Lee Woodruff's Blog, page 6
November 7, 2011
WHO WILL CARE FOR THE CAREGIVER?
On April 19, 2005, Debbie Schulz of Friendswood, Texas, got the call every parent of a service member in Iraq and Afghanistan dreads. Her child had been wounded. When she hung up the phone, in shock, all she knew was that her son was considered to be "VSI", an acronym that she would later learn meant: "very seriously injured."
Steven and siblings four months before he was injured.
More than 48 hours later Debbie began to learn some of the details. Her beloved eldest son, Steven Schulz, a Lance Corporal in the United States Marine Corps, had been patrolling Fallujah, Iraq when it happened. His unarmored humvee was hit by a roadside bomb, a mortar shell cleverly built into a concrete curb in order to elude detection. Insurgents remotely detonated the device and within the fraction of a second, thousands of pieces of shrapnel penetrated the vehicle. One piece of metal shrapnel flew into Steven's face near his right eye and lodged in his brain. Doctors told the family that he had sustained a severe traumatic brain injury and devastating damage to his right eye. Steven was paralyzed on his left side, lost most vision in his right eye as well as peripheral vision in his left.
Within seventy-two hours after their son's injury, Debbie and her husband Steve rushed to Steven's bedside at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland. Packing only a small suitcase, Debbie could never have known that she would not return to her home in Friendswood for nearly seven months. Steven was in intensive care for thirty-two days and in June of 2005 he was moved to the Veteran's Administration Hospital in Tampa, Florida. In order to be at Steven's bedside around the clock, Debbie initially took a leave of absence from her job and ultimately had to resign her position, as so many in this situation do. Debbie had a new job—that of caregiver – an undefined role for which no one receives training. And yet more than 45 million of us in this country have stepped into those shoes.
At the VA Hospital in Tampa, Debbie found herself alone and without a strong support network nearby. Her husband needed to return to Texas to get back to work and without Debbie's supplemental income, the family began to dig into retirement savings in order to continue to make ends meet. Finally, she demanded that her son be moved to a treatment facility close to home so that he would be able to re-integrate into their family and community.
Once there, Debbie and Steve began the long, frightening journey to wait and watch their son recover. The first step was healing from the acute wounds and then they began the slow and painstaking crawl of daily rehabilitation to try to regain as much of Steven's former self as possible. But as time passed, Debbie realized that if they only "waited and watched" rather than strongly advocate on their son's behalf, they might never see Steven reach his potential. They became determined to see some resemblance of the young, bright-eyed boy they had raised.
Steven is the eldest of three children. Steve was a national sales manager and before her son's injury, Debbie had been a thriving and successful local high school teacher. Like most families in America, theirs was a life full of blessings combined with its share of challenges and rough patches. At first, Debbie was apprehensive when her son joined the Marines, but Debbie and Steve were proud that their son had chosen to serve. Steve had even founded a non-profit called "Supplied to Survive," that lined up much-needed items such as GPS devices, rifle scopes, thick gloves, etc. for shipment to the troops in Iraq.
Like so many caregivers, Debbie has led the charge on the family's journey to recovery and she has managed to keep her family together in the process. Debbie fought very hard to receive state of the art cognitive rehab and other rehabilitative therapies at a civilian hospital in Houston. And she continues to navigate through the red tape of our governmental system. Due to her efforts and the hard work of Steven himself, he has regained some use of his left leg, uses a walking stick and can perform most of his daily living activities. Steven is integrated into the community, volunteering and taking classes locally.
Steven and siblings in Hawaii after his recovery.
But here is where Debbie exemplifies so many caregivers I have met. She didn't just stop with her own son, as much as she had on her plate, Debbie went on to ensure that other service members would receive the same care she had fought so hard to win for her own child. She has worked tirelessly and traveled with Steven to Washington in order to fight for better funding and expansion of benefits and entitlements for injured service members and their families. Her dedicated efforts were instrumental in ensuring that patients had opportunities to receive treatment close to their homes and as a result, changed the way the Houston VA partnered with civilian treatment facilities to treat traumatic brain injury patients.
As a mother, a wife, and the center of the family by nature, Debbie holds it all together, some days, she would admit, just barely. Like so many female caregivers especially, the burden of care for their two other children and the household falls largely on her. The toll on a family is not to be underestimated. Debbie is the thread that keeps it all together and she pulls it taut in order that their home life doesn't unravel. It is an effort that continues without a break, without a vacation from stressors.
Debbie is my definition of a true caregiver, compassionate, kind, articulate, educated, passionate, and a selfless person who has given every ounce of energy to improve her son's outcomes and those of other injured service members. With Debbie's constant care and dedication, Steven has worked hard to become more independent.
In the words of her son: "My mom is the strongest, smartest woman in the world" — she has and will continue to carry him through the tough times.
Steven with his mom, Debbie.
Each Veteran's Day we spend a great deal of effort honoring those who have served. And rightly so. But this year let's also honor the loved ones here at home, like Debbie Schulz who serve every day in unsung roles. It is up to every one of us to support, care for and assist those caregivers. You can learn more at www.remind.org
November 1, 2011
My Levis Cords
Anyone who came of age in the 70's has dealt with the painful reckoning of their yearbook photo, or really ANY photograph from that time. Hands down, it was the most hideous fashion decade of the last millennium, with the possible exception of being a man in the Court of Versailles or during the Victorian bathing era.
Those were the days of hip-hugger elephant bell pants, granny dresses, quianna shirts with long, pointed collars, (what is quianna and why won't it spell check?) mushroom cap hair for men or the long, straight butt-part Duane Allman do with bushy "swinger" moustaches and Farrah Fawcett bat wings and layers for girls. These are just a few of the fashion-don'ts that made us Mod-Squad-cool back then.
But there is one item of clothing about which I do wax nostalgic. My colored Levi corduroys. Price: $35.00, which was a lot of chinkaloopas in high school. I undertook hours of babysitting whiny, snot nosed kids and cleaning houses to pay for those cords. And then as a high school senior I bagged the job of grocery cashier, guaranteeing a regular income stream and a forced membership in the union.
I can still picture my stash of cords, folded in the bottom dresser drawer, lined up like muted earth colors of the rainbow, navy, gray, camel, maroon, dark green and pale blue. I liked fondling them, laying out what I'd wear to school the night before and rotating the colors to display my growing collection.
Back then I slightly favored the sky blue and forest green pairs, two shades which are still among my favorites. The more you washed, the softer and more supple they became. Unlike other relationships we have with our possessions and the need for the newest version, in the world of cords and jeans, more use equaled more cool. In my upstate New York town, during our nation's bi-centennial year, the entire look was topped off with the iconic plastic Goody comb stuck in the back pocket. The flip of those wings had to be perfectly maintained. We were good to go.
Those of you Levis jeans and cord wearers, lets pause reverentially to think about the leather tag stitched on the back right hand side of the waist, displaying your inseam and hip size like a butcher's cut of meat. Given the societal paranoia women exhibit over revealing their exact ages and dress sizes, this was a bold move. We never thought about the fact that the pants were fitted for boys, that Levis had yet to discover a woman's hips or come up with their brilliant concept of personalizing jeans to a woman's body. We never questioned the fact that we wore garments cut from the patterns of starving slim-hipped California Gold Rush miners. It was all about the uniform. Let's not kid ourselves, it's no different today. My twins are working me hard for those majorly expensive rubber rain boots that people once wore exclusively to muck stalls in England.
I was speaking at an event recently where there were a number of Levis marketing department employees in attendance, and it took a mere five minutes for us to devolve into fond memories of our cords. We all recalled the pre-back pack years when high school halls were jammed with girls in shag hair cuts clutching books to their chests, all sporting the multi-colors of Levis from the waist down.
I honestly don't know quite when the cords era ended. I don't remember outgrowing my pairs or taking them to college (although I must have) or even giving them away. They may live still in some drama department costume closet or in a back lot in Hollywood waiting for a JJ Abrams-produced TV pilot. They may have ended up on a container ship of second hand clothes to Africa, but the odds are they are long gone.
About six years ago, J Crew decided to trot out a line of colored cords and I was drawn to the bright display as I entered the store, the way a gambler heads to the black jack table. It was instinctual. I ran my hands over a pair of lipstick red ones and proceeded to make them mine. They were a bold choice and a total embarrassment to my kids when I wear them, even now. But I have to admit, in my cords I feel totally at home, like a younger, more sassy and plugged in version of myself. Just wearing them takes me back to a simpler, less complicated time in my life, although even writing that sounds somewhat cheesy. Perhaps if you came of age in the 70s you might understand what I mean.
On a recent weekend with some high school pals, we opened our yearbook from 1978, half-wincing, half awestruck at the absolutely awful styles that reigned. It was so much worse than we remembered. The haircuts, those head gear braces straps that wrapped around the skull (really? was that emotional scarring necessary?) the eye glasses (think Charles Nelson Reilly), the over-abundance of facial hair, the unibrows on Miracle Grow. Don't get me started. Our black and white doe-eyed looks of innocence in the face of so many fashion crimes were cringe worthy. How could we have been so oblivious?
There I was, standing with the rest of the year book staff, my loud polyester print shirt shining, my bangs feathered and curled back like the Flying Nun about to lift off. And yes, there they were, my baby blue cords, slight flare at the leg, riding down on my hips, hanging over my wooden platform shoes. Total proof to myself and my children, that I had once been the living end, the absolute height of fashion.
October 24, 2011
Fun with Fungus..
I wanted to be a botanist until I got a C in college. But I love plants and all the shades of green from spring to fall, make me content. It feels good to grow things, even spiky old cacti cheer me up. Cutting flowers and putting them in a vase just raise my endorphins. But it's not just the pretty things. I find the most interesting parts of nature are sometimes found under the leaves and on the fringes of the meadows and woods. Some of the coolest things in nature are CREEPY.
As Halloween approaches, we're going to have a little fun with fungus. These strange, slimy, smelly, elegant and cute little 'shrooms are just waiting to be named. These photos were collected from hikes this summer in order to save them up for this contest. So, make up a crazy Halloween name, enter it in the giveaways page here or above and at the end of the week you will win a Grow Your Own Mushroom Kit! (seen on Open Sky)
Happy Halloween! Lee
Mushroom 1.
Mushroom 2.
Mushroom 3.
Mushroom 4.
Mushroom 5.
Mushroom 6.
Mushroom 7.
Mushroom 8.
Mushroom 9.
October 17, 2011
Consider the Breast..
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As a tribute to all the brave pink warriors I love who have battled this insidious disease, and in honor of those I have never met, this is for you. Laughter is the best medicine, and hope cannot be prescribed in CCs and IVs. No one ever has the right to take away your ability to believe in miracles, and short of that, all of us deserve the opportunity to travel an uncertain journey with dignity.
So for everyone living with (or without) breasts. What's in a name? Well, I'll tell you……
BOSOM - There is nothing sexy about this term. It's Aunt Fanny in a cotton calico dress. These are the giant pillows that little children lay their heads on at naptime. Their two-car garage is a Double D white cotton Woolworth's bra or other more complicated girdle-like pre-Spanx contraptions. Bosoms are way more than a handful, no longer springy and probably covered with baby powder or enough perfume to air freshen a room.
CLEAVAGE – OK, you're right. Cleavage isn't actually a term for breast, but it's a preview, a prelude to a kiss. It's the trailer to the movie. Cleavage shows a little leg, it teases and offers a suggestion and the promise of more. Cleavage is often preceded by the term "ample" and one customarily "sports" it.
HOOTERS - If breasts made noises, men must imagine they would hoot like a horn with joy. Perhaps that's how this mystifying nickname came into vogue. But alas, like the giraffe on the Serengeti, breasts are silent creatures. There is an entire adult restaurant franchise named Hooters (and their logo is an owl whose eyes are two boobs with nipple pupils) OMG—how fun is that??!! LOL - And what clever marketing! Hooters connote the sexy librarian who takes off her glasses, lets her bun down and unbuttons her shirt. You go in for chicken wings and beer and end up with a face full of hooters! This is party city baby. If you're hootin' and hollerin' around, this is the term for you. No AA cups need apply.
BREASTS – An anatomically correct term for those moguls of fat over our lungs. It's more delicate to use this word, like a wide champagne glass. "Breast" says classy, manageable. You can even say breast in public. Hell you can ORDER chicken breast in a restaurant. It's acceptable without being clinical or denigrating. Breasts are the Limoges demitasse cups of the coffee world.
TITS—This is farm animal territory, a rough and service oriented term. Tits is two steps away from teats, a word that makes my utters shudder. It might also apply to that stage of motherhood where nursing Moms under extreme sleep deprivation believe they may actually BE Bessie the Cow. Attaching oneself to a breast pump that is vacuuming off your nipples can make a woman feel…well…manhandled, even testy. And for men who are too lazy to love and respect their women, this is the term for you. Good luck getting a home-cooked meal.
BOOBS - This word says sorority girl collegial and locker room cheerful. Boob just sounds fun, bouncy, no strings attached. Boobs don't have brains; they are ninnies, all harmless window dressing. You can write and say the word boob backwards or forwards. And fun, fun – yes, even men can have boobs too! (Increasingly known as "moobs" which is short for man-boobs) The ambiguously ambidextrous quality of the word makes it a very safe and PC term in public.
RACK – This is flat out a dude's word, most often associated with hunting or butcher's cuts of meat. I think of "rack" as in lamb, the small defenseless baby animal that gets slaughtered at springtime. This is a gun-slinger's term, but Rack also goes with "rack and pinion steering," making it a fairly mechanical term too. This nickname says "I'm gonna pull out some tools and tinker under the hood to get this baby running." Be afraid. And make sure he washes his hands.
TATAs – Kind of a nice way to messa 'round. This is a breezy, rapper, sing-songy word. It should have a dance step named after it. Even a toddler can say it. Tata is white bread and white rice soothing, no roughage or fiber to digest. Moreover, the use of simple syllabic names means you can avoid the more clinical, scary and downright yucky anatomical terms that doctors use (cross reference anatomy of the male genitalia). Among men this term is often preceded by the word "bodacious" for some inexplicable reason.
KNOCKERS - Ouch. This one is physical, the kissing cousin to another painful term "Speed Bags." Not good either, think WWF. This calls to mind those perplexing old naked granny cartoons in Playboy or Hustler with torpedo shaped mammaries. I also think nostalgically of National Geographic magazine tribeswomen (pre-internet era porn for adolescent boys.) Knockers say, "gravity has taken its toll." It's kind of a caveman/frat boy term for men at work—not play. Be warned, this is not Olivia Newton John's cheeky "Let's Get Physical." Nothing warm and fuzzy lives in the land of knockers.
YABBOS – Originally coined by Fred Flintstone in 700 BC, archaeologists believed this term is derived from the phrase "Yabba Dabba Doo." This was the joy-like noise cavemen made while living among a tribe of mostly nude women wearing only furs and skins. Early prehistoric drawings indicate Betty Flintstone was not particularly well endowed and, it is thought that Wilma was the original inspiration for this name.
THE GIRLS - This term is female retaliation, a smack down to guys who, quite perplexingly, name their male organs. You know what I'm talking about here, it's the sheer absurdity of pet names like "Big Pete" "Little Winky," "Carlos" and "Darth Vader." This inexplicable custom validates the playful "buddy" relationship many men share with their body parts. The Girls is a non-threatening, friendly term that promotes comfort with one's own body. Think of the chick flick "Bridesmaids" and that take-back-the-night lingo that makes us feel all Helen-Reddy-I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar. This is also BFF speak, all cup sizes are welcome and there's no hint of creepiness or sexism. "I'm taking the girls out tonight," means "I'm going to sport some contour." This is what happens when the old college sweatshirt comes off.
In the interest of brevity, I've left out other classics and potentially denigrating favorites such as jugs, melons, hogans, cans, headlights, fun bags, goodies, yummies, milk duds, high beamers and gazongas. And I encourage you to chime in with some suggestions of your own. There's no question that the names for our mammaries are as varied, descriptive and nuanced as the women who own them.
So for every friend- sister- mother- daughter- wife- lover- husband- child - partner- woman who has removed a lump, gotten a scare, lost a breast, had a mastectomy, taken care of, nurtured and said goodbye to someone who has brushed up against the evil of "The Big C" – I salute you. Stay in the race, and keep fighting.
An @RoseanneCash tweet inspired my current post...
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. As a tribute to all the brave pink warriors I love who have battled this insidious disease, and in honor of those I have never met, this is for you. Laughter is the best medicine, and hope cannot be prescribed in CCs and IVs. No one ever has the right to take away your ability to believe in miracles, and short of that, all of us deserve the opportunity to travel an uncertain journey with dignity.
So for everyone living with (or without) breasts. What's in a name? Well, I'll tell you……
BOSOM - There is nothing sexy about this term. It's Aunt Fanny in a cotton calico dress. These are the giant pillows that little children lay their heads on at naptime. Their two-car garage is a Double D white cotton Woolworth's bra or other more complicated girdle-like pre-Spanx contraptions. Bosoms are way more than a handful, no longer springy and probably covered with baby powder or enough perfume to air freshen a room.
CLEAVAGE – OK, you're right. Cleavage isn't actually a term for breast, but it's a preview, a prelude to a kiss. It's the trailer to the movie. Cleavage shows a little leg, it teases and offers a suggestion and the promise of more. Cleavage is often preceded by the term "ample" and one customarily "sports" it.
HOOTERS - If breasts made noises, men must imagine they would hoot like a horn with joy. Perhaps that's how this mystifying nickname came into vogue. But alas, like the giraffe on the Serengeti, breasts are silent creatures. There is an entire adult restaurant franchise named Hooters (and their logo is an owl whose eyes are two boobs with nipple pupils) OMG—how fun is that??!! LOL - And what clever marketing! Hooters connote the sexy librarian who takes off her glasses, lets her bun down and unbuttons her shirt. You go in for chicken wings and beer and end up with a face full of hooters! This is party city baby. If you're hootin' and hollerin' around, this is the term for you. No AA cups need apply.
BREASTS – An anatomically correct term for those moguls of fat over our lungs. It's more delicate to use this word, like a wide champagne glass. "Breast" says classy, manageable. You can even say breast in public. Hell you can ORDER chicken breast in a restaurant. It's acceptable without being clinical or denigrating. Breasts are the Limoges demitasse cups of the coffee world.
TITS—This is farm animal territory, a rough and service oriented term. Tits is two steps away from teats, a word that makes my utters shudder. It might also apply to that stage of motherhood where nursing Moms under extreme sleep deprivation believe they may actually BE Bessie the Cow. Attaching oneself to a breast pump that is vacuuming off your nipples can make a woman feel…well…manhandled, even testy. And for men who are too lazy to love and respect their women, this is the term for you. Good luck getting a home-cooked meal.
BOOBS - This word says sorority girl collegial and locker room cheerful. Boob just sounds fun, bouncy, no strings attached. Boobs don't have brains; they are ninnies, all harmless window dressing. You can write and say the word boob backwards or forwards. And fun, fun – yes, even men can have boobs too! (Increasingly known as "moobs" which is short for man-boobs) The ambiguously ambidextrous quality of the word makes it a very safe and PC term in public.
RACK – This is flat out a dude's word, most often associated with hunting or butcher's cuts of meat. I think of "rack" as in lamb, the small defenseless baby animal that gets slaughtered at springtime. This is a gun-slinger's term, but Rack also goes with "rack and pinion steering," making it a fairly mechanical term too. This nickname says "I'm gonna pull out some tools and tinker under the hood to get this baby running." Be afraid. And make sure he washes his hands.
TATAs – Kind of a nice way to messa 'round. This is a breezy, rapper, sing-songy word. It should have a dance step named after it. Even a toddler can say it. Tata is white bread and white rice soothing, no roughage or fiber to digest. Moreover, the use of simple syllabic names means you can avoid the more clinical, scary and downright yucky anatomical terms that doctors use (cross reference anatomy of the male genitalia). Among men this term is often preceded by the word "bodacious" for some inexplicable reason.
KNOCKERS - Ouch. This one is physical, the kissing cousin to another painful term "Speed Bags." Not good either, think WWF. This calls to mind those perplexing old naked granny cartoons in Playboy or Hustler with torpedo shaped mammaries. I also think nostalgically of National Geographic magazine tribeswomen (pre-internet era porn for adolescent boys.) Knockers say, "gravity has taken its toll." It's kind of a caveman/frat boy term for men at work—not play. Be warned, this is not Olivia Newton John's cheeky "Let's Get Physical." Nothing warm and fuzzy lives in the land of knockers.
YABBOS – Originally coined by Fred Flintstone in 700 BC, archaeologists believed this term is derived from the phrase "Yabba Dabba Doo." This was the joy-like noise cavemen made while living among a tribe of mostly nude women wearing only furs and skins. Early prehistoric drawings indicate Betty Flintstone was not particularly well endowed and, it is thought that Wilma was the original inspiration for this name.
THE GIRLS - This term is female retaliation, a smack down to guys who, quite perplexingly, name their male organs. You know what I'm talking about here, it's the sheer absurdity of pet names like "Big Pete" "Little Winky," "Carlos" and "Darth Vader." This inexplicable custom validates the playful "buddy" relationship many men share with their body parts. The Girls is a non-threatening, friendly term that promotes comfort with one's own body. Think of the chick flick "Bridesmaids" and that take-back-the-night lingo that makes us feel all Helen-Reddy-I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar. This is also BFF speak, all cup sizes are welcome and there's no hint of creepiness or sexism. "I'm taking the girls out tonight," means "I'm going to sport some contour." This is what happens when the old college sweatshirt comes off.
In the interest of brevity, I've left out other classics and potentially denigrating favorites such as jugs, melons, hogans, cans, headlights, fun bags, goodies, yummies, milk duds, high beamers and gazongas. And I encourage you to chime in with some suggestions of your own. There's no question that the names for our mammaries are as varied, descriptive and nuanced as the women who own them.
So for every friend- sister- mother- daughter- wife- lover- husband- child - partner- woman who has removed a lump, gotten a scare, lost a breast, had a mastectomy, taken care of, nurtured and said goodbye to someone who has brushed up against the evil of "The Big C" – I salute you. Stay in the race, and keep fighting.
October 11, 2011
First string players I love in the fight against Breast Cancer
Annie is a good bit younger than me (don't ask , don't tell) but I remember thinking that if the McConaughy girls added a sister- it would be someone just like Annie- giant smile, great sense of humor, always a positive attitude.
She wouldn't meet her husband and have her stunningly beautiful kids until years later- and she always told me we were her "married" role models-- whatever that meant But Annie Murray Paige is now MY role model. She has brought all of her best stuff-- courage and humor and honesty to battle this insidious disease and in doing so-- she has taught us all to keep our chins up and laugh in the face of danger.
Annie Murray Paige is more than a survivor-- she embodies a thriver. And if I were reborn on this earth- I'd want her to be my next mother. (That way she can be older than Me too!)
Ann's Diary: Feminism In A Bottle
Recently I was yet again picking up after my family–this time it was lunch plates and milk glasses, when I got to thinking about the feminist movement.
Ever since they let the genie out of the feminist bottle in the 60's, women have been officially allowed to follow their dreams. Those dreams didn't necessarily have to be domestic–as in "I can't wait to be a wife and run a household". But yet they could be–if that was your desire. What the feminism movement tried to do was release women from the expectation that allthey could do was be a wife and run a house. And 5 decades later, I think it worked.
We have women doctors, lawyers, astronauts, mechanics, dentists, doctors, principals, CEOs and financial advisors. We also have women teachers, nurses, waitresses and others holding stereotypical "for women only" jobs–doing so (hopefully) because they chose them, not because they were the only ones offered to them.
So I thank Gloria Steinem and all her gal pals for releasing me and my daughter and my daughter's daughter from the drudgery of post-suffragette but stay-in-the-kitchen syndrome. But with all due respect, I have a bone to pick with whomever it is that is now running the modern feminist show. Because somehow, when the message was getting passed on that women can work outside the home for money, it didn't get transferred to all spouses out there that women, working or not, don't necessarily have to still be the ones who cook, clean and pick up after the slobs who live there.
Okay, maybe slobs is a little harsh.
But really–as part of the Steinem mantra, I sure wish someone had thrown in "and BTW, just because someone is born with ovaries and breasts (even it she loses them to breast cancer later on like I did) doesn't mean she should–or even want to–pick up your old coffee, spilled juice, dishes from last night, dog hairs and opened but just-didn't-happen-to-make-it-into-the-waste-basket discarded mail."
I am a woman of the 21st century, which means I watch my kids AND I work from home. And my work–writing this blog–means I make minimal money for my talent–but I DO have talent. And that talent, while poorly represented on the W2 form each April, is not in the venue of cooking, cleaning or scrubbing toilets. Yes I can do them, but no I do not like to do them.
I'm just guessing, but I'm going to assume that nobody puts "vacuum the carpet" in the Things I Want To Do When I Grow Up essay in 2nd grade.
But it must be done–if not, a house becomes a pigsty. That I understand.
What I don't understand is why, when that genie got smoked out of her feminism bottle all those years ago, she didn't make sure she read the fine print on the contract. If she had, she might have realized all that was to be expected of her–get a job (either at home or at an office,) have the children, AND still be the one who ends up cleaning up after the entire house. Had that been the case, I'm sure she'd have rubbed the lamp next to her and wake up the "Get Off Your Butt And Clean Your Own Dishes" genie. Then women today would all go to work and come home to a clean house and folded laundry.
I'm not saying every home suffers from this syndrome, but if yours does, you are not alone. Gloria Steinem's work is over but if anyone else wants to jump in and pick up the cause where she left off, I'd be grateful.
Til then, I will continue to fight the good fight at home. Since I no longer own any bras to burn, I'll just have to hope that via love, communication and good old friendly discipline I am able to create a new movement in my homestead that frees me from the clutches of pre-suffragette housekeeper.
But if you see me polishing the lamps in my house with unusual vigor in the days head, you'll understand why.
Ann Murray Paige
October 3, 2011
Dahlia Days
I've got one word for summer: DAHLIAS
Yup. Dahlias are my favorite flower ever. They come in so many varieties of color, size, shape and petal. Each one is a mini work of art. The names themselves are pure fun; Bodacious, Envy, Freedom Fighter, Maniac, Mango Madness and Cabana Banana, to name just a few. And merely tending to them I find complete zen planting, cutting and arranging. Nature puts me in the right frame of mind: green, sunshine, air, quiet.
My kids and husband call it "Dahlia Mania" and they all roll their eyes when the box of tubers comes each year from Oregon's Swan Island Dahlia Farm in April.
"You love your flowers more than us, Mom" my kids accused me of once. And there are times it's true. Flowers don't talk back or require boundaries and limits. They don't need balanced meals. They just keep producing beauty.
The first thing I do is plant them in pots to get them started, as they are ultimately bound for my garden up north. Dahlias are not really ideal for pots, so if you can put them straight in the ground, that's best. Here they are at phase one—just out of my garage. You don't water at all until the first green shoots sprout through the dirt.
I get them in the ground on Memorial Day and place the stakes near, as I know they will do a lot of growing in a month, but still not produce flowers until mid-July in my hearty North Eastern growing zone. Loving dahlias is about being patient, not about immediate gratification. Their really prolific season is August and September, even into October they produce magnificent blooms until the first frost.
Here they are in the ground. Freed from their pots:
But I was in for a shock when I returned to the cottage at the end of June for the summer… What the ding dang bejesus? Deer had munched my dahlias on the side garden. They'd never done that before. And this created a blood boil.
But the great thing about flowers and plants is that they grow back, kinda like nails and hair. So check this out. A few homemade cages with my wire cutters and voila, flowers on the mend.
And now? The first flowers of the season…..
So wherever you find YOUR zen, at the shore, in the mountains, the lake, or the city, I hope you find it somehow in nature. Here are a few more for you to enjoy and I'll post some of the photos in my gallery as late summer and fall progresses.
September 12, 2011
Earthquakes, Hurricanes and Sending Her to College
Sometimes nature mirrors our own interior landscape. And so the late summer and early fall before I sent my girl off to college continued to be a crazy quilt of disasters; fires in Texas, hurricane Irene, followed by the aptly named "Lee" and then Katia, whipping those of us on the east coast into more paroxysms of frenzy. My own rising anxiety was trebled by watching pre-Irene cable news coverage for eight hours straight. Not recommended to keep calm and carry on.
At home we hunkered down. We changed the batteries in the flashlights, bought the bottled water and rolled up the rugs. Our house was spared. But when the flood waters from Irene receded in our town, we were all reminded that none of us stand in the control room of life.
And then the main event. The real reason for my interior upheaval. A very clean room. The morning after we dropped my second child—our first daughter—off at college, my husband and I each separately passed her room and quietly wept. The bed was made, the floor immaculate, the closet almost empty, containing only objects too unimportant to be packed.
A hole was punched in our family when our son left three years ago. But this hole was different. Our daughter had been present in ways too complicated to articulate. She was my sometime confidant, the baker of chocolate chips, the pinch hitting babysitter/driver for her twin sisters, the little girl that had grown up, but still toggled between those two different-aged worlds under our roof. Her close knit group of friends had flitted in and out of our house for years, enthusiastically calling out hellos, hanging out in her room or outside, tanning on towels. She brought into our home the wonderful background thrum of teenagers in all of their in-the-moment-up-to-the-minute ebb and flow of enviously self-absorbed lives.
And then in the wake of her departure…the anniversary of September 11th. A somber reminder of the day, one decade ago, when our lives, outlooks, world views and complacency changed forever.
I haven't watched many of the specials or news stories on TV about the anniversary. I saw enough ten years ago and in the intervening wars and memorials and remembrances since. Watching just makes me sad. I don't need to watch to remember. How can any of us forget?
And yet when I look at all of the things that have transpired on that day and after "the big horrible thing" on September 11th , I am constantly reminded that people survive. They endure incredible things. They pull themselves from the brink of rubble and disaster, terror and grief and they begin the slow climb back to the top.
And here is what I know. This is what I have personally seen and experienced. Human beings are built to survive. The flower grows miraculously from between the crack in the cement.
September 11th will forever be etched like Pearl Harbor day as a fulcrum event in our country's history. It also happens to be my wedding day. A wonderful cobalt blue sky in 1988; an Indian summer September year when I said "I do" to my best friend, my love. And I never once looked back, despite my understanding of what commitment and "forever" means 23 years later.
On a phone call recently with my daughter, she tells me it's a day she is missing home a bit. I know what she is missing; that easy feeling of friends in lock step since elementary school, the security of being a senior at the top of the pile, the king of the world. She's missing the warm walls of home, a dinner made, a kiss good night and her snuggles with Dad. She's missing a structure where there is a higher power and a set of rules that are not open to dispute. As a freshman she is at the bottom of the heap in a new place, with few connectors to her old life. She has to set her own new boundaries.
After the cataclysmic winds of a hurricane comes the calm, the clean up, the damage assessment. And after the hurt comes the chance to heal. It's all in choosing to move forward, even though there might be another hurricane brewing offshore, another hijacker on a plane, another unimaginable diagnosis.
Change, transitions, the possibility of failure, cutting the umbilical cord; these are all big things. It's scary out there. And she's just left the nest. And yet I know my girl will hit her stride not only in college, but out in the great wide world beyond those four years. She will find her place in the universe, even as I walk past her room and grieve the loss of her place right here.
September 3, 2011
Satire of Shorelines Blog.......
Steve Martin, Garry Shandling, Albert Brooks...Add my friend who -shall not be named, to this list. He missed his calling. See if you don't agree with his wonderfully funny satirical send up of my "Shorelines" copy. He also comes to a lake for vacation...its definitely worth a read for a good SNL style chuckle. Sure cure for the summer's end blues..
"Sit with me just a moment. Close your eyes. Smell the scent of mown grass above the boathouse. Waves lap. A heron flies overhead and out above the lake a hawk soars, catching a thermal lift. Pine needles whisper and sigh in a stirring breeze. Sunlight knifes through the slats in the dock. Feet sink into the plush wet moss on a rock. All of the best things in life come down to these small moments."
Oh, my God. Please shoot me.
As you know, my annual vacation takes me to Vermont, where I am placed in the same kind of idyllic setting that so inspires you a few miles away in New York. (The only significant difference is that Vermont has the virtue of . . . well, fewer New Yorkers.) Since you've invited me to join you, I'll be happy to share my responses to your blissful Shorelines musings . . .
- I'm sorry, I don't have a moment to sit with you. I have to make an emergency trip to the local medical clinic with _____________ (Insert child's name) to ______________ (Choose one of the following: treat her poison ivy / sew up the gash he sustained while crawling onto the boat / remove the engorged tick from her scalp / have his stomach pumped of that rancid meat you purchased from the town grocer / reset her kneecap from the waterskiing wipeout / extract a rusty nail from his foot).
- If I close my eyes, I might doze off. Nobody could sleep last night because it's so f'ing hot in that cottage!
- Unfortunately, the scent of mown grass is overwhelmed by the odor of the neighbor's broken septic system. Because you're from New York, the omnipresence of e coli is nothing new to you . . . But the stench is mind-numbing for those of us accustomed to breathing real air.
- The sound of the water lapping is certainly soothing – almost as much so as the sound of the water pounding on the cottage roof two nights ago . . . and three nights ago . . . and four nights ago. I took great comfort in those 53 consecutive hours of rain. And I'm glad that someone hid the kitchen knives . . .
- Yes, I was considering the splendor of that blue heron as I cleaned up the last pool of excrement he left on our float -- an avian equivalent of the Exxon Valdez spill.
- That's not a hawk, sister. That's called "one big-ass dear fly" . . . And you won't be speaking of him in such majestic terms when, four minutes from now, he or one of his 23 million cousins that live on this lake, is gnawing on the back of your neck. You'll be trying to snuff out his existence just like you've done to twelve of his kin in the last two hours!
- Who can hear the whispering and sighing of pine needles over the whining of that f'ing jet ski!? If I get my hands on the little prick who's riding it, I will chop him into bass chum.
- Things other than sunlight knife through the slats in the dock . . . such as my ankle. Everything in this God-forsaken land rots within twelve months – particularly the dock planks.
- You don't have to step on a rock to get the feel of wet moss. In this climate, moss and fungus will grow anywhere. We scoured the shower stall this morning; but, by the time you bathe this evening, a forest of mutant vegetation will again be ready to receive your foot.
In fact, the best things in life are all waiting for us at the Albany airport! A toilet that flushes automatically . . . A newspaper that prints the headline of Bin Laden's capture in larger font than the story about the volunteer fire department's pancake breakfast . . . Water that does not taste like it's been stored in the boathouse wheelbarrow for the last year . . . And an airplane that will carry us back to warm and comfortable shades of brown. I'm begging you, Lord: Get me away from all this GREEN!
We'll all be much safer if we can just get to that plane . . . Toying with gravity at 60,000 feet is infinitely less risky than canoeing in the middle of that lake . . . with a dozen speed boats criss-crossing our path – each captained by some New Yorker with complete disregard for any human life other than that of the screaming brat being dragged behind the boat on a tube.
I'm so grateful for this annual dose of perspective . . . this restoration of my soul . . . this salve for the year's wounds and disappointments . . . this . . .
Good night nurse, did that f'ing heron just take another dump on the float!? . . .
August 19, 2011
Preparing To Send A Kid To College-Part 3
You've dropped them off and now what to expect-- and the unexpected too. The last and final installment of the college send-off blogs. Whatever you are feeling is normal (within reason).
Part 3 http://leewoodruff.squarespace.com/blog/2010/8/14/part-three-life-after-college-drop-off.html
