Today, our daughter found out that after frst being denied admittance to her dream graduate school, her appeal was accepted. She will be attending the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD) in the fall. This is great news for her - and for me. She is such a talented artist and writer! I want her to use her talent for her life's work, and having a master's degree in Arts Administration will help her stay in the arts.
Another benefit of her schooling is that Savannah is a great place to visit. I will be so excited to go visit her, especially in winter! We went to Savannah a couple of times before she graduated from high school, because she was accepted at SCAD for undergraduate work. Although we loved the town and its proximity to the beach and the food, she decided to get a liberal arts education at Hendrix instead, and then get a graduate degree in the field she wanted to pursue.
And so there she will be - farther away from home than she has ever been for an extended period of time, except for an 8-week period she spent in Italy in the summer of 2009. I don't know if I will be able to take it. I will miss her like crazy. This parenting thing is very difficult. I wouldn't change it, but being a mother really is like letting my heart walk around outside my body.
I am so proud of her, and admire her sense of self and her talent. Were I to have had those abilities when I was but 22! Go, Emily!
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Life
Trite phrases all: "Live each day to the fullest;" "Don't take anything for granted;" "None of knows when it will be our turn;" and my personal favorite, "Life is too short to (fill in the blank)."
And yet every one of these stupid statements is great advice. We don't know how long we have. We should live each day to the fullest. But our own personal protection devices prevent us from doing just those things. We don't think that we are going to die tomorrow. We don't think that today may be the last. We think that our lives stretch out in front of us ad infinitum and that we have all the time in the world to do what we want, to reach our goals, to enjoy life, to make things right, to stop and smell the roses.
The truth is, of course, that we don't. This week, I am surrounded by the abruptness of life, the fragility of life, the admonition, "In the midst of life we are in death."
Logically, my Sunday School teachers told me, we begin dying the moment we are born. Our progress is through life and toward death, and toward what waits for us. It sounded fine when I was untouched by sadness, when all I knew and loved were living and vital and joyous and part of my days. It sounded as if what would happen would be far away. It wasn't real. It wasn't tangible. And when death finally occurred, we would be gently taken to something better than what we were experiencing here on this earth. That was fine with me then.
It continued being fine, because all I knew and loved continued to live and be vital and joyous and part of my days. My parents, my grandparents, even my great-grandmother and great-uncle lived their days, and because I was fine with life's progression toward death, a long time away, I treated those I knew and loved the way Emily told the Stage Manager I did, and everyone else on earth treats those they know and love: I didn't look at them, I didn't treasure each day with them, I didn't hold them close enough.
And then, death began touching my life, first my grandmother, whose demise came not from her Parkinson's Disease, but from a fall she took as she was walking for exercise. A few years later, my great-grandmother decided that 102 years was all she wanted to stay here. And then within a short three years, my grandfather stopped wanting to live in three centuries, my father succumbed to his years of cigarette smoking, and my maternal grandmother, after a massive brain stem stroke, finally gave up after 26 days of trying not to.
I didn't see, anymore, that death seemed this inanimate, benign thing that we all approached as a natural part of what happened from the moment we are born. It became insidious, vile, intruding on all I knew and loved, making me hurt in a way I had not before. Even then, however, it was coming in some sort of logical order - those I lost had spent long periods of time on this earth, they were falling in the expected order: Oldest, older, old.
And then, it started invading other parts of my life: a friend from law school, the husband of another friend, and then another, and then another, a friend's daughter - how unfair is that! - siblings of friends, and friends. My life, by measurement, became shorter and shorter. My expectations became worrisome and fearful. But then, of course, my personal protection devices kicked in, and life became uneventful for a while, lulling me back into the false security that all is well, all will continue to be well, and all will always be well. My husband was well. My daughter was well. The rest of my family was well. I could look past those horrid events and focus on looking at my family and friends, holding them close, treasuring them.
Until death, that dark shadowy figure that probably smirks most of the time, started lurking around again, hiding around corners, in alleys, finding more of those who mean much to me, and those whose lives are my life's measurements. "Begone!" I say."Begone!" He doesn't go.
He approaches.
Live life anyway. Love, hold, treasure. Live.
And yet every one of these stupid statements is great advice. We don't know how long we have. We should live each day to the fullest. But our own personal protection devices prevent us from doing just those things. We don't think that we are going to die tomorrow. We don't think that today may be the last. We think that our lives stretch out in front of us ad infinitum and that we have all the time in the world to do what we want, to reach our goals, to enjoy life, to make things right, to stop and smell the roses.
The truth is, of course, that we don't. This week, I am surrounded by the abruptness of life, the fragility of life, the admonition, "In the midst of life we are in death."
Logically, my Sunday School teachers told me, we begin dying the moment we are born. Our progress is through life and toward death, and toward what waits for us. It sounded fine when I was untouched by sadness, when all I knew and loved were living and vital and joyous and part of my days. It sounded as if what would happen would be far away. It wasn't real. It wasn't tangible. And when death finally occurred, we would be gently taken to something better than what we were experiencing here on this earth. That was fine with me then.
It continued being fine, because all I knew and loved continued to live and be vital and joyous and part of my days. My parents, my grandparents, even my great-grandmother and great-uncle lived their days, and because I was fine with life's progression toward death, a long time away, I treated those I knew and loved the way Emily told the Stage Manager I did, and everyone else on earth treats those they know and love: I didn't look at them, I didn't treasure each day with them, I didn't hold them close enough.
And then, death began touching my life, first my grandmother, whose demise came not from her Parkinson's Disease, but from a fall she took as she was walking for exercise. A few years later, my great-grandmother decided that 102 years was all she wanted to stay here. And then within a short three years, my grandfather stopped wanting to live in three centuries, my father succumbed to his years of cigarette smoking, and my maternal grandmother, after a massive brain stem stroke, finally gave up after 26 days of trying not to.
I didn't see, anymore, that death seemed this inanimate, benign thing that we all approached as a natural part of what happened from the moment we are born. It became insidious, vile, intruding on all I knew and loved, making me hurt in a way I had not before. Even then, however, it was coming in some sort of logical order - those I lost had spent long periods of time on this earth, they were falling in the expected order: Oldest, older, old.
And then, it started invading other parts of my life: a friend from law school, the husband of another friend, and then another, and then another, a friend's daughter - how unfair is that! - siblings of friends, and friends. My life, by measurement, became shorter and shorter. My expectations became worrisome and fearful. But then, of course, my personal protection devices kicked in, and life became uneventful for a while, lulling me back into the false security that all is well, all will continue to be well, and all will always be well. My husband was well. My daughter was well. The rest of my family was well. I could look past those horrid events and focus on looking at my family and friends, holding them close, treasuring them.
Until death, that dark shadowy figure that probably smirks most of the time, started lurking around again, hiding around corners, in alleys, finding more of those who mean much to me, and those whose lives are my life's measurements. "Begone!" I say."Begone!" He doesn't go.
He approaches.
Live life anyway. Love, hold, treasure. Live.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Going to a baseball game!
I had forgotten the thrill of walking up the steps toward the plaza where Polish dogs and beer wait for me. I had forgotten the feeling of a soft summer night at the ball park, hearing the crack of a bat, watching the players trot to their places on the playing field, the taste of the aforesaid Polish, kraut, and beer, and the simple pleasure of feeling the warm air on my skin under the baseball lights. We went to a Royals game last night, and though they lost, I felt happy just to be there.
Thanks to a friend, we sat on the second row back from the visitors' dugout, close to the field, close to the little kids who swarmed down the aisle at the end of each inning, hoping against hope to snag a ball thrown by a member of the visiting team into the crowd. We cheered with the crowd when someone made a good play, became disgruntled with the umpire when he continued to allow a low strike zone, and just felt as if nothing in the world could be wrong because we were at Royals Stadium (I cannot to this day denigrate Mr. Kauffman by calling it "The K"). What a night!
I also remembered wondering, all those years ago, when I went to a game about every other day, what it would be like to be paid to play a game that I loved. At some point, I recalled the day my mother told me that my father could no longer afford to buy the season tickets that had made him feel so successful, and I recalled feeling as if somehow, life would not be quite the same. I felt sad, too, when I remembered seeing Paul Splittorff pitch in game after game, and then I recalled my anger when Whitey Herzog took him out of one of the Yankees-Royals playoff games. I knew he would have been able to get them out, but Whitey didn't trust him. We lost that game.
What a mixture of feelings at such a special event! I had forgotten. I am glad to have remembered.
Thanks to a friend, we sat on the second row back from the visitors' dugout, close to the field, close to the little kids who swarmed down the aisle at the end of each inning, hoping against hope to snag a ball thrown by a member of the visiting team into the crowd. We cheered with the crowd when someone made a good play, became disgruntled with the umpire when he continued to allow a low strike zone, and just felt as if nothing in the world could be wrong because we were at Royals Stadium (I cannot to this day denigrate Mr. Kauffman by calling it "The K"). What a night!
I also remembered wondering, all those years ago, when I went to a game about every other day, what it would be like to be paid to play a game that I loved. At some point, I recalled the day my mother told me that my father could no longer afford to buy the season tickets that had made him feel so successful, and I recalled feeling as if somehow, life would not be quite the same. I felt sad, too, when I remembered seeing Paul Splittorff pitch in game after game, and then I recalled my anger when Whitey Herzog took him out of one of the Yankees-Royals playoff games. I knew he would have been able to get them out, but Whitey didn't trust him. We lost that game.
What a mixture of feelings at such a special event! I had forgotten. I am glad to have remembered.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Traveling
We have returned from spending 10 hours in the car in order to spend about 5 hours with our daughter! Who but a parent would do such a thing?
We decided to go to Conway to see Emily for dinner on Father's Day. All the way down, we listened to the Open, hoping that Rory McIlroy would win the thing, which he did. My iPhone applications are remarkable things - this one actually simulcast with the radio, and we heard the tournament as it happened.
On the way back, however, we passed through Harrison, Arkansas, and I remembered that I hadn't told you about 1929 Hotel Seville, where we stayed when we went to see Emily receive the Bennett Prize, a cash award for the best paper dealing with business ethics. We couldn't leave for Conway until after choir practice at 8 on that Wednesday, and could not drive the whole 5 hours fully awake, so we decided to try to find a hotel about halfway there. Because all the chains were full, we looked at the Seville and decided to give it a try. What a delight!
Our room was very small, but adequate, and most important, the bathroom had been renovated so that it was the best space in the room. We had a walk-in shower and the whole bathroom was completely tiled. Best, the price we paid for the room, which I don't remember right now, was very reasonable. We also had covered parking, and I slept through the night in the very comfortable bed. The hotel has a restaurant in the lobby, where at least breakfast is served, and presumably, so is lunch and dinner. The bar is gorgeous, but all were closed by the time we arrived that night.
So if you are on the road in northwest Arkansas and need a place to stop for the night, remember the 1929 Hotel Seville in Harrison.
We decided to go to Conway to see Emily for dinner on Father's Day. All the way down, we listened to the Open, hoping that Rory McIlroy would win the thing, which he did. My iPhone applications are remarkable things - this one actually simulcast with the radio, and we heard the tournament as it happened.
On the way back, however, we passed through Harrison, Arkansas, and I remembered that I hadn't told you about 1929 Hotel Seville, where we stayed when we went to see Emily receive the Bennett Prize, a cash award for the best paper dealing with business ethics. We couldn't leave for Conway until after choir practice at 8 on that Wednesday, and could not drive the whole 5 hours fully awake, so we decided to try to find a hotel about halfway there. Because all the chains were full, we looked at the Seville and decided to give it a try. What a delight!
Our room was very small, but adequate, and most important, the bathroom had been renovated so that it was the best space in the room. We had a walk-in shower and the whole bathroom was completely tiled. Best, the price we paid for the room, which I don't remember right now, was very reasonable. We also had covered parking, and I slept through the night in the very comfortable bed. The hotel has a restaurant in the lobby, where at least breakfast is served, and presumably, so is lunch and dinner. The bar is gorgeous, but all were closed by the time we arrived that night.
So if you are on the road in northwest Arkansas and need a place to stop for the night, remember the 1929 Hotel Seville in Harrison.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Bridesmaids and Hangovers
A couple of years ago, Max and I decided to see "The Hangover." I wasn't sure whether I really liked it, but I thought the script was very well written and intriguing, and I thought, sorry guys, that it supported the idea that most men are pretty much focused on one or two things, and those are not responsiblity and steadfastness.
When we saw the trailers for "Bridesmaids," we decided to see it, thinking that it would be the female version of "The Hangover," and because my husband really likes "Molly," of "Mike and Molly" fame, who is one of the bridesmaids. Part of the movie was girls behaving badly, but that part was small. Most of the movie centered around how women navigate through their days, needing friends, fighting against failure, trying to find a place in the world, and ignoring nice guys in favor of men who are more exciting and daring. I was glad to have gone to the movie, and glad that it was its own story rather than a girls' "Hangover." Its lessons were thought-provoking and interesting instead of simply silly and funny.
And then we went to see the second "Hangover." I was not particularly disappointed because I knew that it would not be as intriguingly written as the first one; however, I did enjoy the expanded role of the Asian drug dealer. I didn't enjoy the expanded role of "Alan." What had made him so funny in the first movie was his ability to succinctly say something totally stupid at the wrong time. He talked too much in this sequel. This incarnation also had a higher "gross" factor, and certainly a higher raunchy factor. What else could you expect from a movie that has a monkey playing more than a bit part?
One thing I must add: I have foamed at the mouth for years about films' gratuitous showing of female breasts. I get irritated when women are asked to disrobe in order to add something of a sexual nature to a film, especially when men's genitals are never exposed for the same reason. "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," however, did have male frontal nudity, as did "The Crying Game." My husband asked me, after we left the "Hangover" theater, whether I was happy now, because the movie did contain male frontal nudity. Nope, I'm not happy. The shots were in no way designed to make men sexual objects. They were there simply to add some fun to the works. And they did.
People who like to go to movies can take in both these films this summer. They will enjoy one two-hour break from reality, and one two-hour, somewhat whimsical but enlightening visit to women's lives.
When we saw the trailers for "Bridesmaids," we decided to see it, thinking that it would be the female version of "The Hangover," and because my husband really likes "Molly," of "Mike and Molly" fame, who is one of the bridesmaids. Part of the movie was girls behaving badly, but that part was small. Most of the movie centered around how women navigate through their days, needing friends, fighting against failure, trying to find a place in the world, and ignoring nice guys in favor of men who are more exciting and daring. I was glad to have gone to the movie, and glad that it was its own story rather than a girls' "Hangover." Its lessons were thought-provoking and interesting instead of simply silly and funny.
And then we went to see the second "Hangover." I was not particularly disappointed because I knew that it would not be as intriguingly written as the first one; however, I did enjoy the expanded role of the Asian drug dealer. I didn't enjoy the expanded role of "Alan." What had made him so funny in the first movie was his ability to succinctly say something totally stupid at the wrong time. He talked too much in this sequel. This incarnation also had a higher "gross" factor, and certainly a higher raunchy factor. What else could you expect from a movie that has a monkey playing more than a bit part?
One thing I must add: I have foamed at the mouth for years about films' gratuitous showing of female breasts. I get irritated when women are asked to disrobe in order to add something of a sexual nature to a film, especially when men's genitals are never exposed for the same reason. "Forgetting Sarah Marshall," however, did have male frontal nudity, as did "The Crying Game." My husband asked me, after we left the "Hangover" theater, whether I was happy now, because the movie did contain male frontal nudity. Nope, I'm not happy. The shots were in no way designed to make men sexual objects. They were there simply to add some fun to the works. And they did.
People who like to go to movies can take in both these films this summer. They will enjoy one two-hour break from reality, and one two-hour, somewhat whimsical but enlightening visit to women's lives.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
New Moms
I went to a baby shower today for the daughter of a good friend. I was taken with the beautiful young women, all friends, who were new mothers and looking forward to a life of raising children with only the best of what life has to offer. These young women's families have been friends for years, and now they are grown, still close, and all having children around the same time, so THEIR families will continue the long-term, close relationships.
They were young and glowing, smiling, laughing at each other's jokes and stories, remembering past vacations and school stunts, generally reminding me of the women at the parties detailed in The Great Gatsby, where life seemed easy and carefree. I thought back to the days of my pregnancy and the days after a new life was placed in my arms, and I was envious of their confidence in knowing that their best days were ahead of them, that life would offer much and take little, and that they would go forward with more than a modicum of security in their lives and their families. I, too, was just like them at that time in my life, knowing that life would be good, would not disappoint me, would bring me everything I could hope or aspire to have.
And generally, I have been right. Now, 22 years later, I love my husband, my child, my home, the opportunities to beneficially use my gifts and talents in my work, my friends, and my family. My disappointment is that life has not been a party from The Great Gatsby, where everything is easy and carefree. I have been hurt, betrayed, friends have left, some have died, my family is much smaller, I have lost an election, I have gained weight. All in all, however, I am one of the lucky ones and am grateful for those days years ago when I, too, saw life as all possibility, and I am grateful that much of that possibility has come to fruition.
They were young and glowing, smiling, laughing at each other's jokes and stories, remembering past vacations and school stunts, generally reminding me of the women at the parties detailed in The Great Gatsby, where life seemed easy and carefree. I thought back to the days of my pregnancy and the days after a new life was placed in my arms, and I was envious of their confidence in knowing that their best days were ahead of them, that life would offer much and take little, and that they would go forward with more than a modicum of security in their lives and their families. I, too, was just like them at that time in my life, knowing that life would be good, would not disappoint me, would bring me everything I could hope or aspire to have.
And generally, I have been right. Now, 22 years later, I love my husband, my child, my home, the opportunities to beneficially use my gifts and talents in my work, my friends, and my family. My disappointment is that life has not been a party from The Great Gatsby, where everything is easy and carefree. I have been hurt, betrayed, friends have left, some have died, my family is much smaller, I have lost an election, I have gained weight. All in all, however, I am one of the lucky ones and am grateful for those days years ago when I, too, saw life as all possibility, and I am grateful that much of that possibility has come to fruition.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Captain Queeg and Bonnie
When I was in high school, my English teacher, who happened to be my mother, was acutely aware that boys didn't particularly want to read about Jane Eyre or other heroines with unusual romantic entanglements. She allowed that we could read, for our required readings for the year, WAR books, such as The Caine Mutiny by Herman Wouk, Battle Cry by Leon Uris, and All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. Little did she know that her own daughter would take her up on reading those books.
I had long suspected that my father had suffered ill effects from his part in the war, and I wondered what he had experienced that had such an effect on him that he would rarely, if ever, speak of his service. One day, when my mother, my sister, and I were somewhat paying attention to a war movie that was playing on some television channel, my father walked through the room and made an offhand comment that he had seen too often was was being depicted on the screen: A pilot, during dive bombing training, would become so fixed on the target that he forgot to pull out of his dive, smashing the plane and all occupants into the ocean. Daddy said that he one time saw, because he was so close to the plane, the co-pilot coming out of his seat, pounding on the pilot trying to make him pull out of the dive to no avail. Daddy said that the last thing that co-pilot did was hit the pilot, and then they crashed into the water, and all aboard were dead.
So tonight, while I was cooking dinner, beginning with appetizers of a pureed pea and mint crostini, I turned on the Turner Classic Movie channel. The Caine Mutiny was showing. Humphrey Bogart was at his finest as the demented Captain Queeg. I have to say that I see the trial differently because I now am a lawyer, but I still don't fault Marek for what he did. Of course, I think we should keep in mind that I would probably be a coward in war, and I might have been called "Old Yellowstain." I certainly hope not. As I watched the movie, I remembered Queeg's eccentricities, and found myself wanting to read the book once more. Fortunately, I have the book, and will pull it out so that I can remember all the character nuances and the events that led up to the "mutiny."
One wonders how Queeg ever advanced to Captain. I think I believe in the Peter Principle, but I think that I will once again read the book, this time with a jaded eye toward any war and this time with a 58-year-old perspective. I wonder what will change.
I had long suspected that my father had suffered ill effects from his part in the war, and I wondered what he had experienced that had such an effect on him that he would rarely, if ever, speak of his service. One day, when my mother, my sister, and I were somewhat paying attention to a war movie that was playing on some television channel, my father walked through the room and made an offhand comment that he had seen too often was was being depicted on the screen: A pilot, during dive bombing training, would become so fixed on the target that he forgot to pull out of his dive, smashing the plane and all occupants into the ocean. Daddy said that he one time saw, because he was so close to the plane, the co-pilot coming out of his seat, pounding on the pilot trying to make him pull out of the dive to no avail. Daddy said that the last thing that co-pilot did was hit the pilot, and then they crashed into the water, and all aboard were dead.
So tonight, while I was cooking dinner, beginning with appetizers of a pureed pea and mint crostini, I turned on the Turner Classic Movie channel. The Caine Mutiny was showing. Humphrey Bogart was at his finest as the demented Captain Queeg. I have to say that I see the trial differently because I now am a lawyer, but I still don't fault Marek for what he did. Of course, I think we should keep in mind that I would probably be a coward in war, and I might have been called "Old Yellowstain." I certainly hope not. As I watched the movie, I remembered Queeg's eccentricities, and found myself wanting to read the book once more. Fortunately, I have the book, and will pull it out so that I can remember all the character nuances and the events that led up to the "mutiny."
One wonders how Queeg ever advanced to Captain. I think I believe in the Peter Principle, but I think that I will once again read the book, this time with a jaded eye toward any war and this time with a 58-year-old perspective. I wonder what will change.
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