Saving "for good?" Now is GOOD!

At age 68, my mother, a life-long non-smoker who had seldom even been near second-hand smoke, was diagnosed with lung cancer. It was thought that surgery would remove the small spot and surrounding lung lobe; the outlook was good for totally removing the cancer and recovery. However, she acquired Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome and died shortly after the surgery.
 
Later when my sisters and I were readying her house for sale, we had to go through every drawer, closet, and storage space. Know what we found? New unused clothing with the tags attached. New unused towels and sheets with sales receipts. Barely used “good china” along with the seldom used Irish wool blanket I’d given her decades ago.

My mother was a frugal but not miserly woman. She lived carefully within her means and enjoyed her possessions. Underneath her actions was a driving philosophy of “save it for good” that led to leaving behind unused and barely used treasures that could have brought her pleasure during her life--waiting for something unknown and undefined. I don’t know whether this philosophy was born in the Great Depression or part of life beliefs carried across the sea from Scot Irish ancestors and instilled into generations of Shenandoah Valley residents.

I thought about the joy and pleasure she had missed from not using these obviously treasured belongings—waiting for some undefined “good” in some unknown future time.
 
While there is merit in this philosophy which can extend the useful lifetime of a piece of clothing or teach one the benefits of not always choosing instant gratification, there is also an element of fear of “not enough” and a concern that everyday living is “not worthy” of the best that life has to offer.

Like many aging children, I thought I have enough time and distance to have carefully chosen which childhood mantras, beliefs, and teachings I follow. However, I’ve come to question whether I, too, have not unknowingly followed the “save it for good” philosophy.
 
During the past year, my husband and I, like many Boomers, have faced life threatening illness and accidents, loss of jobs and income, distress within the extended family, and concerns about the future of our family and our nation. I’m trying to determine the optimal balance for me between work and home. Big decisions are required. So I’ve been reviewing my own actions and life philosophies. Know what I learned?

I, too, have been “saving it for good” in many ways. Yes, I realized I was delaying wearing certain items of clothing or jewelry, waiting for increasingly less frequent “special” occasions. There are some linens and decorations that have been stored away waiting for “company.”
 
But more insidious than delaying my enjoyment of these belongings, is the creeping thought process that can delay action in other parts of my life.
 
I had procrastinated resuming yoga classes—waiting until I was in perfect condition. Sometimes there’s the thought that I must wait until my spirituality is “perfect” before advancing prayer or meditation practice or joining a group.

Looking in my closet, I rediscovered a beautiful handmade, brilliantly colored blue poncho that I had purchased in Ecuador nine years ago—seldom worn. I’ve been “saving it for good” waiting for some worthy occasion! There are a couple of beautiful jeweled rings and a couple of pairs of earrings that have been languishing unworn in the jewelry box.

Well, I am not a frivolous spendthrift nor do I abuse my belongings. These treasured items bring me joy just by looking at them and it makes me smile to wear them, so I am now wearing them without waiting for a big occasion. It’s ok to wear the earrings and rings and beautiful poncho to the grocery store or to yoga class.

I’m no longer waiting until I’m perfect to express my spiritual beliefs, prayer practice or meditation. I resumed my yoga classes and am regaining my strength.

The “good” is every day. Every day is good. I can enjoy NOW without fear of being undeserving or unworthy. “This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad.”

 

 

BWM Breathing While Male--He's Guilty!

I’ve served as the prosecuting attorney, judge and jury in the case against TLH (The Loving Husband). I’ve already convicted him of BWM (Breathing While Male), which might be known in some locations as BUIT (Breathing Under the Influence of Testosterone).



Now, I love this tall, skinny husband dearly and wouldn’t trade him for anything. He buys me jewelry, writes romantic verses for me and cares when I feel sad. However, the man is guilty, guilty, guilty of BWM (Breathing While Male).


What did he do? Well, in the big scheme of things his actions are not galaxy-sized transgressions. He hasn’t gone off for a pack of cigarettes and disappeared, or gambled away our nest egg, or done more than look lustily at the beauties of South America on our travels. I’ve clearly warned him it’s a look but don’t touch policy!


But he acts just like a male. For example, I was in the midst of sorting tubsful of laundry into piles organized by color, fabric type and level of dirt. There were piles of towels to the left, underwear to the right, and dark colors in the middle. Even as I was stooping, reaching, and placing clothing, he walked on the laundry!

Now, this man is no slouch in the intelligence arena. He has a PhD in molecular biology, plays classical guitar and works in biotech. Yet, when I screeched “HUSBAND” at him and inquired why he walked on the clothes I was sorting, his best reply was a double-shoulder shrug accompanied by “huh?” After a few moments, he added, “well, you’re going to wash them aren’t you?”


Shortly thereafter, I discovered that for the hundredth time he had used a measuring spoon to pour coffee into his special coffee maker (Yes, we have separate coffee makers—another tale!) and then returned it to the drawer with clean utensils, spilling coffee grounds in the drawer. Overcome by exasperation and a total inability to understand why someone would do this, I foolishly asked him “why?” From the man who can spend an hour explaining to me the structure of crystals when I just asked him to pass the salt, once again came the “huh?” This time, it was followed by “well, I won’t do it again.” Do you think he caught on that I didn’t like coffee grounds on every spoon, measuring cup and spatula in the drawer? The “why” mystery remains.

Evidence of yet another BWM transgression is apparent on his side of the closet. I try to avert my head, but he recently asked me for help in packing for a business trip. (He cleverly gained my labor by praising my ability to pack things with layers of plastic so the clothes don’t wrinkle.) I started selecting shirts and pants from the shelves and noticed they were hung crookedly, stained, stinky or, in general, not suitable for wear. As prosecuting attorney for this charge, I asked “why can’t you put dirty clothes in the laundry or take them to the dry cleaners instead of just putting them back in the closet?” Again, “huh” was the reply.


So, I ask you, isn’t he clearly guilty of Breathing While Male? I’ve sentenced him to life—in marriage with me. Of course, if you were to hear his summation, he might tell you I’m guilty of BWF (Breathing While Female) and list among my transgressions putting underwear in the dirty basket after one use, singing off-key, and having an inordinate desire for purses, jewelry and handbags.

Radio: The Magic Carpet Ride

As a teenage Baby Boomer, it was a major thrill when I received a small, portable radio for my birthday. It was about 7 inches wide, about 2 inches deep and about 5 inches tall. A long pullout antenna allowed me to search the airwaves for any station whose signal was strong enough to push through the mountains into my little valley near the James River in the southern end of the Shenandoah Valley. A little cylinder would spin and spin past FM and AM stations seeking a sound.

The nearest major city was Roanoke Virginia, a little further south. FM was king of the airwaves; but AM was still a powerful queen. Rock n’roll ruled, and I thought DJs had the best jobs in the world.

Listening to radio was close to a religious rite for me and other teens, and what we heard lured us into a world of ideas translated into music--ideas that were beyond what we read in textbooks or Sunday School literature.

It was on that little radio with the pullout antennae that I first heard the Beatles’ Strawberry Fields and was amazed because it was unlike anything else at that time. In those teen years, I listened to a variety of sounds from “Puff, the Magic Dragon,” to “Deep Purple,” to “Surfin’ USA.”

Radio introduced me to The Righteous Brothers, Aretha Franklin, the Byrds, the Animals, Sly and the Family Stone, Simon and Garfunkle, Percy Sledge, the Turtles, the Doors, Bob Dylan, Emmy Lou Harris and hundreds of other Boomer entertainers who became part of the musical fabric of my life and the lives of my peers. These were not the musical choices of my parents.

At night when I couldn’t get a clear strong signal on FM, WOWO, an AM clear channel 50,000 watts station from Ft. Wayne , IN, blasted in my ear. I had no idea what kind of city Ft. Wayne was; I just listened because it had a strong signal. I was impressed to receive my music from a thousand miles away.

Radio was a magic carpet ride for me. It was woven of dazzlingly different designs and patterns from my everyday life. Radio gave me rock n’ roll and new ideas. I developed favorites and listened eagerly waiting hours for them to be played. Moreover, I enjoyed the exposure to new artists.

Now, I’m in a different decade of my Boomer life and I still enjoy radio—in the same and different ways. My radio signals mostly arrive on my computer now. There’s live streaming commercial radio as well as Public Radio from nearby and afar. I listen to these stations and enjoy the variety. I like the idea a program director or station manager has selected music for me; I enjoy the commercials.

Yes, I do enjoy being in charge of my stations on Pandora, and I am impressed by the multitude of music available at my whim on Spotify. I like it all. There will always be a place in my heart for radio—even if it comes to me via the Internet.

May I quote the Boomer philosopher we knew as Steppenwolf? “I like to dream, yes, yes, right between my sound machine, on a cloud of sound I drift in the night…Why don’t you come with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride?”

Do leaders lose their moral compass or did they have a faulty one all along?

Recent news of international and national business and government leaders with faulty judgment have made the news and stirred conversation.

Here are my thoughts: 1) Many organizations (large to small; government, business or non-profit) have policies that reward those who deliver flashy “results”--regardless of harm along the way, who tell leaders what they want to hear, and who are willing to bend the rules. 2) Organizations brand as "not-a-team-player" individuals who have a less flexible moral standard. 3) Regardless of the "talk" of doing right, organization leader do not "walk" the talk. 4) Those who are rewarded for their "flexibility" and "team player" ability surround themselves with like-minded folks as they advance. 5) The process is self-perpetuating and those with a faulty moral compass continue to advance.

There are some who hold onto their beliefs and act based on their sense of morality. For example, I have long admired Senator Richard Lugar from Indiana. I believe he has a strong moral compass and uses it to guide his political decisions. And, no I don't support his political party or any other specific political party. 

In my 12 years in a large major corporation I saw those who got ahead by treading on others, by corruption, and by trickery. A few got caught along the way. Others did not. Frequently these individuals were on the "fast track" and were held up to the rest of us as examples to follow. I remember one entrepreneurial-spirited young man who used company time to build his own business over a period of two years; he then leave the company to run an already strong corporation. Many of the rest of us chaffed when upper management held him up as a positive example. 

Another “flexible” manager finagled his way into a top communications job by chicanery and was caught at last when the ad agency made public his demand for kickbacks. Yet, for years, the organization rewarded him instead of praising and promoting those who had a good moral compass along with skill and true dedication to the company. Many of us were aware of his outside “girlfriends,” yet we were helpless as he ruined the career of less “flexible” underlings and by-passed for promotion those with real talent who did not blindly praise him. 

Do I think the recent publicity will make a difference or make those folks change? No, absolutely not. They feel above the rules and do not feel badly about what they are doing. They do not think they will be caught because they are doing “nothing wrong," since they don't have a sense of right-and-wrong that we would recognize.

Until all organizations have a culture that “walks the talk” and has leadership that values skilled individuals who have a moral compass, nothing will change. 

One final note: please do NOT confuse having a strong sense of moral right-and-wrong with being “overtly, publicly religious” or with professing to be a follower of any specific religion. The two are not synonomous.

Answering "How Are You?" in Southern

Something a bookstore owner in Roanoke, Virginia, asked me a couple of years ago has been rattling around in my brain. "Why is it," she asked, "that when I (who grew up in another state and recently moved to the Valley of Virginia), "ask people how are they, they don't respond by asking me how I am?"

That was a new question to me and I couldn't help but think that I, who grew up in the heart of the Shenandoah Valley, in Rockbridge County, Virginia, have always had a bit of reluctance to respond to that question and to ask it back to the questioner. Why is that?

Having pondered that question, I have a few guesses. My thoughts may be based on snippets of information jumbled together in a stew of opinion, but I'll share them anyway. Perhaps a reader who is experienced in linguistics and history can tell me if I'm even close to the factual evidence. Of course, my friendly bookstore owner who didn't grow up in the Shenandoah Valley may be overgeneralizing. 

My theories on why we "mountain people" aren't comfortable with the typical "HowAreYOU?" accompanied by "FineHowAreYOU" line of questioning are: 1) We consider it a personal intrusive question. 2) We don't want to reveal personal detail, and a "fine" response would be an untruth, and we are not comfortable with untruths. 3) We don't want to get involved with strangers on personal issues. 4) We want to be polite and respectful. 5) We want to keep a distance from strangers.

When I think back on the core values of my mountain, Scot-Irish, Presbyterian childhood, I view: privacy, honesty, tending-to-your-own business, being respectful, being polite and having manners, and being suspicious of outsiders. Now, I'm not saying these are all admirable traits; I'm just saying, these are core values I inferred from those around me.

The call-and-response "HowAreYou" ritual brings these values into collision. First, we are a bit shocked that someone who is not family or a close neighbor asks an intrusive question because the questioner is being nosy and crossing an invisible border. Then, we remember our manners and want to polite but we don't want to answer that the mortgage is past due, we just lost our job, the kids were arrested for drugs and we don't know where the next meal is coming from. (Ok, I'm exaggerating a bit.) So the manners kick in, and we fake a smile and reply "fine." Honesty versus manners. Keep your distance from others.

However, we don't want to be intrusive into the questioner's life, so we don't follow up with the "and how are you?" easily. We don't want to put that stranger into the same uncomfortable position we were in. 

I’ve just returned to live in the Shenandoah Valley, this time at the top of the Valley in Winchester, Virginia. For over 30 years I lived in Indiana, where Hoosiers have mid-Western politeness. I’ve visited 48 of the 50 states, Canada, Europe, the Caribbean, and South America. It’s easy for me to ask and answer in Spanish “Como estas?” “Estoy bien, y tu?” because it’s what I’ve learned from phrase books. Yes, I can go through the “HowAreYOU?” ritual with only minimal distress now. If the situation demands it, I even ask “and how are you?”

But I know this is different than when an old-timer from “back home” asks “how are mama and them?”

Sunrise and sunset are different at the eastern edge of the time zone!

With sunny skies, little wind, warmish temperatures and fall color decorating the trees, today was a lovely day in Winchester, VA. But it just seems to get dark so much earlier here than in Indianapolis, IN.

How can that be, I wondered. Then, answered my own question. I'm on the eastern edge of the Eastern Time Zone, more than 600 miles east of Indianapolis, which is close to the western edge of the time zone.

If I were an early riser, which I'm not, perhaps I would see the sun rise minutes earlier than the folks in Indy. However, by 6 pm, it's dark here now.

What a difference a few hundred miles make!

I'm looking forward to spring and the return of Daylight Savings Time.

I can say it freely now: I like bluegrass music

Remember when you were a kid and went somewhere with your parents and tried to pretend that you were not really with them? Well, I did that a few times. I don't think I fooled anyone, including my parents.

It was sort of the same way with bluegrass/country music. My father, who's now 91, used to play guitar (not very well) and sing songs made popular by Bill Monroe, Ralph and Carter Stanley, Mother Maybelle, Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline. I used to pretend I didn't hear him. 

As a teen and young adult, I was trying to "prove to them" (whoever they were) that I wasn't a hillbilly and that I could indeed thrive in non-hillbilly conditions. I used to cringe at the fiddle sounds in Orange Blossom Special and pretend I wasn't captivated by the rhythm of Wildwood Flower.

I'm not sure what changed. Did I gain enough self-confidence to be myself? Did I gain enough knowledge of musical theory that I could appreciate the nuances of sound from opera to rock to bluegrass? Did I gain enough life experience to emphathize with the emotions in bluegrass and country music: love lost, love unrequited, hard times?

Somewhere in my mid-to-late 20s, I began to tap my feet to bluegrass, to sing-along, to hear the beauty of bluegrass harmony, to listen in amazement at the sounds of a dobro and a licketysplit banjo or fiddle.

Yes, I'm a child of the 60s and I "Cain't Get No Satisfaction" and I grooved to "InaGaddadavida," and knew "There's a Bad Moon Risin.'"

I weep with pleasure listening to Mozart. All I want is "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" and want to feel like a "Natural Woman."

However, I would like to ride "The Orange Blossom Special." I would like to hear the "Wabash Cannonball" rumble past. I occassionally have seen "The Wildwood Flower" here in the mountains of Virginia.

Yes, I do like bluegrass music.