Iris Ruth Pastor's Blog, page 18
July 21, 2022
The Perfect Obit
Ann Lander’s advice column was the first thing I would read in the daily paper.
These days, I peruse the funeral notices – keeping a sharp eye out for the unique, the ones written with flair and humor. I usually leave those pages disappointed, as most obits are formulaic and boring. But not this one:
CANNELLA, Theodore Frank “Ted”
Passed away…at age 77, leaving the world without its most beloved, soft-hearted, and utterly irreverent tough guy.
Ted grew up in South Tampa as the son of a first-generation immigrant from Sicily and second-generation immigrant from Austurias, Spain. As a boy, he attended Christ the King, where he developed a faith that would be his rudder later in life, despite his distaste for rigid religion of any kind. Ted was…relentlessly doted upon by his loving mother…and spent his free time doing what he loved most, fishing.
Ted was unusually gifted with both brains and brawn…he was a dead-ringer for Elvis in his college years. He reveled in the fact that most southerners never quite knew what to do with the Italian from Tampa with the greased-back hair. True to form, he eschewed what he viewed as the preppy and pretentious atmosphere of Greek life. He focused instead on playing guard for the Rambling Wreck and raising absolute hell with his extended football family. He graduated in 1966 with a degree in financial engineering from Georgia Tech and more epic stories than most people amass in a lifetime…
He spent his happiest years living on Cabbage Key, where he had a front row seat to a beautiful mangrove sound every night next to his favorite person, his devoted wife Gigi. Guests walking down the nature trail could hear laugher and music coming from the house before it came into view. He and Gigi hosted countless guests…showering them with Jimmy Buffet music, Gi’s excellent cooking and Ted’s legendary Caesar salads. There may have also been some alcohol or what not involved, but no one can really remember.
Ted’s marriage to Gigi was long and happy. They worked together, fished together and weathered life’s storms (including two actual hurricanes) together, hand in hand, inseparable until the very end. Ted was Gigi’s fiercest protector and Gigi was his biggest cheerleader….laughter, a shared faith, and a refusal to sweat the small stuff was their secret recipe for a marriage that was both full of love and genuinely fun.
Ted loved his family deeply. He did all the things that fathers do, of course: he coached little league, attended dance recitals and stayed up till 3 am putting together doll houses and bicycles. But his unique style of love was to speak openly and honestly to his children, to admit his errors in life, to try to spare his own children from making the same mistakes he made. Although he only had two biological children, he was like a dad to many more. He took us fishing, philosophized with us, laughed with us, encouraged us, made fun of us and loved us. His laugh, his foul language, his cunning wit and his absurdly loud sneezes will be sorely missed by all who knew him…
This obit above is a perfect template for how I want to be captured when I depart this world – my imperfections acknowledged and my strengths celebrated – and all the words stitched together with forthrightness and humor. What more can I ask?
Well, one more thing: I wish I had known Theodore Frank “Ted” Cannella.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
The Perfect Orbit
Ann Lander’s advice column was the first thing I would read in the daily paper.
These days, I peruse the funeral notices – keeping a sharp eye out for the unique, the ones written with flair and humor. I usually leave those pages disappointed, as most obits are formulaic and boring. But not this one:
CANNELLA, Theodore Frank “Ted”
Passed away…at age 77, leaving the world without its most beloved, soft-hearted, and utterly irreverent tough guy.
Ted grew up in South Tampa as the son of a first-generation immigrant from Sicily and second-generation immigrant from Austurias, Spain. As a boy, he attended Christ the King, where he developed a faith that would be his rudder later in life, despite his distaste for rigid religion of any kind. Ted was…relentlessly doted upon by his loving mother…and spent his free time doing what he loved most, fishing.
Ted was unusually gifted with both brains and brawn…he was a dead-ringer for Elvis in his college years. He reveled in the fact that most southerners never quite knew what to do with the Italian from Tampa with the greased-back hair. True to form, he eschewed what he viewed as the preppy and pretentious atmosphere of Greek life. He focused instead on playing guard for the Rambling Wreck and raising absolute hell with his extended football family. He graduated in 1966 with a degree in financial engineering from Georgia Tech and more epic stories than most people amass in a lifetime…
He spent his happiest years living on Cabbage Key, where he had a front row seat to a beautiful mangrove sound every night next to his favorite person, his devoted wife Gigi. Guests walking down the nature trail could hear laugher and music coming from the house before it came into view. He and Gigi hosted countless guests…showering them with Jimmy Buffet music, Gi’s excellent cooking and Ted’s legendary Caesar salads. There may have also been some alcohol or what not involved, but no one can really remember.
Ted’s marriage to Gigi was long and happy. They worked together, fished together and weathered life’s storms (including two actual hurricanes) together, hand in hand, inseparable until the very end. Ted was Gigi’s fiercest protector and Gigi was his biggest cheerleader….laughter, a shared faith, and a refusal to sweat the small stuff was their secret recipe for a marriage that was both full of love and genuinely fun.
Ted loved his family deeply. He did all the things that fathers do, of course: he coached little league, attended dance recitals and stayed up till 3 am putting together doll houses and bicycles. But his unique style of love was to speak openly and honestly to his children, to admit his errors in life, to try to spare his own children from making the same mistakes he made. Although he only had two biological children, he was like a dad to many more. He took us fishing, philosophized with us, laughed with us, encouraged us, made fun of us and loved us. His laugh, his foul language, his cunning wit and his absurdly loud sneezes will be sorely missed by all who knew him…
This obit above is a perfect template for how I want to be captured when I depart this world – my imperfections acknowledged and my strengths celebrated – and all the words stitched together with forthrightness and humor. What more can I ask?
Well, one more thing: I wish I had known Theodore Frank “Ted” Cannella.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 18, 2022
Determining The World We See
I’m a firm believer in how you see the world determines the world you see. And I think my house reflects this.
I’m devoting this week’s newsletter to a glimpse of some of the plaques and signs I have hanging around my house. They give comfort, provide inspiration and provoke hope – all of which seems to be in short supply these days.
Beginning in the late 1950’s, my mom started adorning the walls of our wood paneled breakfast room. Here’s three that I would read every morning while biting into my toasted white Wonder Bread slathered with margarine:
(It must have been one of those “worst” days – doesn’t was spelled wrong!)
Humor dispels gloom. Dissipates the bad feelings. While raising my five rambunctious boys, I kept these hung up in MY breakfast room:
And when things went awry – and they did, I stared for many hours at these:
When my young adult children made (what seemed to me) not-so-great decisions, I bought this one at a local boutique and hung it above my dressing table. I probably cracked it one day in sheer frustration.
When I needed a boost of energy to tackle an ongoing issue, here’s where I planted my eyes.
And when that ongoing issue – in spite of all my efforts – continued to be an ongoing issue, I learned to adapt.
When the nest emptied and it was just my husband and me, I laser-focused my eyeballs on these two:
And when I need to be reminded that my attitude determines the world I see, I look at this. And look again.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 11, 2022
Subject Lint Correction: It’s All So Complicated
The next day, I receive the following text from a family member, who is passing this text on from a teacher who had the shooter as a student in grade school: He was very troubled even then. His parents were divorced….He was school averse. We had weekly meetings about him and with him and his family. Honestly, if you asked me to pinpoint, out of all the students I taught over 30 years, he would fit the “active mass shooter” profile the most profoundly! He was such a loner…he was so closed off…I have many vices. And one of them is binge watching – especially fast breaking news stories and enticing series. Whoa is me when I get hooked. House plants die. Texts and e mails go unanswered. Bills get paid late. And the wash piles up.
Just days before July 4th, I finished watching Outlanders – a seven-part saga centering on time travel back to the 1700’s. The last season prompted me to ask myself a tantalizing question about the American Revolutionary War that I had absolutely never thought about before: On whose side were the Native Americans? The British or the Colonists?
Having no clue, as always, I asked my friends – many of whom are retired teachers. Reaction: dead silence. Followed by, “Wow, I never remember learning about that in school.
What we all were taught was the Pledge of Allegiance, which we religiously recited out loud every morning.
Historian Rebecca Beatrice Brooks cites: Many Native American tribes fought in the Revolutionary War. The majority of these tribes fought for the British but a few fought for the Americans. Many of these tribes tried to remain neutral in the early phase of the war but when some of them came under attack by American militia, they decided to join the British.
Why we were not taught the Native American stance on the War? Probably because the colonists and the Europeans were all the interlopers – treating the tribal people, their land, rituals and beliefs shamelessly.
Liberty and justice for all?
Slaves counted as three-fifths of a free individual
Japanese-American West Coast residents were interred during World War 2
Women were denied the right to vote until 1920
We aren’t so perfect nor is our Union. And the intervening years have tested our resolve and commitment to those ideals.
It’s 2022 – controversy still reigns. Here’s just a smattering:
How to prevent mass shootings
The right to buy AR-style rifles
The need for better mental health
The status of Red Flag laws
The presence of incendiary websites
It’s all so complicated.
There is a way, however, to express our opinions and make our individual voices heard.
VOTE.
The primaries are fast approaching in August – followed by the general election in November.
If you haven’t registered to vote, click this link https://www.usa.gov/register-to-vote
Vote like your vote counts – because – thank goodness at this point – it still does.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom
Iris Ruth Pastor
July 1, 2022
The Happiest Day Of My Life
When I’m upset, I stuff myself with cookies.
When I’ve got something to say, I write.
When I need reassurance that my brain is still working, I attempt CryptoQuips.
When I want to tune out the world, I read.
When I want to calm myself, I knit.
When I want to distract myself, I play Mah Jongg online with robots.
When I’m at loose ends, I create.
And when I’m deeply agitated, I wax nostalgic.
In light of the televised hearings centering on how close our democracy came to tumbling down on January 6, the continuing fall-out from SCOTUS striking down Roe vs Wade and the emerging realization of the appalling lack of police support in Uvalde and the recent needless deaths of more than 50 migrants packed into an unairconditioned truck trailer, fond memories of simpler, happier times are growing more fonder.
As a result, I am running one of my most favorite columns once again:
The Happiest Day of my Life
I must admit that the Fourth of July holds a very special place in my heart, having nothing to do with the Declaration of Independence or The Stars and Stripes. It was a 4th of July week-end in 1975 that my high school held its 10th year reunion.
In June 1975, after a year’s separation, six years of marriage and two children, my first husband and I got an amicable, but upheaving, divorce in Tampa. Having decided to move back to my hometown, I flew up to Cincinnati to find an apartment and attend my reunion.
Thoughts of high school reunions evoke a lot of emotions – dread, excitement, curiosity and apprehension. Going back to my 10th reunion single only heightened my anticipation. Would there be anybody for me to date?
As it turned out, there was.
A white suit …a tanned face… massive shoulders… startling blue eyes… I’ll never forget the moment I saw him nor my reaction: “Whatever happened to the creepy little kid from Bond Hill Elementary School?” I screeched. He smiled shyly.
(Below is our third grade school class picture with our faces circled.)
His name was Steven. We’d gone all through grade school and high school together – never associating with the same crowd – never exchanging more than a hurried “hello” or a banal “How are You?”
Being surrounded by my high school cronies that night, I naturally regressed to high school behavior. My stomach fluttered. My laugh was high pitched. My words came out silly. I turned on the charm and flirted outrageously. When we parted later that evening, he asked me to call him when I moved back. I did.
By October, we were dating steadily. By March, we were discussing marriage. By August, we had “tied the knot.”
That was forty-seven years ago and my husband and I have been blessed with many happy events in the intervening years, but none has ever quite touched us as deeply as the day we connected at our 10th high school reunion held over July 4th weekend, 1975.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
Just as crucial to happiness is our own personal well-being. What do you do when uncomfortable feelings descend? How do you “water yourself”? I’d like to know.
June 24, 2022
Buy The Lilies
While browsing at the fabulous Rizzoli Bookstore in New York City, I found a gem of a book: Buy Yourself the F-cking Lilies by Tara Schuster.
Okay, she was about 25 years old when she wrote it and I’m way older than that and should know better – but I found her struggles and her journey to fix her life to be both relevant and relatable to mine.
Here’s some of her suggestions.
Journal daily. It’s a sacred and safe space to explore what holds you back from being the best version of yourself. It’s not about recording what you ate, how many steps you walked or how much you weighted. For Tara, journaling is about just writing what is on your mind without censure.
Tara offers a few writing prompts to jumpstart the process of wrestling with the tough stuff:
Here is something I have been pondering…
What I feel today is…
I’m figuring out that my crutch is…
Here are ten things I like about myself…
Here is what I want people to say about me when I’m not around… (Tee Hee, for those of us in the autumn/winter of our years, it could be how we want our obit to read!!)
When Tara realized self-medicating didn’t work, not only did Tara start journaling, but she began listing things she was grateful for on a regular basis and she began exercising daily.
From there, she branched out – all under the guise that living the life you want is about the least selfish thing you can do. You know the routine: put your oxygen mask on first, then help others put on theirs.
And not surprisingly, she found great strength on working on the “tough stuff” because it led to her living the life she imagined.
One way she did this was banishing the “frenemy” within – the little voice that tells you over and over again that….
You are nothing special
You will fail
You are ugly
You teeth aren’t white enough
You are fat
You are foolish
You are not good enough
You are a fraud
Tara leaned that “being mean to yourself is counter-productive, feels awful and takes way more energy than being kind.” Every time she heard that little negative, unhelpful voice, she wrote down the accusations she heard and refuted each one.
Know your team became another North Star marker for Tara. It’s your tribe of well-wishers – those individuals you go to when you need love and care and encouragement.
Most of us would stop there. Tara didn’t. She also made a list of toxic people to stay away from. She named it her ABSOLUTELY NOT/ARE YOU CRAZY? list. These people may be wonderful. These people may in some convoluted way even love Tara, BUT they are people who are apt to say something snide or dismissive. These are people who don’t invigorate Tara, but make her feel small, unimportant, and stupid.
Halfway through reading her book, I boarded a plane back to Tampa from New York City. I had three choices of how to use my time in-flight: continue with Tara’s book and include more suggestions from her in this column, listen to the mesmerizing televised hearings on the January 6 uprising, or watch an entertaining movie like the frivolous tear-jerker by Nicholas Sparks entitled Dear John.
I choose the movie. So, you will have to buy Tara’s book if you want some additional, very helpful suggestions on living life on your own terms. Kudos to me – a big tap on the shoulder – for giving-in to something relaxing, non-essential and purely pleasurable. Forty-two days before my 75th birthday, I’m finally “getting it.”
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
June 17, 2022
Father’s Day – Taking Stock
Dad never knew quite what to say to us kids — particularly the girls. The one language we could share was baseball. Long silences, extended car rides unnerved him. So Dad filled those times with situation drills: Runners on first and third, one out, ball hit up the middle — where’s the throw? Dad’s ultimate compliment: I didn’t throw like a girl. His only regret: I never quite made it as a switch hitter.
In my 46 years, my dad has never said anything to hurt me, and I can only remember hurting him once. I was 18 years old and he was driving me from one government agency to the next looking for work as a summer typist, all to no avail. After one particularly frustrating interview I turned to him and complained, “I’d have a job by now if you knew somebody like all my friends’ fathers.” He never said a word but the look of pain in his eyes has stayed with me all these years.
“Brake!” My dad yelled. I panicked and pressed the gas pedal instead. The car hit the brick side of a building. I had just gotten my learner’s permit and had misjudged the space needed to make a U-turn in the parking lot. Dad calmly asked me if I was okay, then told me to put the gear in park and turn off the car. I was almost in tears, but Dad never yelled or got angry at me. Fortunately, there was no major damage to the car, but I was sure that I would never be allowed to drive again. That evening Dad held out the car keys. “Want to go for a drive?” he asked. We practiced a lot of U-turns that night. But more importantly, my dad taught me that his love is unconditional, and that no matter what mistakes I make, he will always give me another chance.
On April 1, 1943, my father stood on the step of my bedroom in our Nebraska farm house. “Jacque Lee,” he said, “there is a fly on your nose.” I quickly rubbed across my face and he laughed, “April Fool. It’s a joke.” I think of that scene every year because about a month later. … Daddy was killed by lightning on his tractor. I was 4 years old, and I remember only a few precious moments with Daddy, but I have never forgotten his happy, wonderful, loving smile and how much fun it was to have him with us.
My father loves to garden. I was always amazed by his skill of rejuvenating an otherwise dead plant. In the 18 years that we lived in that house, its interior and surrounding landscape must have been inhabited by some 2,000 species of plant life. Each specimen specifically chosen through his patented, scientific method: “What’s on sale at Hechinger’s?” All of this foliage required high maintenance and constant care. That’s where I came in.
“My favorite son’ll take care of it,” he’d say to my mother. I’d help him occasionally, and no matter how little I did, he’d always give me ample credit.
“Why do you work so hard in the yard?” I asked him once.
“Good practice for the real world,” he said, thrusting a post-hole digger into the earth. We put in a wood-post fence that day.
Now, after two years of struggling to finally move into the career I have a $100,000-degree for, I realize that my dad was right: You need a shovel to clear your way through life.
My favorite is what my father says to me each time he hangs up the phone, “I love you, Tina,” even said when I was too angry to say it back after his divorce.
Along with digging up new narratives, my most cherished Father’s Day ritual is watching movies, TV series, or plays about Fathers. I asked some of my buddies for their favorites. Here’s a few responses:
Bob Saget in Full House
Borat Subsequent Moviefilm when he wants to sell his daughter into slavery to Mike Pence (!)
Last Man Standing
Atticus Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird
Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade (Best line: when Indiana Jones’s dad tells him, “You left home just when you got interesting.”)
Yentle and The Lion King – both utilize dads as their North Star
Sanford And Son – When I was growing up, all of my friends fathers were professionals and wore suits and ties to work. But my dad, who was in the construction business, always came home with muddy shoes and spotted pants with concrete and drove a Ford bronco with mud on the tires. So I could not really relate to Father Kkows Best and Leave it to Beaver, but I could really kind of relate to Sanford and Son because they were people who got their hands dirty.
And my favorite performance about dads?
700 Sundays – the one-man, laugh and cry retrospective, by Billy Crystal. Nostalgic. Deeply personal. The title derives from the amount of Sundays Billy had with his dad before his dad died abruptly from a heart attack at age 54, when Billy was 15. The attack came just hours after an argument with Billy.
Unlike Billy Crystal, I was fortunate to have almost 3400 Sundays with my Dad.
Like Billy Crystal, it still wasn’t enough.
Happy Father’s Day and Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
June 10, 2022
The Benefits Of Feeling Peaceful Or I Just Wanna Have Fun
As I was leaving, a family member gave me a very flattering compliment – centered on the fact that I brought my “A” game to the weekend festivities. I think this person meant that I came with high expectations for a fine time and instigated no dramatic interludes or meltdowns.
Hee hee.
For years, I had the despicable habit of using our family get-togethers as a golden opportunity to address whatever grievances I harbored or any emotional needs I had that needed to be addressed. And filled.
Boy was I misguided.
I now view together time with my family as an opportunity for FUN. It’s amazing what a sea change occurs when you go into a family weekend having shed your mantle of grievances and being committed to making hearty partying your top priority.
I guess I finally got the memo that if you want to be embraced by your family – if you want them to welcome you wholeheartedly – put a smile on your face and a bounce in your step.
Much of the credit for the wisdom written in this column goes to Dr. Fred Luskin and his book Forgive For Good.
After devouring his book, I started to recognize that life is not always fair and often we do not get what we want. I began to realize I needed to stop allowing my personal grievances to take up so much valuable real estate in my head.
How does a grievance story take root? It happens when we take things too personally and blame the offender for how we feel. When we blame another person, we give away our power and the power to regulate our own emotions. When we adopt a grievance story and become known for it, people begin avoiding us because they are tired of hearing our story.
Many of us have expectations of how other people should react and behave. When we try to unsuccessfully enforce our expectations, we become angry, bitter despondent and helpless. We become imprisoned in silos of negativity and our moods are determined by the random memory of PAST hurts.
The first step in the way out of this conundrum is to recognize that what we hope for is not what we usually get.
Forgiveness of past hurts is taking back our power and taking responsibility for how we feel. We can learn to redirect our energies to dwelling on our good fortune rather than on our past disappointments. We can release our past to heal our present.
As Dr. Luskin says, forgiveness helps us control our feelings and improves our mental and physical health. It’s a choice we can make and a skill we can learn. It’s about focusing on changing the way we think and NOT trying to change the person with whom we are upset.
Luskin goes in to say forgiveness is NOT condoning unkindness, excusing poor behavior, denying our hurt or even reconciling with the offender.
Forgiveness says Luskin is deciding who plays on our TV screen. It’s controlling our own remote.
It’s deciding a past injustice does not have to hurt today. And when we forgive, we do something good for us – less stress, more stability.
I didn’t realize how evident it was to outsiders that I was on my “A” game until the third night of the weekend. An acquaintance approached my youngest son, expressing surprise that he was pulling his mom up to the dance floor.
“How does she merit that?” he asked my son.
“My mom’s fun,” he replied simply.
I am reminded once again of the importance of taking time out to PLAY and I’m so happy my kids, grandkids and DIL’s welcome me to the playground.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
June 3, 2022
The Bridge to Happiness is Peppered with Spontaneity
The bridge to happiness is peppered with spontaneity.
I’m 74 years old – if not now, when?
So one lazy Saturday afternoon my good buddy, Francine, calls me to tell me she found some old National Geographic Magazines for 25 cents apiece. I had just texted her that morning that I was looking for just that for my work in collage.
I could have asked her to buy them for me and I could have said that I’d pay her back the next time we were together.
I could have thanked her profusely for her follow-through and then told her I’d go there sometime and pick some up.
But I didn’t.
I hopped in the car.
I drove 45 minutes to meet her.
And then she and I gleefully perused through the whole stash – even finding one that is a collector’s item that Francine is going to re-sell on E Bay.
Then, instead of parting, we decided to eat an early dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant I’d never tried before.
The bridge to happiness is peppered with spontaneity.
Our outing didn’t end there.
We talked about our weight. Depressing.
We talked about our thinning hair. Reality.
We talked about our grandkids. Missing them.
And then I related to her a story about my hair dresser and me.
“My husband loves short hair,” I confided to my hair dresser about two years ago. “That’s what I had when he first met me. And every time he looks at our wedding picture, he laments that I’ve let my hair grow. Sooooo, I’m thinking of going mega short again.”
My hair dresser stopped trimming my bangs abruptly. “Omg,” she screeched. “Don’t even think about it. Want a dose of reality or some fake flattery?”
“Uh, reality, I guess,” I answered – quite taken aback by her vehemence.
“You will be very sorry if you cut off all your hair. Your face, no offense, doesn’t looks like it looked 47 years ago,” she confided softy. “And if you are so hellbent on a totally new and drastic make-over, GET A WIG!”
I never acted on her suggestion.
As I’m re-telling my story to Francine, she leans avidly forward and shoots me a very pointed question: “Do you have another of couple of hours?”
I carefully review what I have waiting for me at home:
Replacing the refrigerator’s water filter
Fertilizing the red geraniums on my front porch that refuse to bloom
Unloading the dishwasher
And sewing on three buttons
“Yep,” I speak up excitedly, “I’m totally free, unencumbered and fully present. I’ve got the time!”
“Great,” exclaimed my friend. “You have the time. I have the wigs. Lots of them from my work with modeling for the Home Shopping Network. Let’s do it. Let’s start experimenting.”
And so we did.
Here I am, suddenly transformed at age 74, to a BLONDE! I’m loving it. I imagine myself after a night of disco dancing, able to scrub the floors, write a new book, disinfect the re-cycle bin and whip up a gourmet candle lit-dinner for me and my hubby. I am woman. I am strong.
Way too staid and way too mature a look for me! Perfect if you want to be a frontrunner for “Timeless Styles of the 70’s” and, heaven forbid, be called a Sassy Senior. Not me, honey!
Hippy hag look. Not quite makin’ it either, unless I could adapt it for Halloween.
Not a bad look, but where’s my boho spirit?
I think I will stick with what I have.
All in all, it was a wonderful afternoon and evening.
The replacing didn’t get done.
Nor the fertilizing, unloading or sewing
But it’s okay – because Francine and I made a memory.
And now I’m even more convinced than ever that:
The bridge to happiness is peppered with spontaneity.
Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
May 27, 2022
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