedily followed the farmer’s directions and within minutes were picking our way through the overgrown walkway leading to our ancestral homestead. As we approached the side entrance of the simple, whitewashed house, I was sure I could hear the bagpipe strains of "Danny Boy" wafting over the fields. There was no doubt in my mind that we were home and about to directly connect with those who came before us.

Brother number one, the younger of the two men at 81 years, answered our knock on the door. He was unshaven and unkempt, missing almost all of his teeth, wearing torn and soiled clothing. Needless to say, I was taken aback. Yet not wanting to give up on our "connect with the past" dream, I pressed on, explaining our familial quest. After a few minutes of exchanging ancestral information, this sprightly leprechaun of a man welcomed us as long, lost family. He then took us on a tour of our "family" farm, complete with barns, creeks and waterfalls.

Upon our return to the house, our newly discovered relative extended an invitation to come inside and meet his older brother, who as if on cue, suddenly appeared in the doorway to greet us. Now, brother number two made his younger sibling look like a model from the cover of GQ. As I assessed him from the top of his matted gray hair, through his toothless gums, down his waist length, disheveled beard, through his torn and stained pants, into his knee high manure-caked boots, I found it somewhat hard to swallow that I was, in fact, related to this man. Yet in the true spirit of family ties, I began moving toward the door to greet my long, lost relative.

It was at this exact moment that this older sibling caught sight of my lovely daughter standing behind me. To say that his aging eyes undressed her on the spot would be putting it mildly. Suddenly, the bagpipe strains of "Danny Boy" that I’d been hearing were morphing into the banjo tones of "Deliverance." As one brother came toward us, the other brought up the rear, both insisting that we come inside with them.

It was at this point, trusting my always-reliable Irish instinct, that I turned, grabbed my daughter’s hand and took off toward the car, with both brothers following us in hot pursuit… "hot" being the operative word. As we jumped in, locked the doors and sped away, the two brothers appeared in my rear view mirror like a couple of Irish gnomes furiously jumping up and down in the middle of the dusty dirt road, yelling "come back, come back."

So while our trip wasn’t exactly the "searching for our ancestors" fairy tale that we had hoped for, in the retelling, it has become a story that always makes us laugh… and remember mom…who we miss on the 12th of March… and always.

HOME

2005-03-16T16:31:00.000-08:00

Home: According to Webster, a place of support and comfort. According to an age-old adage, where you find your heart. According to the ruby slippered Dorothy, a place like no other.

Last week I spent time visiting two very special members of my family in their new homes. The experiences involved my nearly 30-year old son who just purchased his first home, and my 85 year old uncle whose declining health has forced his move into a senior community home.

My son’s new home is compact, light, and welcoming. It has a great kitchen with eat-in area, where he can exercise his superb culinary skills. There is also a sizeable living room with fireplace, two spacious bedrooms, and two baths. The home is situated on a large lot with a detached garage and, as a perfect finishing touch, a charming white picket fence.

My uncle’s new home is also compact and welcoming. It has a good-sized room subdivided into a small efficiency kitchen, a dining area and a living room. Alongside there is another area of equal proportion that houses his bed, dresser drawers and a separate bathroom. Two large windows provide him with an attractive view of the outside world.

In my son’s home I was enlivened by the excitement of his young life taking shape. I was enveloped by his decorating ideas, recent furniture purchases, and proposed landscaping options, all planned within the hopes of his promising future.

In my uncle’s home I was emotionally moved by the natural evolution of his life. I was surrounded by his time-capsule family photos, his varied personal momentos, and his prized sports-related possessions, all carefully chosen to accommodate his downsized living space.

At the end of my visits with each of these favored men, as I said goodbye, I began to cry. In my son’s case, out of joy for the rewarding life he is building within his own home. Yet I will admit, that a few tears also dropped in longing for this man/child, to whom "home" is now a place in his own world, definitively removed from mine.

In my uncle’s case, my tears flowed in bittersweet response to his forced move to a community home, and for his realistic acknowledgement that this move signals the end of his independent life. Too, my tears shed in unsettled acknowledgement of my own circumstance - clearly beyond the excitement of the future-gradually evolving toward memories of a revered past.

Since those visits I have continued to reflect upon the wide ranging spectrum of the word, "home" and the vast difference it now represents to these two special people that I love. It is a thought process that has been at once awakening, somewhat alarming and, most importantly, remindful of the fleeting value of time and the importance of leading a life well lived.

Once again, giving new definition to the word, "home."

DREAM OF A LIFETIME

2005-03-16T16:28:00.000-08:00

This week is a very special one for my family, as on Friday my husband will graduate from the Police Academy. Beginning this Saturday morning, he will officially be recognized as a law enforcement officer in our quaintly rural hometown.

I am proud of my husband for achieving this accomplished level of success. He has long dreamed of becoming a policeman, but his aversion to academia always served as a deterrent. Yet to his credit, my husband finally undertook and completed the college level course with flying colors.

There was one main reason that my husband decided to tackle the police curriculum. he had no choice! I enrolled him in the program as part of his Christmas present last year! I took the action as a means of trying to repay this most special man for helping make so many of my own life dreams come true.

Yet, now that he is graduating and his law enforcement career is certain, I am beginning to have second doubts as to the wisdom of my Yuletide gift. For what is slowly dawning on me is that as a result of my husband becoming a policeman, I am automatically going to be inducted into a group that I never imagined I would join .. police wives.

Now, don't get me wrong, I bear no grudge against these women. It's just that anytime I see one of those gruesome news stories involving policemen who are wounded or die in the line of duty, I always consider myself lucky not to be a member of their particular wives club. However as of this Friday, like it or not, I will enter into that twilight zone of worry, fear, and uncertainty that defines the lives of all who live with, and love, officers of the law.

Over the last nine months, I've experienced a sneak preview of my impending "police wife" life, as my husband took part in on the job training. His initial assignments included riding the midnight shift, supervising a high school bonfire and keeping an eye on celebratory tractor pull crowds... all innocuous tasks that really never stirred my conscience. Aside from missing his company, the most frustrating part of his absence was the fact that my cold feet never warmed on the long winter nights that he worked.

Recently, though, my husband's service experience has changed. His hours on the job have been marred by incidents, which through the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes, clearly communicate that the work has unsettled his spirit and invaded his soul. Suddenly, this law enforcement job is no longer just the inspiring realization of a long held dream. Rather it is also the trauma and violence of the world directly invading our lives, tainting our home.

So this week as I sit in the college auditorium and watch my uniformed husband stride across the stage in his police uniform to receive his diploma, I will rejoice that this man I love has achieved one of his ultimate lifelong dreams. I will also sit in fearful knowledge that the path on which he is about to embark will change our lives in ways that I could never have imagined on that joyous Christmas morning one year ago.

THE GIFT OF LIFE

2005-03-16T16:25:00.000-08:00

Despite merchandiser’s all-out marketing efforts to convince me otherwise, I firmly believe that the Christmas Holiday Season still officially begins on Thanksgiving Day.

Yet my ho-ho-ho holidays are not a simple six-week time frame set between Turkey Day and New Year’s Day with Christmas thrown in for extra insanity. Oh no. In my family we also celebrate seven birthdays, including my daughter’s and mine, in the merry month of December.

What’s interesting about this holiday birthday phenomenon is that until my mother passed away, our December birthday tally stood at eight. Which meant that three direct generations of women in our family were all born in the same month, my mother being a twin born precisely on Christmas Day.

Each Thanksgiving as my family’s holiday/birthday mania begins, I gird myself by engaging in an annual review of the true reasons to be thankful. The health/family/happiness categories always provide my heart and soul with a balanced antidote to the tinsel/cake/present onslaught lying in wait. However, this year atop my "things to be thankful for" list is a gift I received almost five years ago. It is a treasure that was neither Christmas nor birthday related, yet it is, by far, the most precious present I’ve ever been given.

This gift came from my mother, given in the wee small hours of a cold March morning. Mom was ill and living in my home. I was attempting to care for her to the best of my non-medical ability. In the middle of that night, I went in to check on mom and found that she needed care. Upon lifting her out of bed, tending to her needs and maneuvering her back into bed, my mother quietly whispered, "Christy, you are so good to me."

The kindness of her phrase caught me off balance. Although they were only seven unimportant words, together they represented the first time my mother had ever acknowledged that I pleased her. Reacting through middle-of-the-night cobwebs, I simply replied, "I try Mom," tucked her in with a hug and returned to my bed, unaware of the ultimate significance those words would hold.

In the day’s full dawn my mother passed away…she and I never spoke again.

The immediate impact of my mother’s final words was clouded behind the intensity of my loss and mourning.
As time passed, however, I continually replayed them as a means of dealing with my anger, my sorrow, my guilt and my relief.

Yet, most recently my mother’s words have evolved into a new and totally unexpected purpose, one that professional success, community recognition, and loving, supportive family and friends have never been able to fully achieve. For they have offered me the added confidence to believe in myself due to the long awaited affirmation that I am indeed capable, simply because, my mom said so.

So this Thanksgiving as I contemplate the beginning of my family’s holiday/birthday hurricane season, I am most grateful to my mother for the gift of her words. Further, this year when I blow out the 52 candles on my December Birthday Cake I am going to make one very special wish….for my mom…. the woman who, twice, provided me with the remarkable gift of a new life.

THE HAIRCUT

2005-03-16T16:23:00.000-08:00

Three years ago this Thanksgiving, I cut my hair ….short…. shorter than my husband’s.

Now this shoring wasn’t about some up-to-the-minute fashion trend, nor was it related to a long desired, well thought out decision to chop my chestnut tresses. Rather I allowed my hairdresser to whack off more than six inches of my naturally curly locks in a knee jerk, scared-silly reaction to a life changing event … my mother’s hospitalization.

Being an only child, with no siblings for support, when my mother entered the hospital I felt alone, isolated and very unsure of what direction to take. To complicate matters, at the time of her emergency room admittance, my mother was unable to make decisions for herself. So, automatically and without warning, I was required to choose for her in matters of her life and her well being. It was an overwhelming power that I had absolutely no desire to acquire or maintain.

Being obliged to make those decisions for my mother made me feel as if my own life was reeling out of control right alongside hers. In hindsight, I believe my response to that feeling was a resolve to undertake an action that would prove that I actually had control over something in my life….that "something" being my hair.

People’s reaction to my hair cutting was immediate. My mother loved it. It was just the kind of short and simple hair-do she appreciated. My husband supported the cut as a choice totally my own and one, which he said, showed off my cute ears (now you know why I love the man!) However my kids hated it. They had never seen my hair shorter than shoulder length. To them I appeared as an alien mom, who they both had trouble acknowledging.

As for me, I was pleased with my boyish bob and almost felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It never occurred to me that my haircut was as much an outward symbol of my growing insecurities about my mother’s health and future, as it was a style statement.

This year as Thanksgiving approaches and I prepare to gather together with family and friends, I am reminded of those scary, overwhelming November days, just a short three years ago. I recall it as a time when my mother made the painful transition from parent/authority figure/caretaker to childlike/needy/dependant. I further remember the endless four months following that holiday season, watching as my mother seemingly willed her life away. They are bittersweet memories that color both my days and my emotions.

I am saddened that my mother is no longer with me to celebrate Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthdays, and life in general. I miss her. Yet finally, I am coming to terms with the fact that life goes on, I cannot go back, and in reality, I have no control.

Once again, my hair is long.

IF IT ITCHES....

2005-03-16T16:20:00.000-08:00

Ok….I’ll admit it. I love to scratch.

There’s nothing quite like experiencing an itching sensation rising up on a previously peaceful body spot that rouses my fingers into a cooperative abrasive reaction. I easily equate it to the like state of euphoria I enjoy when devouring a hot fudge sundae covered with spanish peanuts.

Now my scratching is not an obsessive-compulsive habit, nor has it ever been a problem in my fifty-year life span. That is until the tender age of forty-three when I contracted my first case of poison ivy.

In all of my years, I had never encountered someone with a case of poison ivy. So, at the conclusion of an intense round of backyard gardening as I experienced a rather enjoyable itch, I had no idea what was really happening. I just knew that a spot called out, I scratched it and it felt good.

As my persistent itching continued, I traveled to Boston, Massachusetts for a prearranged visit with my son at his "very" bachelor apartment. It was a small three room flat that I quickly realized was perfectly suited to the living conditions of my "twenty something" man/child by his concentrated use of the apartment’s oven as an overnight storage facility for his odorous sneakers!

During the duration of my stay, as my itchies wildly expanded, I assumed their development was related to some type of flea or bed bug ensconced within my son’s bachelor digs. Not thinking that there might be any reason to restrain myself. I continued to self satisfiedly scratch...all through the ensuing days and nights.

Well, as you can imagine, by the end of my parental check-in visit, my itchy welts had spread from waist to feet, both legs included. It was at about this time that it occurred to me that my scratching had crossed the line from bliss to pain. Upon returning home, my friendly family doctor clarified exactly how my itching ecstasy had turned into agony.

Two prescriptions, one bottle of calamine and an extra large bottle of ivy dry later, my poison ivy itch was finally under control. However, it was almost a month before my skin no longer looked like a movie poster for Godzilla.

Since my ivy itching "first time" I have come to understand and respect the warning signs of this poisonous affliction. Now in the midst of summer when I feel that wonderful sensation enticing my fingers to scratch away, I reservedly search out and identify what evil may lurk behind the itching invitation.

Still, I do love to scratch and actually, I have come to resent the fact that one of my life’s most simple pleasures has turned into something that must be so carefully considered and monitored.

Next thing you know, someone will tell me I have to give up hot fudge sundaes because they have no nutritional value.

OPRAH CALLED

2005-03-16T15:58:00.000-08:00

"Oprah just called!" I yelled out to my husband at the other end of the house. To which he replied in typical male form, "Oprah who?" To which I proclaimed in typical female form, "Oprah Winfrey….what other Oprah is there?" At which point he sprang into my office in questioning disbelief. "Come on. Are you kiddin’ me? Why would she call here?"

Which was exactly what I wondered? After so much time, why had Oprah finally called? You see over the last three years my daughter and I have submitted a number of letters to Ms. "O" in an attempt to appear on one of her upcoming television shows. The topic of our latest programming quest being mothers and daughters who are often mistaken as sisters.

Now anyone who has seen my child and me, side-by-side, will tell you that we fit this theme like an expensive, leather glove. In fact, when we are together, people continually ID us as siblings. So when this subject popped up as a future talk show topic on Oprah’s website, volunteering as participants was a no-brainer.

I e-mailed our genealogical similarities to the great and wonderful "O" on a Friday afternoon. By Sunday, she was on the phone. Well, ok, maybe it wasn’t exactly Oprah herself who did the dialing. Rather it was a friendly young woman named Anne the assistant, a member of the show’s staff. During our two-minute conversation Anne the assistant explained that Oprah would like to see pictures of my daughter and me, the sooner the better. I volunteered to e-mail a batch first thing Monday morning and in return, Anne the assistant provided me with an address.

Suddenly it hit me. I WAS IN POSSESSION OF Oprah’s e-mail address. Okay, maybe not her personal e-mail hotline, but none the less, I had just been given direct access to the world of Harpo Productions… The Oprah Show, O Magazine, The Oxygen Network. All at once, my life’s possibilities seemed limitless! With this connection to Oprah I held the key to my writing future. If I decided I wanted to interview Tom Cruise, profile Maya Angelou or duet with Aretha, any or all of it was only a computer click away. For as anyone who is anyone knows, through my new best friend Oprah, all things are possible!

On Monday, I e-mailed the pictures and waited…a half an hour. Then I e-mailed a creatively pithy note to Anne the assistant, asking exactly how long before Oprah would respond? Within minutes the reply came through stating that if we weren’t contacted by Friday, we would not be on the show.

The thought never crossed my mind.

I patiently waited through the rest of Monday, whiled away the endless Tuesday, envisioned the possibilities of Wednesday, focused on the routine of Thursday and grudgingly ground my way through Friday…all without, once, hearing from Oprah. Again, I sent Anne the assistant a creatively pithy note, this time expressing thanks for her consideration and a hope that one day, we would meet. This time there was no response. Obviously, as quickly as I had entered I was, once again, orbiting outside of the wonderful world of Winfrey.

The happy ending to my tale of woe is that I’ve managed to survive Oprah’s outright rejection. In fact, I’ve even managed to wean myself away from daily trips to her website in search of my five minutes of shared "O" fame.
I’m staying busy and remaining focused on other, more important things….

…like the call-outs for Martha’s new reality show!

MY NAVY BLUE DRESS

2005-03-16T15:56:00.000-08:00

I have a dress of navy blue wool that means the world to me. I purchased it several years ago from a nearby designer outlet store. It’s fashioned in a neatly tailored, double-breasted style, delicately softened with a velvet collar and covered buttons. I bought it because of its impeccable construction, its sophisticated design, and it’s size…. an 8…which somehow miraculously fits me.

When I bought the dress I had no particular event or special occasion in mind. My reason was more that the garment appeared to me as the most beautiful "grown up" dress I had ever seen. Much like something out of the fashion pages of Vogue or Glamour and very unlike anything I had ever worn.

After searching high and low for just the right footwear to complete my dress’s "new me" image, I managed to find a pair of specially suited shoes. They were suede, navy, two-and-a-half inch pumps, detailed with subtle scrolling around each toe. Like the dress they were sophisticated, beautiful and, thanks to my friend who owns a wonderful shoe shop, very affordable.

I don’t really remember the first time I wore my new "grown-up" ensemble, but I do recall that whenever it was, my mother loved it. Now while that may not seem like a big issue to most, my mother and I did not see eye to eye on many of life’s topics, especially those of clothes and fashion. Yet at last, after forty some years, in her eyes, I had finally found a winner.

Shortly after I bought my blue wool dress, my mother became ill…life threateningly ill. When I brought her into my home to care for her, my life suddenly became void of beautiful wool dresses and matching suede shoes. Instead there were trips to the doctors, volumes of pills and medications, and innumerable daily struggles to meet the challenges of our life together, until the day she died.

On the morning of her funeral, as I furiously ravaged my closet for something decent to wear, my eyes focused on that navy blue wool dress. I knew it was the perfect choice…it was clean, it was appropriate and most importantly, Mom loved it. Since that day, my blue wool dress has become sort of a determining, life benchmark. One I save for occasions of great personal importance and, as with mom, moments of loss and sorrow.

This week, as the three-year anniversary of my mother’s death passed, I found myself, once again, pulling my navy blue wool dress out of the closet. A family friend had lost his valiant fight against cancer and died. He was a wonderful man with a great sense of humor and an inborn musical talent.

As I prepared for his funeral, memories of moments I’ve experienced while wearing my navy blue dress reminded me of the many people in my life who have come and gone. Yet as I lifted that dress off the hanger and wrapped it around my body, I felt no sense of sadness or grief. Rather my navy blue dress felt warm and welcoming…rather like a hug. It was as if the people who I have loved and lost have become intricately woven into the blue wool fabric, to stay forever close.

I have a dress of navy blue wool that means the world to me…

LIVING THE DREAM

2005-03-16T15:54:00.000-08:00

Recently, a friend wrote me a note to say that she admired my determination to, "live the dream." Now for me, as a writer, words hold great meaning and this "dream" phrase particularly struck my fancy. I ruminated on it for quite some time.

Oddly enough, the very next day another friend made that same "live the dream" observation to me, using those exact words. Now I was perplexed. What was it these women were witnessing that convinced them both that I am striving to live my dream, when many times I feel as if I am far from hitting that particular mark.

After giving the quandary considerable thought, I came to the conclusion that the old saying of, "we never see ourselves as others do" must be true. Which further led me to wonder exactly what standards in life help us personally define when we succeed and when we fail? Is an outside observer a more accurate barometer than our own inner voice? Are family, friends and neighbors more qualified to pass judgement on the ups-and-downs of our lives from their perspective outside our own inner circles of self-doubt and questioning?

Realizing that this was much too weighty a problem for a mid summer’s day, I put the issue out of my mind and turned my attention instead to a tall glass of raspberry iced tea and my front porch swing. However, as I whiled away the perfect Western New York Saturday afternoon in a rock-a-bye motion, my insistent Irish mindset demanded that I reconsider the living my dream concept. Only this time, from my cradle like vista, contemplation evolved to conclusion.

What I determined was that perhaps the heart of this "living the dream" ideal lies in the fact that as human beings we are always trying to keep up, stay up, succeed and surpass. Which in turn, often causes us to not appreciate or celebrate our accomplishments before moving on to that next, all-important goal on our life list. In so doing, we often blow right by the fact that we have, indeed, achieved some individual part of our life’s dream.

I know it’s a simple concept…not rocket science by any means. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ve been blessed with this momentous revelation more than once in my fifty-year life span. Yet, still, I am grateful that my friends and family are around to remind me that I am living my dream, on a daily basis, just the way I imagined it…

…even on those occasional out of control days when my dream more closely resembles a nightmare!

LET'S MAKE A DEAL

2005-03-16T15:50:00.000-08:00

Recently, one early Sunday morning I allowed myself the "lazy-day" luxury of engaging in the All-American sport of channel surfing. While flipping through the myriad of cable news shows and info-mercials I wondrously happened upon the movie classic, "Father of the Bride."

Now I realize that for many, their connection to this film may be attached to the more recent reincarnation starring Steve Martin and Diane Keaton. Yet if you have never seen the original cut featuring "everyman" Spencer Tracy as the tortured father and a youthfully innocent Elizabeth Taylor as the dewy-eyed bride, then, in my opinion, you are missing cinematic perfection.

I’m not really sure how many times I have watched the original "Father of the Bride," but I believe that as significant as the number of viewings are the time frames from which I have viewed them. Beginning with my first screening during my teenage "wanna-be bride" years through to my most recent "empty nester" stage, this movie’s well-written script and "right on" performances have always struck a chord.

The common denominator this particular Sunday came about three-quarters of the way through the film. It was at the precise moment when Spencer Tracy realizes that his daughter is not only getting married, she is assuming a new identity, beginning a new life, and will never again be his, "kitten." It’s a shock that sends Tracy reeling with a relentless melancholy through to the movie’s closing moments when, finally, Elizabeth Taylor remembers to call home and tell her "pop" how much she loves him.

Oh boy! I can so relate.

In a few months, my daughter will celebrate her tenth wedding anniversary. It is a most momentous occasion for all of our family and one we proudly acclaim. She and her husband are a well-matched couple who set an example in their devotion and love for each other.

That being said, ten years after the fact, there are still days when, ala Spencer Tracy, I find myself wondering how my child can possibly be happy, living with her husband in their own house, rather than at "home" with me where she belongs. The good news is that after a few moments in this delusionary wonderland I always manage to come to my senses and realize that, like it or not, the fact that my children are establishing their own lives is simply the order of the real world.

Now in Spencer Tracy's perfect "Hollywood world," his parental angst was eventually soothed in a movie sequel entitled, "Father’s Little Dividend." In this film, Tracy’s empty nest was re-feathered with a grandchild, which is the point where Spencer and I differ.

While I have no doubt that I would cherish a new family generation to bounce upon my knee, I’m also quite sure that grandchildren could never take the place of either of my children… they who filled my days and nights for more than half of my life and my heart forever.

So, I’m thinking that maybe I could work out a deal with my son-in-law. Offer him a lifetime supply of my garlic-mashed potatoes and homemade fudge sauce in exchange for alternating weeks with his wife.

Seems like a reasonable compromise to old Spencer and me.

WALKING GONE AWRY

2005-03-16T15:39:00.000-08:00

Resolution. It’s a funny word... and also a very overused one this time of the year.

Personally, I like to spread my resolve around a little rather than lumping all that accountability and guilt into one big New Year’s Day load. I try and make resolute decisions each day, on an ongoing basis. It’s a personal formula based on the inverted Irish ideal that if my "improved life" choices are continuous, I might, on occasion, be able to maintain my resolve past the first three days of January!

This year my husband and I made what we called a New Year’s "deal" rather than a resolution. We agreed that we would try and walk together, several times a week, in a partnered effort to improve our health. Now walking through the neighborhood is something I do regularly. It is also something that I have consistently begged and cajoled my husband to do with me, to no avail. So on New Year’s morning when he suggested that we walk together I couldn’t get my hikers laced up quick enough.

We began bright eyed and bushy tailed, both determined to begin walking off the wealth of holiday dinners and parties that our flabby bodies ably evidenced that we had relished and enjoyed. I started off at my usual pace while my loving spouse stepped off at his own. It was a momentary speed differential that soon faded as we gradually found a stride that suited us both. We fell into a walking rhythm. We walked and talked. We silently strode. We enjoyed the scenery. It was perfect.

Then just about at the halfway turn of my regular walking route, my husband suggested we stop and say hello to a neighbor. Now adjusting to my husband's walking tempo was one thing, but interfering with my exercise routine was another. Everyone knows that you don’t stop and visit when you’re walking! You get out there and push those hips and raise those knees. Make those muscles work and burn the fat.

However, being a loving and thoughtful wife... and also not wanting to enter into a full fledged domestic in the middle of the road, before God and all the neighbors.... I did what most every woman has done for centuries. I sweetly smiled and said, "Ok Honey!"

So at the point in the walk where I generally have my pulse cranked up to a "burn the fat" level, my husband and I slowed down, meandered up the neighbor’s driveway and rang the bell. "We’re only stopping for a minute," I resolutely stated. At which point our neighbor swung open his door and welcomed us in for coffee, to which my husband enthusiastically answered, "Sure!"

Well, needless to say, a half an hour later we were still sitting at our neighbor’s kitchen table enjoying our coffee, playing tug of war with the dog and solving the problems of the world. My pulse was no longer stimulated and my metabolism was once again storing fat rather than burning. Yet somehow, it really didn’t matter. For I was thoroughly enjoying one of those real life moments of old fashioned neighborhood friendship as I remembered it from my youth. A time when houses went unlocked, children played unguarded and neighbors always had the time to share a cup of coffee.

Somehow I have a feeling that my "burn the fat" walking resolve will never be quite the same.

THE POPCORN POT

2005-03-16T15:38:00.000-08:00

As I have once again celebrated yet another December birthday (number 51 for those enquiring minds who need to know) and as another New Year has come and gone, I find that I am oddly concentrated on people, places and things that previously have been taken-for-granted, parts of my life.

Now I’m not talking about items such as family, friends and health. I’ve always inherently understood their value and appreciated them to the fullest extent. Rather what I’m referencing here are things more along the lines of incidental, secondary-in-importance stuff… like my popcorn pot.

Now this particular pot is no ordinary popper. For starters, it came into my family’s possession long before my personal hard drive was even downloaded. It is best described as a four-quart aluminum pan with a matching lid, topped off by a black plastic knob and side handle. That’s it. No fancy copper bottom, no stick-free coating, no see through glass lid and definitely no high priced chef-endorsed logo. Yet truth be known, this pan was never designed to be a generator of the salty, buttery, snack food treat.

I can’t remember my mother’s original use for this pan. She really wasn’t much of a cook, so odds are it was pretty pristine when she willed it to me, some thirty years ago. Further, I’m not even sure why I initially decided to use it for corn popping. All I can clearly remember is that the first time I poured oil, salt and kernels into that shiny aluminum kettle, I was immediately distracted… for a substantial time period.

When my brain finally re-entered the earth’s atmosphere and I remembered that I had popcorn on the stove, I flew back into the kitchen fully prepared to deal with billowing black smoke and that one-of-a-kind burnt corn smell that can taint a kitchen for days. Yet to my surprise, when I reached the stove, there atop the blazing red burner sat a perfectly popped kettle of corn.

Needless to say I was shocked and amazed. So much so that I emptied the pan and immediately set it up to pop again, this time resolutely standing by to witness the event. Within minutes, the sizzling oil set the kernels slam dancing against the pan’s shiny silver interior. Soon the popping noise was a concerto of rhythm releasing that undeniable taste-tempting aroma with each successive beat.

As I stood enraptured by the smell, I realized that the popcorn was overflowing and raising the lid of the pan, pop by pop. Soon the top was distanced from the bottom by almost two inches…and not one kernel of corn had fallen out. I never shook the pan, I never adjusted the heat, I simply stood by and watched. Which apparently was exactly the way my popcorn pan wanted it.

Since that magical moment, I have continued to pop corn in that exact fashion and, as old Orville himself claims, every batch turns out perfectly every time. The pan is now completely blackened on the outside, the inside permanently oiled, despite the many ways I have tried to scrub it clean and clear. It has become a legend in my family as much as for how it pops, as for the tasty treat it produces.

My kids have grown up, my family has expanded and contracted, my friends have dealt with life-changing events, all while being mesmerized and nourished by my enchanting popcorn pot. It’s become a tradition, a treat, and a little bit of magic in our lives.

Whenever I pull it out of the cupboard, I am reminded of the long chain of popcorn kernels that intertwine the people, places and events that continually define my life.

Funny, how that old pot becomes more significant with each passing year.

PEDAL POWER

2005-03-16T15:27:00.000-08:00

There’s something about summer that brings out the kid in me. Hot sunny days arrive and I find myself thoughtlessly reverting to activities, clothing styles and even foods that suggest memories of my long ago youth.

My latest seasonal blast-from-the-past relates to a constitutional bike ride that I take each day. It’s an around-the-rural-block trek that amounts to approximately a five-mile journey.

Now I have to tell you, it’s been a few years since I’ve undertaken bicycle cruises. Twenty years to be exact. So the prospect of hitting the hilly country roads surrounding my rural home was somewhat daunting.

However, as June’s official point of summer demarcation brought forth festivals, and fun, it also set my mind to believing that the lengthy time lapse and considerable age span since my last cycling adventures were irrelevant. Suddenly, somehow I thought I was totally capable of climbing on my tortuously butt-busting bike seat and magically pedaling away with ease.

RIGHT!

Week one: I managed to accomplish each complete, around-the-block circuit without once dismounting and walking. It was an achievement in which, on the downside of age fifty, I took great personal pride. Although I will tell you that during this period, my husband made mention of the fact, several times, that I seemed to be walking a lot like John Wayne.

Week two: I began to recover my old muscle memory and recall the concept of power pedaling, to the point that by day ten, I was cranking my riding machine up into the double digits of its twenty-one gear capacity. Soon I was embarking on actual trips with destinations such as the post office, the supermarket, and town meetings.
My bicycle was no longer just an object of excruciating exercise, rather, it had become an open-air transportation option. As I set off on my trips with a backpack over my shoulder and a Walkman cranking out my favorite tunes, I was once again a kid again……at least in theory.

Week three: Having fully re-mastered the basics, I began to playfully consider the joyful challenges of long forgotten bicycle stunts. Hands free, pop a wheelies, spinning a 360. Eventually my inherently mature sense of wisdom coerced me into pursuing the one stunt that posed the least danger to my aging, breakable bones…. hands free.

I chose a downhill stretch of my preset route, where the incline would minimize my need to pedal and allow me to concentrate solely on my balance. I tentatively let go of the handlebars and immediately re-grabbed them as I felt my two wheeler drifting wildly out of control. "Perhaps not a good move" my mature nature cautioned. To which my summer-child sense issued a "Don’t be a wimp" challenge. I tried again. This time, I succeeded in leaving the handlebars unattended for a thirty second span. Victory! I was still able to reclaim my youth.

The next day, at the crest of the same hill, bolstered by my limited success, I once again abandoned the security of my bike’s guidance system. Thirty, forty, sixty seconds passed and I was still hands free. Then with the wind whistling through my hair and Mary Chapin Carpenter’s "Why Walk When You Can Fly?" blasting from my earphones I slowly extended my arms up over my head and reached for the clouds. It was a moment taken directly from the Hollywood version of the Tour De France.

Who needs plastic surgery and expensive moisturizing creams? Just give me a bike and a good down hill run anyday!

LUCKY NUMBER THIRTEEN

2005-03-16T15:19:00.000-08:00

According to the weatherman, spring has finally sprung. But according to the animals in my barn, local meteorologists are about thirty days late. For in mid-March, we had a wealth of births on this farm. To the point that I started to feel like a nurse in a barnyard maternity ward anytime I ventured out to feed.

The good news is that all the newborns arrived safe and sound. Oh there were a few minor hitches in my mare’s delivery, but fortunately nothing too complicated or life threatening. This year’s foal, a filly, was born on the 13th of March. She is also the thirteenth that I’ve bred. An unlucky number for some, but for me, a fortuitous total, for this young filly is a life changer.

Let me explain.

I used to train horses as a "part-time" job. One of those situations that was supposed to take up only a portion of my life but ended up consuming it. For ten years I worked shoulder to shoulder with a veteran horseman who trained me right along with the horses. He was a man totally consumed by his trade, as horse trainers tend to be, and he spent many hours talking about his passion while we worked.

Out of all the conversations we had over the years, one particular one came to mind when this thirteenth foal was born. For from the minute she fought her way out of the birth sac and nickered her arrival to the world, she was special. Not a "owner’s pride" special, but a "significant to the world" special.

To describe her, she is bay in color. For the uninitiated, that would mean a brown body and a black mane and tail; the ultimate choice for a horse of her Morgan Breeding. Her legs were longer than her mother’s from the first time she stood and the tops of her ears gently tip in toward one another in graceful refinement. She has a neck that is long and arched and an athletic ability to balance her wealth of beauty.

But it’s a characteristic that has slowly revealed itself over the last month that makes this filly so remarkable. For as her baby fur has shed out, it is becoming increasingly obvious that she is not going to be a bay horse, as she originally appeared, but instead will be black. Deep, dark, coal black, without a mark of white anywhere on her body.

This color transformation has come as sort of a shock to me as each day I have watched her medium brown color slowly dissolve into this unexpected ebony tone. Any other black foals born on my farm have had their color right from the start. Then again, as I stated, this filly is special.

Which brings be back to the remembered conversation with the old trainer. One that took place in the barn on a particularly cold winter morning while I was grousing about my frozen fingers and toes. He listened to my whining for a while and then looked me in the eye and predicted that one-day, I would have a horse that would make me want to get up and go to the barn every morning, no matter what.

I have a funny feeling that with this lucky number thirteen, that horse has finally arrived.

Close Encounters

2005-03-16T15:14:00.000-08:00

Recently, I have been enjoying close encounters with women of the best kind. These ladies range in age from twenty to seventy and in categories of single, married, widowed and divorced. Some I have know for almost thirty years while others for as few as thirty days. But the interesting common denominator among them is that these women are all remarkably intelligent and sensitive.

Now I was not raised as a great fan of women. My mother was a hard-nosed businessperson who spent her adult life going toe-to-toe with commercial contractors, all of who were male. She had neither the time, nor the inclination, for mother daughter shopping trips or intimate teas for two. Nor were there ever motherly "June Cleaver" discussions on female topics during "girl talk" moments.

No, my mom worked at a tough job and that’s just what she was…tough.

As much as my mother avoided interactive moments with me, she also equally discouraged the development of any type of female friendships. For as long as I can remember, any woman who tried to approach my mother outside the work arena was absolutely stonewalled. Growing up, I watched women almost physically recoil as my mother issued a curtly rude, "no" to social invitations. Unknowingly offensive, mom never realized people were taken aback. She just believed in coming directly to the point. And her point was that she had no desire for interaction.

Unfortunately, I never experienced a counter balance to offset my mother’s role model values. There was no sister, aunt or kindly neighbor around to teach me that relationships with men and women are equally invaluable. I struggled, as I grew, trying to make the leap from simplistic childhood girlfriends to the more complicated world of adult female relationships. When I found myself unable to navigate landmines such as behind-the-back judgements and gossip-laden luncheons, I adapted my mother’s attitude and became anti-women.

That is until my daughter was born.

With her birth came a chance to fashion a friendship based on all the virtues I felt were important as a human being, gender issues aside. As she grew, we spent time doing all of the "girly" things that give strident feminists apoplexy. Lunches, movies, shopping, dancing, gabbing, eating chocolate.

But we also addressed life issues and focused on women as one-of-a-kind, with chemical, spiritual and emotional make-ups. We tackled (okay, argued) about problematic issues such as abortion, motherhood, traditional women’s roles, women in the church, women in the work force, female friendships and of course, men. For almost thirty years now, our friendship has been one of the most rewarding aspects of my life. It has also taught me what I didn’t know growing up. That woman can truly share supportive friendships.

So, today as I revel in the wonderful world of womenhood, I find myself truly wishing that just once, my mom had been able to experience the nurturing gift of female bonding and friendship …… I also find myself deeply gratified that my daughter came into my life and helped me to learn how.

HUGS

2005-03-16T15:09:00.000-08:00

Recently, I was wandering through my personal memory bank recently and came upon a file entitled, "hugs." Inside it I found a fifty year life span of grasps and gropes of all sizes, intents and intensities….

The caring newborn caresses in which my mother so tentatively enveloped me.

The buried-in-her-chest, "funny smell" hugs of my well endowed grandmother.

The full blown, wrap-around, bear hugs that my uncle always used to welcome me.

The kindly, gentle hugs of my childless aunt that somehow always left me melancholy.

A hug from a classmate from my all-girls high school in celebration of my election as student body president …my first experience with the power of female bonding and support.

A whole collection of, "oh my gosh he asked me out," to the prom, to the party, to meet the family, to get married, hugs.

Another whole collection of, " oh my gosh he" didn't call, dumped me, cheated on me, left me," embraces that, according to the file size, went on for multi-megabites.

That first hug from my one and only high school sweetheart that kept me walking on air for days.

The unforgettable first hug which I experienced with my firstborn, my daughter, Lisa…the intensity of that moment thirty years later still able to overwhelm me with emotion.

The special cuddle hugs my son James and I shared when he was growing up that always required the inclusion of his well worn "blue blankey."

The "Pleasant dreams," hug that I gave to my children every night as I tucked them into bed.

There were two hugs between my son and daughter, one at her wedding and one at his college graduation, that as their mother, gave me hope.

The nightlong hug I shared with my daughter on the eve of her metamorphosis from my daughter to his wife.

The hug I received from my son when he unexpectedly came home to surprise me for my fiftieth birthday that imparted more intensity and love than any words we ever spoke.

The hug that I never wanted to end as I draped across my mother's lifeless body and suddenly realized her exact significance to my life and desperately, just once, tried to tell her how much I loved her.

The hug from Mickey Mouse at DisneyLand....something that I had waited for all of my life… and at the well ripened age of thirty eight, thoroughly enjoyed.

The amazingly passionate, joyful hug that my husband Michael gave me as we stood on our hillside farm overlooking the lake following our front porch wedding.

The ever constant up in the air, spin around hugs that my husband Michael gives me which always make me feel like a kid again.

As I finished scanning my Hug file I began ruminating on the power of this tiny three letter word and it’s enormous ability to evoke so many feelings, so many moments, so many facets of my life. What I realized in the process was that the most important thing about hugs is, quite simply, giving them and getting them. And while I tenderly treasure my lifetime collection of hug memories, I’ve also made room in my databank for a whole new hug collection.

For while conventional life wisdom may suggest that you can never too thin or too rich, I’ve decided that my personal life philosophy is that one can never be too well-hugged.

VIVE LA FRANCE!

2005-01-29T18:31:00.000-08:00

VIVE LA FRANCE!

I’ve decided I’m moving to Paris!

Although, my decision may seem somewhat hasty, I have some well-founded reasons for embarking on my Trans-Atlantic relocation.

Number one, I look pretty darn cute in a beret.

Number two, as a Parisienne, I will be able to bask in the glory of the Eiffel everyday.

Number three, Monet and his romantic gardens will be a mere, scenic train ride away.

Yet besides the obvious, there is one central motivating factor behind my Paris packing flurry. That is…once I settle into my chic Left Bank apartment with view, I will be able to eat whatever I want and still loose weight.

It’s true! According to American neuroscientist Dr. Will Clower, author of the book, "The Fat Fallacy," the French spend their lives existing primarily on a diet of cheese, butter, and chocolate, washed down by vintage champagnes and fine wines. Yet, only 8% of the French are overweight (compared to 50% of Americans) and additionally they live longer and suffer from less heart disease.

Clower discovered these phenomenal statistics while conducting two years of postdoctoral work in France. During his gourmand research, the good doctor observed that the French diet is primarily founded upon America’s most wanted/least allowed foods. Clower also learned that the French flourish on their inverted food pyramid due as much to their attitude toward food, as its caloric count or nutritional value.

More simply put, the French eat fat and stay thin by exercising their minds, as well as their bodies.
Clower’s premise is that French nutrition is based, not on calorie counts, but on fundamental food philosophies including: "It’s the quality of food that counts not the quantity, so enjoy whatever you want to eat, just in moderation. Eat food, not "products"--avoid processed items. Eat slowly, take smaller bites and finish each mouthful completely before taking the next one."

However, in addition to their common sense dietary guidelines, the French also live by a unique set of eating formularies…which are the ones I find so compelling. "Eat a certain amount of dairy fat and olive oil with meals. Drink a glass of wine with meals. Finish each meal with a small cup of good, strong coffee." And, of course, my personal favorite: "Eat dessert - but save room for it by having smaller portions of other courses."

So thanks to Clower’s research, there is now scientific proof that by eating meals made with pure foods (including dairy fat and olive oil), served in smaller portions, and enjoyed at a more leisurely pace, I can enjoy a life of fats, carbs, chocolate…anything I desire…and still drop dress sizes.

I say, Viva La France and pass the croissants! This is one French Revolution that I'm definitely going to join

.

Bathroom Remodeling Blues

2005-01-11T04:33:00.000-08:00

Well, we’re at it again!

My husband and I are once more tearing apart our one hundred and fifty-year-old farmhouse and putting it back together. This time it’s the bathroom under renovation. It’s the ninth in a ten room plan of remodeling that has seen us rip out, re-roof, re-side, re-install, re-finish, re-wire, re-plumb and re-main speaking…in retrospect, perhaps our greatest accomplishment!

This latest do-over is one that I have awaited most anxiously since several years ago when I purchased a fire engine red, claw foot bathtub. It is the cast iron soaker of my dreams. However, since it has assumed it’s place of prominence in our home’s one and only bathroom, the rest of the aged and worn room has paled in comparison. So it was with great glee that my husband and I finally took our pry bars and hammers in hand and began demolishing…which is exactly when our problems began.

You see, I am the sort of person who needs to have everything spelled out in detail and planned in advance. I like to know what is going to happen and exactly how long it will take. Before my husband and I began our bathroom remodel we discussed in great depth exactly how the project was going to proceed and the approximate time frame it would require. His reassuring two-part guarantee was that we would manage temporarily without a shower by setting one up in the basement and that everything would be up and running anew in the remodeled bath in approximately two weeks.

Talk about leading lambs to the slaughter!!

First: the shower. Now when I picture a temporary shower, a flimsy plastic curtain strung up around an old showerhead with a hole cut in the middle of the floor for drainage is what comes to mind. Grim, but livable…. especially when, as my dearest darling assured me, it would only be for two weeks.

So as life without a full bathroom unfolded, I good-naturedly prepared to venture into the basement for my first stab at rehab showering.

I gathered together my herbal body soap, my special scrubby, my daisy razor and of course, my fluffy white oversized bath towel. I then asked my husband exactly how I should go about using his jerry-rigged basement shower.

His response is one that is indelibly etched in my mind as he said, "Just go stand over the sump pit on the piece of Styrofoam I put there and use the garden hose." Aghast, I looked at him and parroted back the most repulsive parts of his reply. "Sump pit? Styrofoam? Garden hose?!!" To which he incredulously answered, "What’s the big deal…the hose runs hot and cold water."

Out of respect for the fact that this is a PG reader's forum, I will not report the exact words I used in reply to my loving, thoughtful spouse. Suffice it to say, I refused his most enticing bathing option and began lobbying friends and neighbors for regular showering opportunities. Which brings us to the second part of his guarantee….the two-week time frame.

As week four of our renovation unfolds, I am happy to report that the bathroom finally does have a working toilet and tile is in place on the shower walls and floor. However the shower glass walls and door are on a two-week back order and my husband has decided that he is now going to "custom" build the sink vanity.

I’m sure someday I’ll look back on this bathroom remodel and think that the whole thing was really pretty funny....but right now, I know that no matter how long this renovation takes, I am never going to shower over the sump pit!

A Chocoholics Ode

2005-01-11T04:30:00.000-08:00

I am a chocoholic.

My well traveled path to chocolate addiction is littered with silver Hershey Kiss wrappers, cleaned out chocolate popcorn containers, and empty hot fudge sundae dishes. In fact, there’s not a chocolate product on the market I haven't consumed for breakfast lunch and dinner. My experienced, chocolate loving motto is, "You know it's good, if it makes your face sweat!"

Now I'm sure you all have your little tales of chocolate indiscretions. You know those midnight "gotta have it" pantry raids where even baking chocolate makes the grade. Personally I have a few. Well okay, maybe a few hundred, but there is one tale that is a standout, even for me.

Being a devout Irish Catholic, I was raised that one must give up something of great importance during Lent. Well obviously my choice was a no brainer. Sticking to it however, was the challenge.

For years I struggled with the six-week term of Lenten life without chocolate, more often then not failing miserably. Until one day my mother-in-law, Evelyn the devout, shared with me her Lenten wisdom.
You see, Evelyn told me, that during Lent you get Sundays off. Yes that's right, according to my mother-in-law, I had only to keep my chocolate cravings under wraps for six days at a stretch. Then with Sunday's arrival, I could go wild.

The concept was initially overwhelming. I found it hard to believe that there was really such a loophole in the Lenten laws. Yet if Evelyn the devout said so, it had to be true.
So with renewed spirit and invigorated drive I began my Ash Wednesday Lenten sacrifice by not eating chocolate…..until Sunday.

11:55 p.m that Saturday, I was on my way out of bed, tip-toeing down to the kitchen. By 11:57 the hot fudge was on the stove warming. 11:59 chocolate peanut butter ice cream was fully mounded in a bowl and by midnight Spanish peanuts and whipped cream were topping that baby off.

At 12:01 a.m., I was sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor well on my way to a chocolate orgy, gorging on my ice cream delight. Wisely, I flanked myself with back-up ice cream and fudge sauce for the inevitable problem of too much fudge sauce, not enough ice cream, too much ice cream not enough fudge sauce. All the while the words, "Bless You Evelyn" rolled off my tongue and through my fudge drenched lips.

Now each year as I approach my Lenten routine of Monday through Saturday sacrificing I continue to try and leave the hotfudge off my pancakes, the hershey kisses out of my peanut butter sandwiches and the slabs of Ghiradelli out of my chicken fajitas. Further, each Sunday, as I indulge in my blessed chocolate relief, I gratefully remember my wise mother-in-law, Evelyn, the devout and her loop hole Lenten law.

New Year Resolve

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Rather than join the world in creating yet another random list of New Year resolutions, this year I’ve decided to look back and re-use the life lessons of the past twelve months as my inspirational guideline for 2005.

The first important lesson I garnered from last year emerged out of my absolutely joyous experience as a grandparent. It’s been more than 30 years since my children were young. In that time I’ve pretty much forgotten how enlightening it can be to view the world through an infant’s innocent eyes. The joy of simple delights and the tenderness of pure love are life lessons I have thoroughly enjoyed re-learning with my grandson. They are also elements that I am resolutely trying to import into my daily life as a defense against hardened adults, demanding deadlines, and stressful situations.

One of the most unexpected revelations of 2004 related to my house, my husband and his proficient construction skills. Living, as I do, in a region where snow accumulates in feet, and ice develops in sheets, I have come to fully appreciate the attached garage my husband built onto our kitchen. Being able to get into my car without struggling against snowdrifts or chipping away at icy windows has become one of my life’s greatest luxuries. So each time I enjoy the pleasure of slipping into my warm, dry car I find myself reminded of my husband’s true love and of the importance of acknowledging his caring ways.

Ways to look younger and improve my overall health became more apparent to me during the past year, and the lessons learned are fundamental and age-old. Finally deciding, at age 53, that comfortable bedding and sumptuous sheets are necessities of life has turned my bedroom into a special haven where I can truly relax and enjoy restful sleep. Exercise, good foods, and vitamins have made my transition into mid life less painful and challenging. Most essentially, joy, and laughter have softened my worry lines on the outside and lightened my heart and soul on the inside, to the point that those around me remark about my youthfully improved appearance. So while I continue to enjoy chocolate as one of the main staples of my life, I have vowed to continue these slowly evolving healthy lifestyle habits… and, most importantly, to laugh more and worry less.

Relative to the worry factor, I am, by nature, someone who worries about everything, most especially the precarious balance of friendships. For years I’ve connected in friendship with men, women, and children of all ages and persuasions. Some have remained lifelong friends while others have come and gone in time periods of years to months. As such, I have always worried that the great time variance in these relationships was unconventional and somehow directly related to my inability to maintain and honor them. That is until a wonderful friend sent me an e-mail detailing the varying degrees of friendships that flow through life, complete with the explanation that no matter the duration, each and every one has a very special purpose. That clarification, in turn, has helped me to stop worrying about the quantity of friendship and instead appreciate the quality. So while friendships in my life continue to ebb and flow, I now enjoy them singularly for what they are, not what my worrisome preconceived notion dictates they should be.

Finally, in review, the year of 2004 provided me with a revelation connected to my high school yearbook. Underneath my senior year picture the editors described me with a quote concerning enthusiasm. At the time, being a typical teenager, I was very disappointed in the description, instead wishing for a quote about talent or beauty. Yet during the last twelve months total strangers have praised my writing as it reflects my enthusiasm, directly using the word that I so long ago disdained. Further they have encouraged my aspiration to become a syndicated columnist, stating that they believe in my talent. Which has provided me with my strongest non-resolutions for 2005…. to follow my dreams…to believe in the possible…and to continue to share my Heart and Soul.

AFTER EFFECTS

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AFTER EFFECTS

As I fell into bed exhausted from a Christmas Day chock full of holiday traditions and loved ones, I was oblivious to the tragedy.

As I spent the day after Christmas enjoying a winter sleigh ride with family and friends, I was far removed from the devastation.

As I awoke the next day in my cozy, down-covered bed, I gradually become aware of the horrific natural disaster that had completely decimated areas of Southern Asia, India, and Africa.

As I enjoyed a post holiday drink by a blazing, crackling fire, I reviewed newspaper details of the underwater earthquake and imagined the unimaginable terror of the relentless wall of water.

As I listened to a variety of CDs received as Christmas gifts I read through e-mails detailing worldwide rescue efforts and the great need for donations.

As I prepared meals from the wealth of delicious leftovers from my family’s holiday celebrations I listened in shock to the initial estimates of more than 20,000 people killed.

As I held my precious grandson I heard radio reports of the death toll rising to triple the initial estimate, with assurances of many more yet to come.

As I made plans with my husband to celebrate the beginning of the New Year, I was stunned by televised images of fabric wrapped bodies, bull dozed graves, and mass burials.

As I sat down to write, I pondered the tragic events wrought by the exotically named Tsunami and fully realized that no matter the occurrence, life continues on, without any regard.

As I electronically corresponded with family and friends in an attempt to fully grasp the magnitude of the overall death and destruction, I did so with a devastated mindset that such an occurrence could destroy so much and so many in less time than it took to send one e-mail.

As I fall asleep in the days and weeks to come I will assuredly whisper a prayer for those whose lives were instantaneously terminated by this powerful force of nature as well as for those who so tragically have been left behind.

As I awake safe and sound each morning next to my loving husband I know I will do so with a greater appreciation the glory of my life, each and everyday.

As I continue on in my daily routine, untouched, while fellow members of the human race suffer the ravages of this unbelievable natural disaster, I will give thanks for my great good fortune….and with a discerning sense of unease…I will continue to wonder why.

Welcome to Heart and Soul

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Heart and Soul is a light hearted, often touching commentary focused on life, family, friends, career, religion, love, sports, culture and of course, the sustaining element of chocolate, as told from the perspective of a third generation Irish-American woman. Author Christina Abt states that her wish for all who read her Heart and Soul essays is that they will be moved to laugh, cry, discuss, debate, reminisce, and, most of all, connect.

Abt, currently resides in the bucolic countryside town of Eden, New York (just outside of Buffalo.) She has also lived in major metropolitan areas such as New Midland Park, Jersey (outside of New York City), Toronto, Ontario and Vancouver, British Columbia.

Professionally, Abt practices her writing craft as a newspaper columnist and regular contributor to her hometown NPR Radio Station, WBFO. Her essays have appeared in a number of Chicken Soup for the Soul Books and a variety of national magazine publications as well.

In addition to her writing career, Abt has enjoyed a variety of colorful life experiences working as a restaurant manager, a horse trainer/breeder, an aerobics instructor, a newspaper editor, an office manager, a government media specialist, and a free lance PR representative. All of which, when blended with her thirty-three career as a mom, combine to formulate the unique perspective she presents in her Heart and Soul columns.

So kick back, relax and read on. No matter your interests or your views…you are sure to enjoy sharing Christina’s Heart and Soul.

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Heart and Soul Author Christina M. Abt