Lynn Rankin-Esquer's Blog, page 6

Soundtrack of the Pandemic

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I like singular sounds, non-human sounds, the natural sounds. The spit of the Keurig finishing making a cup of coffee. The birds twittering around the feeder. The clink of the dog’s tags as he follows me room to room. I like the breeze rattling the umbrella on the patio, and really love the fountain in the backyard.  I could listen to water moving all day, every day, and never get tired of it. Moving water is company without intrusion.

These are the sounds that calm my brain.

Calming my brain is not the same thing as filling my heart.

I have lived with people for a long time now, married 24 years, with two kids who’ve been around for 18 and 16, years respectively.  These people fill up my heart, over and over. I would choose them at any price.

That said, they make a lot of noise.

First thing in the morning.

My husband never met a TV he didn’t want to turn on and leave on. In fact, I think he is secretly puzzled by the off button. Like, who would need that? And he likes TV’s, we have them in more rooms than I feel comfortable telling the number of. And when he is in the house, they are all on.

My son never met a door he didn’t want to slam shut. And rap music is not designed to be played at a low soothing volume. Door slam! ‘Where’s my laptop?’ the outraged 16 year old demands, as if my most secret entertainment is to hide it from him, as if I waited until he went to bed at 2 am, snuck in, found it, and slipped it under his clean laundry knowing he’d never look there, tip toeing back to bed chortling with glee.

My phone buzzes with a text from my daughter, newly installed in her college dorm on the east coast. I don’t respond quickly enough, and it rings this time.

So, the soundtrack of my day starts with noise. It starts with the overstimulating, overproduced TV feed of sports and ‘news’ and entertainment soundbites, even when I try to ignore them. The soundtrack starts with other people and their sounds, asking me for things, complaining when they’ve misplaced something.  And then, blessedly, they’d all be off, to work or school and the TV’s would all be turned off (I love the off button) and the sound of the fountain would rise to prominence again. For many hours.

Back to the small sounds, the non-human ones. The restful silence of a house with no other human energies swirling.

Do you have the patience to wait,
Till your mud settles and the water is clear?
Can you remain unmoving,
Till the right action arises by itself?
   -Lao Tzu

My mud only settles when I am alone for a big chunk of time. Without other people’s noises.

This soundtrack of silence, which is so central to my well-being, disappeared in March. When Shelter in Place happened, the clamor was no longer bookends to the day, confined to morning and evening, but instead present all day long. All. Day. Long. Clamor. Cacophony. Chaos in my brain. TV’s on. Doors slamming. Food requests. Zoom meeting interruption melt downs.

The soundtrack was literally a SOUNDtrack. Sounds, sounds, sounds.  Too much. So, I increased my time out of the house, longer runs, longer walks with the dog, longer bike rides. I instituted a ‘carffice’ (car office) in a local nature preserve, until it got too hot.

And then the air quality made even the outdoor escape impossible.

It felt ungrateful, as someone who took so long to find someone worthy of marriage, as someone who struggled for so long to have kids. I desperately wanted these people in my life. I love them beyond reason. As someone who finally got everything she wanted, how could I be resentful of them for their noise?

During this pandemic I’m grateful for so much, that jobs have not been lost in our family, that we are all healthy, that I am not quarantining with small children (I truly hope God has a special reward planned for you parents surviving with young children, I believe you are Fast-tracking to Nirvana). It seems silly to complain, it’s just that a break from other people’s noises feels vital for my brain’s functioning, and the breaks have been miniscule, if that, for many months.

I’m reminded of the research lab I worked in back in my twenties, studying stress induced depression. To test the theory that control over a stressor is what determines whether you get depressed or not, the researcher did yoked-rats experiments. Two separate cages, each rat with a wheel to run on, each rat hooked up to electrodes and experiencing the same amount of random electrical shock. The difference is that one rat could turn off the shock by running on the wheel, which he would figure out pretty quickly in a series of trials. When this first rat turned off the shock he turned it off for both rats (thus, they were yoked together). The second rat could try anything but nothing would turn off the shock because it was the first rat in charge of stopping the shocks for both of them.  The rats got the exact same amount of shocks, but one had control over stopping it and the other didn’t. Like riding in a car with someone blasting their music. Fun for them, maybe not so much for you.

The rat with control did not get depressed, The rat with no control did.

I realized I was too yoked to other people’s noises. We were all hearing the same noises but I had little control over them.

The answer, not a perfect one, but a good enough one, came surprisingly, in adding more noise. I rearranged our TV room to squeeze in a desk. I put a sign on the door, ‘WRITING!’ and I turned on music to drown out the other noises in the house. I found a playlist of movie soundtracks, adding a literal soundtrack to my life. Fight fire with fire, fight noise with noise. Themes from Gladiator and Star Wars and Harry Potter brought a sense of nobility to my work. It insulated me, and resurrected a sense of control over the noise, my fingers on the playlist, my choice of volume.

It’s working okay, most days. But I will be ever so grateful when the day comes that I am working at home, alone, accompanied only by the sounds of the birds and the fountain and the snoring of the dog. When my mud can truly settle, when the right action can arise by itself. 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

Spotting: On the Art of Weight Lifting and Writing

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“What’re you doing today?” my husband asked. It was Saturday, he had practice and some recruiting calls to make. As a college baseball coach his work never ends.

I have a lot of free time on the weekends.

“I’m going to write some comments on my classmates’ work,” I said. He knows how much I’ve been enjoying my online writing class. “It isn’t required but….” I sip my coffee, once again struck by how much better I am with writing what I want to say than actually stringing words together verbally. “I like the people in this class. It’s hard, writing something alone and wondering if it is any good, wondering if anyone would care to hear it.”

I’m reminded of a Flaubert quote and search it up on my phone. I read it to him.

“None of us can ever express the exact measure of his needs or his thoughts or his sorrows:  and human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.”

We both take in the beauty of that quote for a few moments.

“Sometimes it is nice to hear what you did well, while you are tapping the crude rhythms,” I add. “When we give comments in class it is great, and very supportive, but I thought it would be nice to add something written.”

He said, “Oh, you’re being a good spotter.”

My husband has been coaching for over thirty years and spends a lot of time thinking about how to lead and teach his players.

He said when you are lifting weights by yourself you have to stop when you are about to fail. You have to anticipate failing because you can’t afford to fail with the bar across your chest.  You might have enough left for one more rep but you might not and you can’t take that chance. But with a spotter you can work through the failure and go beyond.  If you get aid when you only have 90% of your strength left or 80% or 70%, with only a little help from the spotter you lift the bar again. And maybe even again after that. And that is how you get stronger.

Yesterday he was doing pull ups in our back yard (our pandemic gym) and was able to do 5 on his own.  Then he got our son to spot him and he did 3 more reps with his help.  Today when he did pull ups on his own he did 7.

Then he asked me, a person who cannot do one pull up, to spot him. And I did, for 3 more reps. You don’t have to be a weight lifter to spot someone. You don’t have to be a great writer to tell someone you got the feels from their twist in the plot.

He teaches his players to be good spotters on the baseball field. When they see a teammate failing or close to failing, he tells them to support them, invite them out to practice more, help them work past the failure to get stronger.  In his program failure is not punished, in fact he actually encourages failure, encourages his players to train over the edge of failure because otherwise they aren’t getting better. Otherwise they just keep practicing what they are already good at, which is not a formula for growth.

For too many years I wrote alone. Completely alone. Just dabbled. Didn’t get any spotters. I didn’t put anything out into the world. I didn’t even think of myself, really, as a writer. But then I found a writing group and with their encouragement I submitted, I blogged, I finished and self-published two novels. And now I am in this class and writing even more, daring even more.

I look at the members of my writing class and I don’t want anyone to waste time like I did. If someone is called to this odd, lonely, enthralling thing called writing, I want them to find the spotters that help them keep going.

This is what a good tribe of writers can do for each other. Spot each other: point out the good sentence, the cool metaphor, the lovely image. Encourage the rewrite, push for more, help someone live in the vulnerable place a little longer. Remind each other that pushing past failure is the way to get stronger. And the next time you sit there facing the empty page, you have a little more muscle for the task.

Maybe not melting the stars, but maybe, just maybe, melting a heart.

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

Follow me on Twitter at  @LRankinEsquer

website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

New Novel Excerpt: From THE UNMOORING OF MRS. MANGO

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Shamans and Brussels Sprouts

   “Where’s Meredith?” Mrs. Mango asked, giving second son Michael a hug. They hadn’t yet made it into Danny’s house but were standing in the driveway, unpacking the truck. “Her family got you guys at Thanksgiving; so glad we get you for Christmas!” As she said the word ‘Thanksgiving,’ Mrs. Mango cringed, wondering if she would ever enjoy that holiday again. She was not going to let her brain spend one moment remembering her daughter Christine announcing she was gay and that her guest that day, Sarah, was actually her girlfriend. She was not going to remember any of the mayhem that followed, not the fire or the dented cars or fractured relationship with Christine. Mrs. Mango’s brain had watertight sealed compartments and that day was firmly locked in one.
     “She’s, uh, not going to make it today,” said Michael, his brown eyes darting to the side, not able to look his mother in the eye. A girlfriend had once told Michael that he was good- looking in a ‘third look’ kind of way, and he couldn’t really argue with that. He had a nice-enough face, brown eyes, thick brows, strong nose, but it took some time for women to put that all together in a pleasing way. Most didn’t bother after one look, but Meredith had. Until she hadn’t.
       “Oh, poor thing, she’s sick? Are you sick?” Mrs. Mango said, leaning forward and feeling Michael’s head for a fever.
     Before Michael could actually answer, Danny came up behind his mother and hugged her. “Hey, Mom, Merry Christmas; is there more in the car to bring in?”
     Michael and Danny gave each other a meaningful look as Danny led Mrs. Mango away. Michael slid his hand around to his lower back and grimaced when his mother wasn’t looking. Now was no time to tell her about his marriage. Or his back pain. He didn’t need her advice or worrying. Because when his mother started worrying, it took over everything.

     “Pops, you remember my brother?” Danny’s wife Rita said, giving Mr. Mango a hug and gesturing to a tall, bearded man beside her. They were standing in the high-ceilinged kitchen that Rita and Danny had just finished remodeling. It was full of light and seemingly acres of white cabinets, with a view of a deep backyard rimmed by beautiful old live oaks.
     Mr. Mango squinted, not recognizing him. Rita and Danny’s wedding had taken place five years earlier, and although he had a vague recollection of a brother, he didn’t remember anyone looking like this guy. This guy had a rumpled gray linen shirt hanging untucked over flowy white linen pants. Several strands of beads and charms circled his neck, and a leather woven bracelet hung from his wrist. His brown wavy hair was cut closer on the sides of his head than the top and his beard was carefully trimmed to about an inch below his chin.
     “I’m Don Paz,” Rita’s brother said, stepping forward and grabbing Mr. Mango’s hand in both of his hands. “Blessed to see you.”
     “Uh, yeah, uh, nice to see you too, Don,” said Mr. Mango.
     “It’s Don Paz,” said Don Paz. “‘Paz’ as in ‘peace.’”
     Mr. Mango couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Don Paz just gave him an understanding smile that irritated Mr. Mango even more than the silly name.
     Rita gave a high-pitched laugh. “Don Paz is his chosen name, Pops. When you met him at the wedding, it was just Bill.” Rita gave her brother a squeeze to soften her words. “Who isn’t for more peace in this world, huh?”
     Don Paz gave a slow nod with the same goofy smile, and Mr. Mango wondered if he was high on something. Good Christ, this was going to be a long day.
     “Come on, let’s get you something to drink,” Rita said, linking her arm in Mr. Mango’s and pulling him away from Don Paz.

     Mr. Mango found Danny in the backyard, heating up the grill. Staring at Danny Mr. Mango couldn’t help but think he was a good advertisement for his medical profession, slim and tones, with a healthy glow to his face even when he wasn’t sweating over a grill. Danny was dressed in gray jeans that were snug clear to his ankles and a maroon, thinly knit sweater that strained a bit across his shoulders. Mr. Mango couldn’t argue with the results but was bewildered by how many hours Danny put in on his treadmill and fancy stationary bike. How could a person give so much of their life working so hard to going exactly nowhere? Mr. Mango waved his beer bottle at Danny, “Here you are. Couldn’t find where you disappeared to.”
     “Yeah,” Danny grunted, scraping old black shreds of unrecognizable meat off the grill.
     “Hiding, maybe?” Mr. Mango said.
     Danny didn’t answer.
     Mr. Mango looked around the back yard. “Well, you are in the middle of it now, huh? Looks like it’s going to be nice.” The back yard was torn up, with pallets of stone stacked to one side and all manner of PVC tubing and sprinkler heads scattered around.
     Danny nodded. “Yeah, am happy with the flagstone we picked out, and the landscaping is going to be killer.” He sprayed some water on the grill and scraped a few more times, then closed the lid.
       “Shouldn’t take too long to heat up.”
     “You’re doing a prime rib on the grill?” Mr. Mango asked.
     “Huh!” Danny barked, raking his fingers through his short, light brown hair. “Rita, uh, miscalculated on the prime rib. It came out of the oven an hour ago. Pretty much ruined.”
     Mr. Mango took a breath and reminded himself not to criticize his children’s choices of mates. But, goddamn, he had been looking forward to that prime rib.
     “I knew I should’ve cooked it,” grumbled Danny. His dad’s self-control in not criticizing Rita opened up the possibility for him to. “A hundred and twenty bucks worth of meat turned into a pile of charcoal. Apparently, she forgot to turn the heat down after the first 15 minutes. So we’ll be having steaks. And burgers. Not that the Dalai Lama in there eats meat. I guess he can have some alfalfa.”
     Mr. Mango stared at Danny in surprise because Danny never broke the boundaries of his marriage. This was the first time he had ever complained, even though Mr. Mango knew Rita could be a bit of a ball breaker.
     “Yeah, what’s up with him?” Mr. Mango said, finishing the last of his beer and looking around for an outside cooler.
     Danny walked over to a partially completed outdoor kitchen and opened a door to reveal an under-counter refrigerator. He pulled out a beer and handed it to his dad, then pulled out another one for himself. “He’s a ‘shaman,’ if you can believe it. Dropped out of Stanford Business School to be a freaking shaman.”
     “What the heck is a shaman?” asked Mr. Mango.
     Danny shook his head. “Something about the spirit world. Like, that he is some sort of messenger between the spirits and the rest of the world. And something about healing.”
     “Doesn’t seem like there’d be a lot of money in that,” said Mr. Mango.
     Danny shrugged. “Hopefully, not my problem. I don’t get it, but he seems pretty harmless.”
     “Harmless? Not earning your way in the world is not ‘harmless.’ Who do you think is paying for all the services that guy uses? Us! The taxpayers of the world. The people who do honest work for honest pay. We don’t float around all airy-fairy ‘healing’ people. We get out and get our hands dirty.”
       Danny took four quick slugs of his beer. “I get it, Dad; I probably even agree with you. But it is Christmas Day, and Rita’s already stressed about the stupid meat and probably deep down worried about her brother, and I’m sure Mom is in there making her even more stressed, so for today, just for today, could you not make a big deal out of it?
     “Fine. But one more word of advice: don’t give that guy any money. I know how that works. Do you know how many people ‘live the dream’ on someone else’s dime?”
     Danny had a feeling his dad’s words were hitting close to home. His oldest brother, Joe Jr., was forty years old and still chasing the dream of being an actor. Everyone in the family had secretly sent him some money, but the big break still hadn’t come. Maybe every family had that member.

     Christine was giving Sarah a tour of Danny and Rita’s house, and Sarah was so entranced there was a chance they would not finish by dinner.
     “Look at these hardwood floors; they are beautiful!” Sarah enthused, slipping her loafer off and running her bare foot along the living room floor. “And I love the colors, so soothing,” she added, looking around the room full of white and light wood.
     “They pretty much gutted this place and updated everything,” said Christine, finding herself proud of her brother as she saw his house through Sarah’s eyes.
     Sarah nodded, still scanning the room. “Love the built-ins along that wall,” she said, gesturing towards the end wall filled with books and artistically placed objets d’art. “And that piece—just gorgeous,” she added, walking towards an antique-looking armoire. “What is this?” she asked, peering more closely at it.
     “I think it is some sort of Indian thing,” said Christine, wishing she had listened more when her brother and Rita enthused about their various finds.
     “It’s a carved Indian cabinet,” said Rita, who had appeared in the doorway without them hearing her.     “Isn’t it just so cool?  I wanted one really unique item in here, and when I saw that, I knew it was the piece.” Rita was talking fast—friendly but with an undercurrent of holiday chef stress just beneath the surface.
     “Oh my God, I just love your house,” said Sarah. “I love everything you’ve done with it. The colors are gorgeous, and everything just flows so well!  Where did you find the chandelier in the entry?  I’ve never seen anything like it.”
     “There are so many antique shops and unique little design places in this area,” said Rita. “I found that way up above St. Helena.”
     “And the floors, are they reclaimed wood?” said Sarah.
     Christine felt a happy glow. For once Rita was friendly and animated, and Sarah seemed more at ease than either of them had thought was possible. Who knew that interior design would be the entry for Sarah into the family?  She watched Sarah and Rita chatter away at each other and trailed behind as Rita took Sarah to see the chandelier in the dining room.
     “Let me show you this real quick, and then I’ll do a proper tour after dinner,” said Rita as they trooped out. “Oh, and you don’t even have a glass of wine yet; let’s grab one from the kitchen.”
     Christine had never liked Rita as much as she did in that moment.

     “Does anyone want more ham?” Mrs. Mango held up the platter, triumphant in her decision to bring it. She had just known that prime rib was not going to materialize. They were gathered around the long distressed-pine dining room table, digging into the meal. The dining room was one of the biggest rooms in the house, stretching along a good section of the back of the house, the entire wall covered in a series of French doors opening out onto the gray flagstone patio. Opposite the doors, Rita had positioned a triptych of mirrors, and the light of the funky elegant chandelier bounced off the mirrors and around the room in a pleasing way. Comfortable parsons chairs covered in thick linen with a faint mattress ticking stripe lined each side of the table, and it all sat on a soft grayish-blue rug. Mrs. Mango had once told Rita it looked like a room straight out of a catalog and didn’t understand why Rita was offended by the comment. It was top praise for her.
     No one said yes, but Rita’s shoulders slid towards her ears. “I’m fine, Mom,” said Danny. “The steak is enough for me.”
     “Potatoes? Green bean casserole?” said Mrs. Mango.
     Danny sent her a dagger look. Could she not see how stressed Rita was? And here she was offering up only the food she had brought. “Hey, I’ll take some more of the kale-brussels sprout thing,” said Danny, gesturing towards the end of the table with his fork.
     “Me too,” said Christine, understanding what Danny was up to. She grabbed the kale-brussels sprout mix, heaped a pile on her plate, and passed it along. “Rita, I’m going to have to have this recipe,” Christine said.
     Sarah had one goal in mind, which was pleasing Mrs. Mango, so she passed the bowl along without taking any. She and Christine had agreed it would be progress if Mrs. Mango just tolerated Sarah being at Christmas dinner. Actual conversation could be a goal for the future. For her part, Mrs. Mango pretended Sarah wasn’t there and never even looked towards her. She could barely even look at Christine.
     Mrs. Mango turned to Michael. “Tell me again why Meredith isn’t here. Is she that sick? What’s she got? Is it contagious? If so, maybe you shouldn’t be here.”
     Mrs. Mango peered more closely at her son. “You don’t look good; are you okay?”
     “She’s fine. Well, not fine. Just, uh, not up to being here today,” fumbled Michael.
     Mrs. Mango’s mother instinct spun into top speed. “What does that mean? What are you hiding?”
     “Meredith and I are, uh, taking a bit of a break,” sighed Michael. Hoping to change the subject, he turned to his dad and said, “Gas is $2.45 a gallon! Can you believe it? Filled up my Yukon on the way here for barely forty bucks.”
     Mr. Mango shook his head. “Just goes to show you what I’ve been saying all along. You think all of a sudden there’s more oil? Those oil companies have had us by the balls since the engine was invented. They set the price as high as they can ‘cause they know we’ll pay it. And then, boom, all of a sudden people are buying less gas, and what happens? The price magically goes down.”
     “What do you mean, you and Meredith are ‘taking a break’?” Mrs. Mango’s eyes drilled into Michael’s.
     “Dad, there is more oil available now; well, I mean we have more available in our country,” said Michael, ignoring his mother.
     “Exactly! But it won’t last forever. And I didn’t believe in it at first, but now that there’s all those alternative energies and people don’t need the oil as much, isn’t it amazing how the thing that cost over four dollars now costs almost half that?”
     Mrs. Mango had not broken her stare at Michael. “Mikey? What’s going on with Meredith?”
     Mr. Mango turned to Mrs. Mango. “Crissakes, Elsie, can’t you tell he doesn’t want to talk about it?”
     “Talk about what?” Danny asked, returning to the room having just hopped up to get another bottle of wine and the salt and pepper shakers.
     “The price of gas,” Michael said.
     “You don’t want to talk about the price of gas?” Danny said, shaking salt on his kale-brussels sprout salad.
     “It needed salt?” Rita said in a shrill voice.
     “He and Meredith are having problems,” said Mrs. Mango. “And he has to tell us now, at Christmas? Just ruin the day?”
     “Mom!” said Michael. “I didn’t bring it up! You are the one who kept pushing to know why Meredith wasn’t here. You just couldn’t let it be.”
     “I don’t know how I’m the problem here all of a sudden,” huffed Mrs. Mango. “Excuse me for caring.”
     “What does this all have to do with the price of gas?” asked Danny, still trying to catch up.
     “I was saying that I’ve been right all along,” said Mr. Mango. “The oil companies have lied to us for years, acting like oil is worth more than gold, then all of a sudden, the demand goes down, and what do they do? Sell it for less. The price of gas has always been some magical moneymaker for them, and we all just handed over our wallets and let them take what they wanted.”
     “And don’t forget all the suffering that’s been caused in the world getting that oil,” chimed in Don Paz.
     Mr. Mango turned towards Don Paz, surprised to have an ally. “True. We wouldn’t have soldiers in the Middle East it wasn’t for all the oil they’re sitting on. Hah! We always act like we are there to spread democracy or something when it’s really about the oil.”
     Don Paz nodded. “A lot of pain.”
     Mr. Mango couldn’t believe he agreed with Don Paz, but you never know where allies are going to come from.
     “Pain and suffering. I’ll tell you about suffering,” said Mrs. Mango, a tear running down her face. “I’m never going to get grandchildren.” She looked around the table, eyes full of judgment and disappointment. “That’s all I want. Grandchildren!” She banged her water glass down so hard the water slopped out onto the table.
     Rita leapt out of her seat so fast she knocked her chair over but didn’t stop to right it, just ran out of the room. The sound of her sobs carried back as she flew out the door.
     Silence took over the room, everyone looking around at each other, and then all ending up staring at Mrs. Mango.
     “What?” asked Mrs. Mango. “What was that?”
     Danny let out a big sigh as his head fell into his hands. Taking another big breath, he stood up and followed Rita out of the room.
     “What?” said Mrs. Mango again, looking around. Her eyes fell on Christine. “Well, I’m not getting grandchildren from you,” she said. “And Joe and Jenny are too poor; thank God they are smart enough to know that. And now it looks like they won’t come from Meredith, at least not any time soon. So . . .”
Christine shook her head. “Mom, you know that Rita and Danny want kids . . .”
     “Yes! And they should get to it!”
     “They’ve been trying. And trying. And it hasn’t worked out. So, Rita is a little sensitive about that right now,” said Christine.
     “Well, how was I to know?” demanded Mrs. Mango. “Nobody tells me anything.”
     “It’s not necessarily the kind of thing you give your mom details about,” said Michael. He mimicked holding a phone to his ear, “Hey Mom! How are you? Want to hear about all the baby sex we’ve been having and how it isn’t working?”
     “Oh for goodness sake, Michael,” Mrs. Mango put her hands over her ears. “Stop that!”
     “Besides, Mom, maybe I will have a baby sometime. I’ve got a working uterus. Maybe I’m your best shot at grandchildren,” said Christine with a sly smile. “In fact, we’ve got two!” she gestured at Sarah.

 

To read more or buy, click on: https://www.amazon.com/Unmooring-Mrs-Mango-Lynn-Rankin-Esquer-ebook/dp/B08HHBPHK8

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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A Sailing Misadventure: In Praise of Coleman Coolers and Captain Morgan

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Many years ago, when I lived in Chapel Hill, NC, I had a boyfriend who was an extreme outdoorsman. I myself like the outdoors quite a bit but didn’t share his need to conquer every climate and geography. A nice run is as aggressive as I get. An ambling beach walk is lovely. Sitting at an outdoor café with an Arnold Palmer is just delightful. Boyfriend camped, snowboarded, mountain biked, rock climbed, and sailed, among other things. As couples tend to enjoy spending time together, he invited me to do these things with him. I picked sailing as the least demanding of the sports and we headed to Beaufort, where he borrowed a small sailboat from a friend. I want to say it was a Sunfish.

It was a sparkling spring day, sunny, cold, and windy (great for the purposes of sailing). Boyfriend enthusiastically showed me the physics of sailing (a very appealing way to learn physics). We tacked and jibed (I couldn’t tell you exactly what those words mean but he used them a lot) around the Beaufort channel, not quite ready to head out to sea. I was feeling very Jackie Kennedy-off-the-coast-of-Cape-Cod, very chic and of the prep school boating class.

Maybe thirty minutes in Boyfriend said, “Huh, that’s weird, the boat isn’t really responding like it was before.”

It wasn’t turning (tacking? jibing?) as sharply. It was sluggish even though the wind hadn’t changed. Then we noticed it was lying lower in the water. There seemed to be a lot of water sloshing around inside the boat.

Then it was even lower.

Then it was below the water.

It was the oddest feeling, sitting in a boat that is inches below the surface of the water. I wondered if there was a nautical term for that. It didn’t seem to be the right moment to ask.

Boyfriend was still calm. “Hmm,” he said, pushing a now-bobbing little Coleman cooler my way.  “Hold on to this.”

I awkwardly hugged the Coleman cooler, grateful for my life vest as a secondary flotation device. As the boat slipped from sight below us, panic set in. I was really cold and, of course, quite wet and was thinking, ‘well here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten yourself into. All for a man.’

I had this thought a lot in my twenties.

At this point the only part of the boat that remained above the surface of the water was the tip of the mast.

Then we realized we were floating towards the mouth of the channel, the part that opened out to the sea.

Boyfriend started to lose his calm, trying to figure out a way to hang onto some part of the boat, no doubt afraid to tell his friend that he lost his boat.

I was more concerned that he not lose his girlfriend. And I don’t mean in the ‘I’m breaking up with you’ sense, I mean in the ‘I’m floating out to sea’ sense. Although the former would most certainly follow the latter, should that happen, and should said girlfriend survive.

Just as we reached the mouth of the channel a big yacht came roaring at us and the fear of floating out to sea was quickly replaced by the fear of lethal motor propellers coming at my head.

The yacht driver slowed, turned and, as we were flung up and down in the waves caused by his approach, yelled out asking us if we needed help. Boyfriend, still clinging desperately to the mast (a questionable priority), yelled ‘yes.’ I was losing my grip on the cooler and got a mouth full of salt water when I tried to answer but I think my wishes were quite clear as I swam furiously towards the boat, abandoning both cooler and boyfriend. He’d made his choice and it wasn’t me.

The yacht driver hauled me up onto the deck, at which point the smell of alcohol hit me so hard I almost fell back into the water. Apparently our rescuer was Captain Morgan, fuzzy eyed and staggering (although that could have been the increasingly big waves). Captain Morgan must have had lots of experience maneuvering while drinking because he efficiently threw in some ropes to fasten to the mast to hang onto the sunken sailboat, helped Boyfriend aboard, then called Sea Tow (who knew there was such a thing?).

Deeply relieved to be in a boat that floated above the water I sat back, cocooned in the towel Captain Morgan gave me, watching the Sea Tow come, watching Boyfriend talk to them, watching as we finally made our way back to the docks. Calm to the point of drowsiness.

Hypothermia can do that to a person.

We found out later there was a crack in the hull of the boat (which was towed, repaired and eventually made it back onto the water). The boat survived. The relationship, ultimately, did not.

Boyfriend was not to be tamed, and I was not to be untamed. I took him to the wild and set him free. Once in while he showed up around the back fence and gave me a wave before heading back off to unmapped worlds, and we were both the happier for it.

I was left with an excellent lesson, one I have used repeatedly, both in relationships and subsequent sailing experiences, which is to never refuse a life jacket when one is offered.

 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

 

2020: What a Time to Graduate

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2020 is an unlucky year to be graduating from high school (or college, or graduate school or whatever you finally finished) and to make up for the lack of an in-person ceremony we decided to host a graduation for my daughter in our back yard. This is the speech I gave as the commencement speaker.

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“I’d like to welcome everybody to this very auspicious day of graduation!  It is not the typical graduation ceremony but we’re trying our best to replicate a typical ceremony. As you can see, we are sitting in the hot sun in uncomfortable clothes, so that’s a start.

Making it to high school graduation means that you have jumped, successfully, through many hoops.  This year’s class got to add a hoop – finishing up their education from home, isolated from friends, stuck with their families, the very people they are so eager to say goodbye to in a few short months.

The Esquer Home Academy in conjunction with Palo Alto High School is however, very pleased to congratulate our graduate.  You have persevered through difficult teachers (not saying if they were at the Esquer academy or one of your other schools), through challenging coaches, through a move to a new school halfway through high school, through injury and changing requirements.  You have persevered through a helicopter mom, a dadgitator [dad who agitates], wireless failures, sharing broadband, and the distracting noise of multiple Zoom calls going on at the same time.

You have made it.

As you head off to college you will take a toolbox with you, a set of skills and knowledge to use on the challenges ahead. I want to point out that you already have way more tools in your toolbox than you know. I guarantee you will forget you know all this stuff. You can call home and we will remind you. As you head out into the world, onto the next part of your journey through life, here is what you are already equipped with.

Persistence. Anyone who can shoot that many basketballs every single day for almost a year has grown a big muscle of persistence. Not to mention how you saved enough money to buy your own car.

Resilience.  Anyone who switches high school before junior year and navigates classes, an injury, and a pandemic and still ends up with a pile of college acceptances and a big scholarship is resilient.

Problem solving. Puzzles, murder shows, getting into the locked trunk of a dead battery car, you can figure out almost anything.

Humor. You have such an ability to make us (and yourself) laugh – this is a superpower. Don’t forget you have it.

Technological Savvy. Your generation has technological savvy that would astound those of us who went to college in the eighties, someone like me who showed up to college with a Smith Corona type writer and had to look at the manual to figure out how to replace the ribbon (for those of you born later, that is like an ink cartridge). Hey that’s ironic, just realized we both entered college with Corona in our lives.  I suspect by the time your brother heads off to college the Corona will be of the malted variety

Time management. I’ve seen you figure out the schedule that works best for you, getting on top of your assignments, fitting in workouts.  I am heartened by your recent purchase of a calendar!

Health management – you know how to work out and stay hydrated

How to do laundry

Cook for yourself.

You might not LIKE doing all these things, but I want you to remember you KNOW how to do these things.

 

And then there are some things I would like to add to your toolbox. Some suggestions, a little bit of the wisdom we staff here at the Esquer academy have accrued over the years. Some of the things we find add to making it not just successfully through life, but joyfully.

Mentors – seek them out. It is like a short cut, an easy button, a pass go and collect $200 card.  Both of the staff here at the Esquer Academy got to where they are only because of some outstanding mentors.

Bravery – it has been said that it is better to regret something done to something not done. Better to say hello to someone even if it makes you anxious than remain isolated. Better to apply for the hard-to-get job even if you don’t get it. Better to dance, awkwardly, than to sit and watch.  As Theodore Roosevelt described, better to be sweaty, bloody and losing in the arena than to be sitting on the sidelines, not really living life.

Let’s put another thing in your toolbox:

Joy of learning – as you enter into the next stage of education my deep hope for you is that you get to enjoy it. I hope that you get to pick classes that bring you alive, that speak to a deep curiosity in you.  Of course there are required classes to get through but if you find you don’t have classes that you are excited to attend, you may need to rethink your major.  It really isn’t about the degree and the job, it is finding the thing that brings you alive because you are going to be doing it for a long time. Degrees and jobs come more easily when you are excited about the work.

Open Minded and it’s sibling, Flexibility – Be willing to be wrong, completely wrong. In the history of the world, of this country, of this family, people have been wrong a lot.  Acknowledge it, consider the new way of looking at something. Hang your hat on being nimble at adjusting.  The people who are weathering this pandemic the best are the ones who are not obsessed with keeping life the same. Take a page from the Zen handbook and realize that almost the only thing you can count on is Change.

Enthusiasm – Respect enthusiasm, your own and that of others. The things that you are enthused about are the guideposts to your life’s happiness.  Unless they are illegal or hurt other people, other people’s opinions on what you should enjoy are not your business.  If you like country music, that is awesome. If you like puzzles that is awesome, whatever it is that brings excitement to your heart, do not let someone step on that.  And don’t step on other people’s enthusiasms either.

Clear Priorities – Know what is truly important and make time for it. You are entering a stage of life where people are, understandably, very career focused, very future focused.  This leads to many more hoops, many more To Do’s. It is only too easy to lose sight of the things that truly matter to you. I would argue that one of the most important things to make time for is relationships.  My deepest joys in life have been my relationships. Also my biggest challenges, but it turns out that challenge cuts a deeper hole for joy. Relationships take time, they take effort, but they are worth every second you give. As Georgia O’Keefe said, ‘Nobody sees a flower – really – it is so small it takes time – we haven’t time – and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.’  Be willing to give that time.  It will pay you back a hundredfold

And finally:

God – I hope you stay open to a force larger than yourself, however you define that, whether it is a loving being or the force of gravity that holds you to the earth.  I will leave you with an excerpt from Desmond Tutu’s book Made for Goodness:

My child, I made you for myself.

I made you like myself.

I delight in you.

My heart aches with pity

When you smother joy under the onslaught of busyness.

Then there is barely a minute

To pause and listen for me.

You look for me in the pleasures of life.

Things pile upon things,

Experiences crowd out experiences,

Places run together in a hazy blur,

And still you don’t find that one thing that will satisfy you.

But I am here.

I am as close as a prayer.

I am breathing in your breath.

With each breath you choose, my child, for you are free.

Will you breathe with me the breath of life?

Will you claim the joy I have prepared for you?

Will you seek me out and find me here?

Will you whisper the prayer?

Will you breathe in my breath?

This was the end of the speech, and now, days later, I am struck by how inadequate it seems. I am struck by the immense bravery of every parent who has sent their child off to college or the military or to a new place to live.

We can tell ourselves they are ready.

We can know with every molecule of our body it is the right time for them to go.

And we can still be left lying awake at night wondering what we forget to teach them. Has it been enough? Will they claim the joy God has prepared for them? Have we taught them how?

So, it is with great pride and excitement that I send her off, but it is also with a reminder to myself. I will have to remember to comfort myself with the words of Glennon Doyle. “There is a God. I’m not Her.” I will have to trust that my daughter’s care was never just in my hands. That even though I often forgot, there has been a larger force there all along, and that force is still on the job.

 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

A 1968 Racial Discrimination Experiment – Still Relevant

 

Like so many others, I am appalled by the racist underbelly that has been so glaringly exposed in our country (exposed to a lot of white people, already fully evident to people of color). Like so many others, I am trying to find the way to understand, to help, to change whatever is in me that might contribute to it.  My first instinct has always been to try to understand how people become who they are, which is what led me to graduate school in psychology. How do people become who they are? Why do we do what we do?

A UCLA professor once told me that you could summarize the huge body of social psychology research studies into two statements:

Environment affects our behavior.
We are unaware of this.

I find this to be so true. We all believe we are independent thinkers, but research shows, again and again, how much we are influenced by the actions and speech of those around us. For example, if you have a happy friend who lives less than a mile from you, you are significantly more likely to be happier yourself. If you spend time with a depressed person, you are more likely to get depressed. And so on.

In trying to make sense of how our country got here, I was reminded of an experiment done in 1968 by a third-grade teacher with her students the day after Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.  It is known as the Blue Eye Brown Eye Experiment.

Jane Elliott wanted some way to talk about what had happened with her students. As Smithsonian Magazine described (https://www.smithsonianmag.com/science-nature/lesson-of-a-lifetime-72754306/) Elliott talked to the class. “How do you think it would feel to be a Negro boy or girl?” she asked the children, who were white. “It would be hard to know, wouldn’t it, unless we actually experienced discrimination ourselves. Would you like to find out?”

They said yes. She then divided them into two groups, based on eye color, blue versus brown.  The brown eyed group was told they were cleaner and they were smarter, because of the melanin in their eyes (she wanted to give a scientific sounding explanation). They were given more privileges (5 minutes early to recess, only they could use the water fountain) and treated like they were better in every way. Sure enough, very quickly, she saw changes in behavior. Not only did the brown eyed kids show more confidence in class, they also started making fun of the blue eyed kids, ganging up on them even. The blue eye kids started doubting themselves, feeling bad, and showing less confidence in class.

The following Monday, she switched the groups.  Interestingly, she found that although there continued to be some discrimination, the new ‘smart group’ tended to be less mean, presumably because they understood how it felt.

As described in the Smithsonian Magazine article: “When the exercise ended, some of the kids hugged, some cried. Elliott reminded them that the reason for the lesson was the King assassination, and she asked them to write down what they had learned. Typical of their responses was that of Debbie Hughes, who reported that “the people in Mrs. Elliott’s room who had brown eyes got to discriminate against the people who had blue eyes. I have brown eyes. I felt like hitting them if I wanted to. I got to have five minutes extra of recess.” The next day when the tables were turned, “I felt like quitting school. . . . I felt mad. That’s what it feels like when you’re discriminated against.”

It was controversial and divided her town. When she was criticized by some who felt it was too harsh of a lesson for the students Elliott said, “Why are we so worried about the fragile egos of white children who experience a couple of hours of made-up racism one day when blacks experience real racism every day of their lives?”

Elliott continued to do the ‘exercise’ (as she called it) for years as a teacher and then went on to teach it all over the country.  (see link for an update on all she has done https://www.azcentral.com/story/news/local/karinabland/2017/11/17/blue-eyes-brown-eyes-jane-elliotts-exercise-race-50-years-later/860287001/

We are lying to ourselves if we don’t think we are influenced like this every day of our lives. We are not as conscious of it as we think. Right now we have a chance to learn something about how people different from us experience the world and the very first thing this experiment shows me is that I need to look inside myself for my own biases. I need to listen, without judgment, to what people who look different from me have to say. I have to let their stories really enter me, not just float past me, not try to rush away from their pain or fear.

I recognize that this is just a start, a first step on a long journey. For example, I have only recently learned of the distinction between not racist and anti-racist. I look forward to reading and learning more about what that means I need to do in the world. I live a privileged life in so many ways and I hope I never again feel so comfortable that I fail to notice how many others don’t live that same life.  I am scared to post this because I am afraid I am not expressing myself well, but I have reached a point where I am more afraid of staying silent.

 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

 

How To Chase People Away: A Bit of Quarantine Humor

 

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As much as people are longing to get out and socialize, being quarantined with ‘loved ones’ might cause some distancing problems within the home. If you are feeling too close to those in your own home or friendship group, here is a handy guide for how to get them to back off.

1. Be judgmental, as often as possible!  ‘Why would you put that dish in the dishwasher? It still has food on it! That isn’t how it’s done.’ ‘When was the last time you changed pajamas?’  ‘I like you better with short hair.’ ‘Are you going to eat all of that?’ Let people know that you judge everything so that they know that even when you are out of their presence you will still be judging them. Watch TV and comment on every character. ‘She definitely had a boob job.’ ‘He can’t sing, he’s pitchy.’ ‘She calls herself a stylist?’ ‘Someone that weight shouldn’t wear that kind of outfit.’ Eventually move on to the big stuff: ‘Why did you get married anyway?’ ‘What kind of parent does that?’

2. Stay firm in your assurance that you are right. Don’t let damaging a relationship sway you from your certainty. You are not a spouse or a parent, you are an Instructor. It is your job to teach everyone the right way to do everything. Of course you are correct that your child shouldn’t have spilled the syrup and most certainly shouldn’t have tried to clean it up with your sweatshirt and make sure that four year old knows that. Everyone knows the toilet paper should come over the top and don’t let the chance to feel loving and close with your husband stop you from making sure to drive that point home.

3. Use shame as a technique for behavior change. Nothing drives people away faster. Announce transgressions in front of as many people as possible. Social media is great for this!

4. Nagging is another effective tool. Since you are right about everything make sure you let them know that as much as possible. ‘Did you take out the trash? I told you to take out the trash. You need to do it now. I don’t care if you are in the middle of an epic Fortnite battle. I don’t care if you are in the middle of an episode of Tiger King. Hello? Everyone has to pull their weight around here!’ Make sure to keep track of how many times you’ve asked for something and announce that. ‘I have asked you six times to take out the trash!’ People love this.

5. Live a double standard where you expect others to pick up after themselves but leave your own shit all over the place. You deserve a rest. They can step over your piles of clothes, they can clean up your dirty dishes if they bother them so much. They can just move your stack of magazines and books and computer out of the way if they want to eat dinner at the table so badly.

6. Pick an issue or four that are your ‘signature issues.’ Obsess about them for years. Insist on support when you talk about them, even though you are never, ever, going to stand up to that asshole boss/nosy relative/sanctimonious mom in your school/scale. Nothing makes spouses feel closer than having the same advice ignored for twenty years.

7. Feed other people’s insecurities. ‘Have you put on weight?’ ‘Is your hair thinning?’ ‘Isn’t he/she a little out of your league?’ ‘Would you like some Botox for your birthday?’ ‘Do you want me to let you know if your breath smells? Just trying to be helpful.’

8. Use the quarantine to finally implement all the standards you want for your family. Drag people out of their rooms and insist they play family games. Make your teenagers finally learn to cook by scheduling them to cook dinner several times a week. Make sure to pick recipes they wouldn’t eat if someone paid them in social currency. Wake them up and get those rooms cleaned out and organized, you have the time! In fact, give them their entire list of chores the second they wake up – teens especially love being pestered with stuff when barely awake. Make some clever family videos to share on social media so everyone can see what a tight, fun family you are. Pester them until they agree. Get a serious chore list established and implement that sucker with an iron fist. Insist everyone take an online class together.

9. Passive-aggressively announce when you do something right. ‘Look at me! Putting my own dish in the dishwasher!’ ‘Now I’m hanging up my towel! Who knew it was that easy?’ ‘Hey, I just picked up that stack of my shit on the stairs and am carrying it up!’ Make sure to make these comments within hearing distance of the person you are trying to train.

10. Point out all the depressing stuff in the world. ‘They say grilling causes cancer, are you sure you want to eat the burger?’ ‘COVID numbers today are [fill in].’ ‘The economy is tanking.’ ‘Now it will be even harder to get a job/buy a house/find a partner.’ ‘The sea level is rising.’ ’The older you get, the more impossible it is to lose weight.’ ‘There are more tigers in captivity than in the wild now.’ ‘You know your dog is going to die before you, right?’

11. TEXT AND EMAIL ONLY IN CAPS.

12. Insist on watching your shows exactly when you want to. Do not give in to the ‘compromise is the basis of a good relationship’ bullshit.

13. Return calls and emails on your own damn schedule, especially when you can’t sleep at 2:00 a.m. If people are stupid enough to keep their phone turned on and by their bed that isn’t your fault.

14. Play your music LOUD. Even if someone in your house is trying to sleep. They sleep too much anyway.

15. Insist on immediate viewing of the videos you find funny on twitter and FB even if the other person is busy with something. He/she should drop everything they are doing to laugh with you or they don’t love you. Make sure to point that out.

16. In fact set up love tests at least a couple of times a week. ‘If you loved me you’d pick up your shoes/know what I’m thinking/remember I hate rosemary/ask me about my workouts/stop bothering me about my workouts/buy me chocolate cake/stop bringing so many goddamn sweets into the house/open doors for me/respect my equality/turn the radio as soon as We Are the Champions comes on/profess love for every recipe I try no matter how disgusting it turns out/know you cheated on me in my dreams and apologize profusely upon my awakening. In fact, you can make everything a love test.

I’m sure there are many more strategies (and I’d love to hear from other people about their favorites) but these are my Go To’s. The good news is that even if you have driven everyone you know away, once this quarantine is over there will be so many people longing for contact you will have a whole world of people to select your next victims from. (17. And for the grammar specialists in your life, end your sentence with a preposition.)

 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

Pony-tails and Pass Defense

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The line of sixth grade students streamed onto the playground.  As we rounded the corner of Center Township Elementary school the line dissolved, students scattering in every direction.  I took one running step towards the gathering group of boys on the field, eyeing the football that materialized as we arrived.  My teacher Mr. F grabbed my arm.

“Just a minute, Lynn,” he said.

Ever obedient, I stopped, but my eyes stayed on the field.  Hurry up, I implored my teacher silently.  The teams are being picked!

“You can’t play football with the boys,” said Mr. F.

I stared at him, not understanding.

He stared back, waiting for me to get it.

“It’s okay,” I said, “they don’t mind.  They always let me play.”

I was proud that I was the only girl who played sports every day at recess with the boys.  Maybe the other girls didn’t want to, but then again maybe they were just too scared, or maybe they had Mr. F-types as parents.  I wasn’t wildly athletic, but I was determined and fearless and I knew the rules as well as they did.  In my neighborhood everyone played; girl, boy, big, little. I looked again at the field, still green despite the lengthening Pennsylvania fall.  It would be covered in snow soon.  The urgency grew.

Mr. F shook his head, his dull thinning brown hair flopping out of its comb-over.  He reached a quick hand up to smooth it.  “No, that’s not it.  You can’t play because girls shouldn’t be playing sports like that with boys.”

Huh?  I was dumbfounded.

Billy X zipped by us.  “Come on Lynn, we’re starting!”

I stared at his royal blue ski jacket as he dashed onto the field and joined the group that had formed on the left.  He was probably fifty yards away (I measured everything in yards, very handy knowing football) but it could have been fifty miles.

I would never, not at that age, have disobeyed a teacher.  I stood there, without direction.  Mr. F looked at me again with a frown, gave a short shake to his head as if he couldn’t believe I even wanted to play sports with boys, as if he couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me, and walked away.

The year was 1976 and I’d put Mr. F at about thirty-five years old at that time, which means he would have been born in 1941.  His ideas about girls and boys would have been formed in the fifties and sixties.  I can see this from the far future where I now sit, the mother of a multi-sport playing boy and a multi-sport playing girl.  I still can remember the rush of shame at disappointing a teacher. He had managed to take away something I loved and make me feel like a freak in one short sentence.

I can still feel the snap of the cold air, the hard asphalt beneath my feet as I stood rooted to the spot.  I didn’t question Mr. F. I didn’t do anything.  I didn’t know what to do, where to go.  I was friends with the girls, but I didn’t have a routine with them on the playground.  I didn’t move from that spot for the remainder of the recess. I remember holding my teeth together tightly, like that would hold everything else together, like it would keep me from crying.

Eventually I found a routine with the girls.  I stood in groups and talked and watched the boys play.  I stood shivering in my thick coat and watched my buddies throw their bodies around with joyful abandon while I stuffed down rage at Mr. F’s unfairness.

I literally stood on the margin.  Out of bounds.  Out of the game.  Out of the action.  Out of the fun.

It turned out that there were other Mr. F’s in the world. I learned to hold my body differently.  I grew more self-conscious.  I forgot the pleasure of a body in motion, running and jumping and sliding away from a tag with a hip swing.

I felt smaller.

In my twenties I discovered running.  I found the thrill of putting one foot in front of the other.  I found my way back to that sense of mastery in the physical world, to that joyful innocence a child feels in using her body to play.

In my twenties I also went to graduate school in psychology and discovered a lot of other stuff, like Sandra Bem’s work on masculinity and femininity and how masculinity and femininity are not opposite ends of the same continuum, but are each their own separate continuum.  You can score anywhere from high to low on each.  So, a high achieving, aggressive, athletic, dress wearing, makeup loving girl is probably high on masculinity and high on femininity.  And a man who is assertive and strong and also caring and nurturing is high on both as well. Turns out that people who are high on both tend to be more well liked and more successful. I remember the day I read Bem’s theories, a buzz of excitement lit up my whole body, that diminished little sixth grade girl rose back up and reclaimed sports and anything ‘boy’ that had been rightfully in me.  I kept running and I felt myself becoming whole again.  I felt bigger in the world.  And I became a psychologist and a professor and then a wife and then a mother (and that order was not insignificant).

Jump ahead to 2010. I’m standing on another playground, distant in time and miles and attitude from the first one.  I’m in California and I’m watching second and third graders in the same scattered energy of recess, just like the one I participated in as a child.  As I talk with the teacher I came to see, my eyes scan the playground and I pick out my daughter.  Hard to miss in her periwinkle sweatshirt, baggy over her Nike sweatpants.  She’s in line to rotate in for four square and I notice that of the ten or so other kids playing or waiting to play she’s the only girl.  I know most of these boys and they are fair.  Anyone can play, girl or boy.  Just line up.  I smother a smile of pride, just like me my daughter is drawn to play sports with the boys. I look around and notice another group of boys and girls playing basketball. No one, teacher or student, is questioning the impulse of a girl to play a sport. No adult is separating girls from boys anywhere on the playground.

I know things are still not equal in our culture between women and men. I know women in sports and business still face pay inequity. There is still so much work to be done and no one is a more vocal advocate of equal pay than my daughter (don’t even get her started on the women’s national soccer team!).

But the progress is this:  It has never occurred to my daughter that being an athlete, or being fierce and aggressive and blisteringly competitive, is in any way at odds with being female. Given my interrupted football career it gave me immense pleasure to watch my daughter play flag football in one of the largest leagues in the country, in the minority for gender but fully accepted. It gave me immense pleasure for the two of us to watch the news stories introducing Katie Sowers, the first female coach in the NFL. I wasn’t allowed to play football with boys at recess and she is being paid to coach in the NFL. This happened in my lifetime.

The number of Mr. F’s are dwindling. And the Mr. F’s who are still around, still holding those values, are being trampled by giggling, pony-tailed, sharp-cleated girls.

 

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

Follow me on Twitter at  @LRankinEsquer

website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

 

 

How To Waste Money

I’m not an expert on a lot. Well, that’s not true exactly. I have three degrees so I must be expert in something but I can’t remember what it is so I’m just going to focus on the thing I seem to be doing really well at these days.

Wasting money. I’m willing to share the details of this skill!

Buy lots of fruits and vegetables. Put them in the refrigerator until you have plastic bags filled with unidentifiable mush. Throw them in the garbage.

Make sure you have shitty wireless so your kids continually turn it off on their phones and use lots of data. And don’t bother with the unlimited data plan, that is too much of a money saver.

Notice your daughter’s room is messy. Go to the Container Store and buy storage containers. Stack them in the garage until you get around to working in her room, which will never happen.  Eventually she will go to college at which point no one has the interest or stamina to organize her room. Added benefit of annoying husband every time he tries to clean up garage and you insist you are going to use them.

Send husband to Costco so he can return with gallons of pork rinds, pot stickers, and chopped salad. Eat the first eighth of each. Toss the rest out six months later.

Give birth to picky eaters, thus guaranteeing no one will ever finish leftovers or opened bags of chips.

Stop punishing for milk left out all night, buying more will definitely waste money.  In fact, food waste of any kind = money waste.

Don’t put name tags in any clothes, particularly not sweatshirts. Those things practically walk out of the house themselves.

Delay paying bills so that you can accrue finance charges. Credit cards are particularly helpful for this!  Get a couple! With some dedicated searching you can find cards with extra high interest rates.

Gift cards!  These are the best. Buy gift cards, stick them in a drawer and make sure to never take them with you when visiting the establishments they represent. To waste even more money, buy a cute box or accordion fold envelope to keep them in.

Take picky child to eat at a one price fancy brunch buffet.  $49 for two slices of bacon and a cup of OJ will send you to the top of the money wasters!

Always pay the extra money to board the plane three minutes earlier than the rest of the cattle in coach.  This will drain money quickly and efficiently.

Never turn down a fund raiser. You could argue these are not money wasters but I’m still waiting on that six pack of wrapping paper an elementary school student sold me ten years ago.  The check cleared, the paper never showed up.

Buy the high school’s ‘Value Card’ for local businesses but never actually get the free drink with the six inch sub.

Do your family and friends a favor and never even send out the fundraising emails their football team asked them to send. Instead, donate the required amount yourself. This way, you increase your money wasting AND manage to keep friends and family close.

Buy concert tickets for your busiest time of year (Christmas works well, as does finals week for your kids), then miss the concert.

When visiting prospective colleges, buy a bunch of gear with the name of the school ‘just in case.’ Get something for each person in the family.  Thus, when the one college is selected you have effectively wasted hundreds of dollars on gear that your student now would not be caught dead in.  Say you are going to donate the gear to someone going to that school but never get around to it.  Or if you get around to it, make sure to pick someone who lives far away. Pack it up and send it overnight.

Oh the delights of overnight mail.  This is a very efficient way to waste money.  Need that women’s soccer jersey in time for the next national team game? Pay $39 for a $15 jersey to be shipped over night.

Send Christmas presents to the east coast!  Make sure to buy very big presents as those boxes cost more to send.  Don’t even consider the gifts that are small, like jewelry (or gift cards, don’t even think of regifting those, they belong in a drawer).  Extra points for items that are large AND oddly shaped.

Plants – ah the many ways to waste money on plants.  Cut flowers are a good start, they begin by being dead so will be gone very quickly.  You can make your own dead plants at home too – buy houseplants (orchids are a good choice, they tend to be expensive). ‘Forget’ to water them (alternatively, put them in a place with poor sunlight). Notice them a few weeks later, feel bad, throw them out, buy some more.  This also works with outdoor plants.  The options outside are even better:  buy some big beautiful expensive planters.  Very decorative. Buy potting soil, enough to fill them. Buy plants in the proper landscaping tradition (thrill, spill, fill:  plants big and thrilling, plus some that spill over the sides of the planter, plus some to fill in any remaining space).  As with inside plants, fail to water. Bingo! More money wasted.

Buy a car that only uses premium gas.  That shit adds up.

Door Dash A LOT.  Make sure you know all the restaurants in your area that participate. Let members of the family order individually thus increasing the number of Dashers headed to your house in one night. Individual Dashers also has the added benefit of wasting gas in three separate cars.

It goes without saying, but I’ll say it – leave lights on all over the house. Make sure every electronic is always plugged in (and on!).  This is the work horse of money wasting. Run the dryer for one t-shirt. Tell the family towels are one use only (actually, if you have teenagers, they already participate in this program).

Remain disorganized so that you end up re-buying the things you already have but can’t put your finger on. There’s no shame in owning eight pairs of shin guards.

I could go on and on but it’s time for my weekly Costco run. Plenty of food waiting to be bought and wasted! Although given that a self-imposed (or state imposed) quarantine may be coming we might just end up eating all that food anyway.

Visit me at my FB author page:  Lynn Rankin-Esquer Author

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website: https://lynnrankin-esquer.com/

Remembering Mazi (originally posted 3-21-16)

 

 

“ Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”

– Lao Tzu

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Sometimes breaking the law is the right thing to do.

Growing up, in my east coast town, angry teenagers looking for a way to express themselves would climb the water tower and paint something on it.  This weekend a band of suburban moms did the California version of a water tower, triumphing over barbed wire and steep hills to paint the big rock that looms over our town.

Six broken hearted angry middle aged women climbed a hill (several hills actually, it was like the Sound of Music out there.  If the Sound of Music was set in Northern California, at night, eerily lit by a bunch of PGE lights that surround our community sinkhole.)  We slogged through a mini river, prayed that the cows were off in another pasture, sopping the bottom of our yoga pants, climbing ferociously up STEEP grade hills, sliding uncontrollably down the back side of the hills, backpacks filled with spray paint and light beer.  We became goat-like despite wearing Nike Free runs that were a poor choice of tool for the task.  With head lamps borrowed from our boy scout sons we levered ourselves like lithe mountain climbers (which we are not but our mission made us into) to paint the town rock.  A rock that is normally commandeered by high school students and the occasional crazed swim dad pod (you know who you are, M).

Do you know why this set of suburban moms met at 10:15 pm (yes, I said pm, as in at night) to commit this mayhem?  A group of women who for the most part would have already been asleep, if not raging at their teens/tweens to be asleep?  A group of moms who, at least half of them would never consider breaking a rule (the other half long out of practice at breaking rules)?  They, we, were out there out of the desperate love for a man who changed all of our lives before leaving this earth too **** (insert your own swear word here) early.  MAZI.  Mazi Maghsoodnia.  The Man.  The Man who could get a bunch of law abiding moms (not a few of whom have anxiety issues) off their butts and out of their houses to climb what felt like a mountain to spray paint his name on a rock.  In the dark.

We scrambled around the bottom and sides and top of the rock, one of us even hung off the top of the rock, with two people desperately grasping the back of her sweatshirt, to write the name MAZI on this rock.

And to add a soccer ball and a heart because, well, Mazi.

We were so desperate to make this work we took advice from teenagers.

Yes, we asked our teenage children what they knew about making the rock message stand out and, yes, hold on here, we listened.

And we were told how to access the hills and trail to the rock.  And we were told to ‘make the letters BIG’ and we did.

After reconvening on the side street where we had parked our cars we drove into the gas station at the bottom of the hill to yell confirmations to each other like we were the Seals team that just took out Bin Laden. We yelled and gave each other thumbs up as we looked up at the dim hillside with a big rock on top that clearly, even in the dark night, said “MAZI.”  The man we all loved and admired and appreciated and missed.

Mazi. You are perhaps the only person who could get this group of women out past 8:00, and not only out of their houses but climbing steep wet hills, with paint!  At 12:30 we were all still texting each other in excitement, sharing pictures, imagining what you might have made of this.

You are gone but the powerful passion for life that you brought to everyone around you lives on in all the lives you touched.  It fueled us all that crazy hill-climbing night, made us greedy to live large in your name.   Thank you for inspiring that kind of fiery joy.

I know God has already blessed you, I know God has blessed us with knowing you, I only hope that God blesses those left behind with some ways to get along until they are with you again.  With you again to play your beloved soccer, watch you dance with your beloved family, to once again stand in the light that was so uniquely yours.  God bless and hold you for us all.