In my life, I have been very good at remembering the wrongs done to me by various people. I think that, while it's not the healthiest stuff to carry around in our minds and hearts, it's natural. As I was walking and having quiet time (me and God) this afternoon, it occurred to me that I should be more mindful of harboring the good deeds done to me. So with that in mind, I started thinking back over my life of the range of people who have done something that still brings me joy today.
Joyce Hurley, my chorus teacher in Andalucia Elementary School taught me great songs that I still can sing. Mrs. Hurley cussed in front of me one time. I’ll never forget that. I was playing Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady in the 7th or 8th grade. We were talking about the fact that the show was double cast. I don’t recall exactly what we were discussing but I know that she told me that Debbie (the other Eliza) was “damn good and I knew it.” I actually thought I was much better. She put me lovingly, and in an adult way (she said “damn”!) in my place. I maturede a lot that season.
Lucy Linder, my French teacher at Alhambra High School hired me to housesit for her. My own place! In HIGH SCHOOL! I treasured the privacy and independence of having my own place for weeks at a time (Miss Linder took long trips). The drawback was she had a minimum of nine cats at a time. I remember one other funny thing about house sitting for her. She recommended me to the dean of girls at our Alhambra. I did not know this. I only knew that I was summoned to her office one afternoon. You did not get called to see Mrs. (Juanita) Lipton unless you had been caught smoking something or skipping something (like a class or a period). I sat outside her office while she berated some girl for something. I was running over all the possibilities of why she wanted to see me. Did Sandy, Debbie, Carolyn and I take too long at Taco Bell for lunch? Did I park in her space? When she called me in, she was all smiles and asked me if I’d house sit for her. Whew . . .
Pastor Bud Abrams taught me a couple of priceless lessons. During my junior year in high school things went bad between me and my best friend. We went in to see Bud for advice. He asked us to write down our grievances on paper which he furnished. I needed a second page, much to my friend’s dismay. When we finished writing he took the pages. We anxiously awaited him to read them and lay into the other. He folded them both up and tore them. Our jaws dropped. We protested. He calmly told us that this is what God does everyday with our sins and other shortcomings and we needed to learn how to do it too. We were united not only in our astonishment of what Bud had done, but in our love of Bud, God and, truly, always and still, each other. It got hard and I remember asking Bud how to carry on through such troubles. (A brief synopsis of what I was going through – my friend decided to start drinking and sleeping around in high school and shunned my friendship for other girls who behaved the same way.) Bud told me to “Sit back and let God love you.” Sounds simple but look at your own life and see the power of love.
If it weren’t for My piano professor at Grand Canyon College, Dr. Paul Paige, I may have never taught piano. He flat out told me one day that I should teach and handed me a name and phone number and that, my friends, is where it all began. He also got me this incredible job turning pages for the Sun City Fine Arts Society which put me at the keyboard of many fabulous players (and one harpist). I got to meet some huge artists like Chrisopher O’Reilly and Joshua Bell.
My piano students were a constant source of joy. I know, dear students, that I spent plenty of time harping on your not practicing or doing this or that right, but listen to this. One of my favorite memories is when one of you would prove me wrong. I’ll explain. Many times a student would request a song that was levels too difficult for them. I would often acquiesce with the warning that it may be too much. I loved returning the next week to see progress, especially when it turned into a recital or other performance piece. I appreciate every meal offered and given. I am humbled to remember how many times I was greeted at the door with smiles when I was 30 minutes late or had flat forgotten to show up the previous week. I cherish every picture, drawing, flower, piece of candy and gift of any sort ever given to me. I would wear them, eat them, hang them up (whichever was appropriate) with pride and joy.
My parents showed the kind of love and devotion that, I believe, only parents can have. When I was in high school there was a summer during which I was house sitting for Lucy Linder on the east side of town and starring in a musical in the community theater on the west side of town. These were the days when Phoenix had two freeways. One ran north-south and was located rather centrally, the other ran east-west and was located far south. The theater and Lucy’s house were north. This meant that every night, my full-time working parents had to take turns picking me up from practice on the west side after 10 PM (when we finished on time) and drive me the 30 or so minutes to Lucy’s house. They then had to pick me up the next day from Lucy’s house and drive me back for rehearsal. What did I get out of this? The temporal glory of a starring role in a musical and income for house sitting. What did my parents get? Sleepless nights.
To my students who are older and still living at home. Thank your parents more often. I look back at that time and I’m honestly not certain I even thanked them. It’s easy. Repeat after me, “Thanks, mom.” “Thanks, dad.”
Most of all I treasure all the people who have told me the truth. I mean the nitty-gritty difficult truth when it wasn’t easy on either of us. I am a better person because you did. If you had not told me that I was out of line, rude, negative, expecting too much, etc. I would still be the self-absorbed, selfish, vindictive, demanding monster I was in my twenties. We need to be able to tell each other the truth, especially when it is wrapped in love and concern. We have to be able to hear the truth and think on it. There are so many people who cannot talk with their neighbor, their son or daughter or friend if they do not agree on the topic. These are the same people who want world peace.
These things are so much better to keep lingering in our hearts than old gossip, lies and assorted abuses.
Happy Thanksgiving. I love you all.
P.S. During the time between Thanksgiving and the New Year I will NOT, repeat, NOT be reporting any of my dietary decisions. Thank you for your understanding.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Road Trip
After leaving our house (for perhaps the last time) we drove to Doug’s parents’ house to stay the night. It was fairly late and we were tired – not good company for what may be the last time we see them. I stayed out of the way and let Doug have time with them. We left the next morning, Saturday before Labor Day.
We mad an unusual stop in Rochester. We went to a Barnes and Noble to buy a book, blue highways by William Least Heat-Moon. Least Heat-Moon (whose father is Heat-Moon and older brother Little Heat-Moon) drove what is basically the perimeter of our nation avoiding at all costs the interstates. It is delightful to read particularly when you are driving the very roads he drove back in 1980 or so. It’s fun to read because he can write well making me laugh out loud at times and making me very somber at others. It’s an adventure complete with danger, odd encounters of humanity and self discovery. It is written in short chapters that require little commitment from the reader. I periodically read to Doug as we drove the roads.
Doug and I love road trips. He loves driving and seeing country he’s never seen before. I like road food (translate, fast food like Taco Bell and Subway), stopping for a drink (Pepsi) because I’m thirsty and “having” to eat out because we’re on the road.
We are a good pair on the road. Neither of us like noise so the radio is usually off and we rarely play CDs. I think we played two CDs the entire week we drove. I like to talk. Doug is funny here. If I want to guarantee conversation with Doug, all I have to do (at home) is pick up a book, get comfortable and start reading. All of a sudden he’s Mr. Chatterbox. BUT sit the two of us in a car for hours on end and it’s a one woman show. I remember one road trip he wanted to take. Two weeks out, I agreed with the stipulation that he would talk to me while he drove. Well, the day came and we sat down in the car. For the next hour and a half or so he never stopped talking. I was polite outwardly but inwardly was thinking “Who put a nickel in him?” and “For pity sake shut up!” It was then that I remembered my stipulation. He was fulfilling his end of the bargain. I praised him, thanked him and relieved him of duty. This roundabout trip to D.C. was a good balance of two-way conversation.
I say roundabout trip because we did not drive straight to Falls Church. I have two aunts and a cousin in Kentucky we visited. Doug has a friend from the service in the Gatlinburg area we met with over dinner. We also have a friend in Virginia (a couple hours outside D.C.) we stopped to have lunch with. It was a nice drive to see the country for the last time in quite a while.
If you have never driven the Blue Ridge Parkway, do it. Choose a non-touristy time of year so you don’t get totally frustrated with the single lanes backed up with nature gawkers. There are plenty of places to pull off and take pictures (and eat lunch from your ice chest). There are mountains and trees as far as you can see. The leaves were just barely starting to turn when we were there. We drove past many roads that shot off into the trees to someone’s unseen house.
There have been times of my life that the off roads would have tried my patience. You roll through small towns that set the speed limit at 30 for a couple or few miles. What set this trip aside is that we had almost no time commitments. We needed to be in Falls Church by the 13th of September. We could stop whenever something looked interesting or we had a hankering for a drink or snack. Once in a while we’d drive behind someone who was in less of a hurry than we were and we’d get sick and tired of looking at their bumper. Passing is tough because the road winds constantly. That’s when I’d read or we’d try to peek up those side roads to see what we could see.
Our time together in the car that week was good preparation for our months together in the apartment in Falls Church. More on that in a later posting.
The government paid for accommodations and food for direct travel to Falls Church. We weren’t sure what we’d be reimbursed for since we were taking an entire week and going so far out of the way so we were frugal. We loaded up an ice chest with leftovers from our refrigerator and ate those. The only meals we ate out were with my family and Doug’s friend and our other friend who we saw the day we arrived in Falls Church. We were doing so well eating leftovers I thought we should be eating out just to get the reimbursement. (Sometimes I don’t think very straight.) I will say I was pretty disciplined considering that this was the last week before Laura’s boot camp was to begin. I had very little Pepsi and only two small bags of dark chocolate M&Ms. I also exercised each night at the hotel. I also exercised in the car but that’s another story.
We mad an unusual stop in Rochester. We went to a Barnes and Noble to buy a book, blue highways by William Least Heat-Moon. Least Heat-Moon (whose father is Heat-Moon and older brother Little Heat-Moon) drove what is basically the perimeter of our nation avoiding at all costs the interstates. It is delightful to read particularly when you are driving the very roads he drove back in 1980 or so. It’s fun to read because he can write well making me laugh out loud at times and making me very somber at others. It’s an adventure complete with danger, odd encounters of humanity and self discovery. It is written in short chapters that require little commitment from the reader. I periodically read to Doug as we drove the roads.
Doug and I love road trips. He loves driving and seeing country he’s never seen before. I like road food (translate, fast food like Taco Bell and Subway), stopping for a drink (Pepsi) because I’m thirsty and “having” to eat out because we’re on the road.
We are a good pair on the road. Neither of us like noise so the radio is usually off and we rarely play CDs. I think we played two CDs the entire week we drove. I like to talk. Doug is funny here. If I want to guarantee conversation with Doug, all I have to do (at home) is pick up a book, get comfortable and start reading. All of a sudden he’s Mr. Chatterbox. BUT sit the two of us in a car for hours on end and it’s a one woman show. I remember one road trip he wanted to take. Two weeks out, I agreed with the stipulation that he would talk to me while he drove. Well, the day came and we sat down in the car. For the next hour and a half or so he never stopped talking. I was polite outwardly but inwardly was thinking “Who put a nickel in him?” and “For pity sake shut up!” It was then that I remembered my stipulation. He was fulfilling his end of the bargain. I praised him, thanked him and relieved him of duty. This roundabout trip to D.C. was a good balance of two-way conversation.
I say roundabout trip because we did not drive straight to Falls Church. I have two aunts and a cousin in Kentucky we visited. Doug has a friend from the service in the Gatlinburg area we met with over dinner. We also have a friend in Virginia (a couple hours outside D.C.) we stopped to have lunch with. It was a nice drive to see the country for the last time in quite a while.
If you have never driven the Blue Ridge Parkway, do it. Choose a non-touristy time of year so you don’t get totally frustrated with the single lanes backed up with nature gawkers. There are plenty of places to pull off and take pictures (and eat lunch from your ice chest). There are mountains and trees as far as you can see. The leaves were just barely starting to turn when we were there. We drove past many roads that shot off into the trees to someone’s unseen house.
There have been times of my life that the off roads would have tried my patience. You roll through small towns that set the speed limit at 30 for a couple or few miles. What set this trip aside is that we had almost no time commitments. We needed to be in Falls Church by the 13th of September. We could stop whenever something looked interesting or we had a hankering for a drink or snack. Once in a while we’d drive behind someone who was in less of a hurry than we were and we’d get sick and tired of looking at their bumper. Passing is tough because the road winds constantly. That’s when I’d read or we’d try to peek up those side roads to see what we could see.
Our time together in the car that week was good preparation for our months together in the apartment in Falls Church. More on that in a later posting.
The government paid for accommodations and food for direct travel to Falls Church. We weren’t sure what we’d be reimbursed for since we were taking an entire week and going so far out of the way so we were frugal. We loaded up an ice chest with leftovers from our refrigerator and ate those. The only meals we ate out were with my family and Doug’s friend and our other friend who we saw the day we arrived in Falls Church. We were doing so well eating leftovers I thought we should be eating out just to get the reimbursement. (Sometimes I don’t think very straight.) I will say I was pretty disciplined considering that this was the last week before Laura’s boot camp was to begin. I had very little Pepsi and only two small bags of dark chocolate M&Ms. I also exercised each night at the hotel. I also exercised in the car but that’s another story.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Pack Out
The State Department pays for us to relocate to Washington D.C. for Doug’s training. They pay movers to come pack our belongings into two separate shipments. A smaller shipment called unaccompanied baggage (a total of apx. 450 pounds between the two of us) which is sent to our apartment in Falls Church, Virginia and an enormous shipment of everything else (except what Doug and I pack in his car for the road trip).
I am not a very organized person. (Stop laughing, my dear students. At least I can admit it.) So when I found out that we were required to inventory our belongings I was a little overwhelmed. You’ll see the word “overwhelmed” many times in my writings of these days. I decided to begin right away. I started with what I considered easy, books. I listed every book Doug and I owned. Next I listed my clothes since I had to go through them anyway to get rid of pieces. I then moved to smaller groups like kitchen items, games, camping gear, pictures, furniture, etc. Do you want to know how many socks I have? How many frames we own? I can tell you. I was so pleased with myself. I was organized! I should have known that punishment loomed in my future.
I was instructed (more than once) that on the day the movers packed us, Doug and I were required to supervise the packing and keep an inventory of what was placed in each box. Doug and I discussed this one. I was concerned that movers would not appreciate us looking over their shoulder, that they may be offended that we thought they’d steal from us. I wanted the movers to like us so they’d do a good job. He assured me that these movers were informed as to these requirements and that they had done pack outs for other Foreign Service families. Great!
With all that in mind, I gathered items that needed to be packed together and marked them for long term storage, unaccompanied baggage or (a third category) storage ready to be transferred to wherever we were posted. For instance, all my renaissance festival stuff was in a pile, all our exercise equipment, our instruments, etc. This way, I thought, inventory would be easy as would packing and unpacking. On certain shelves of books, I marked long term storage on other shelves I marked store for overseas. Same with my music.
When the movers showed up, I was ready with my little pad of paper and pencil. I reminded the movers that we were required to watch the packing and inventory each box (I was still concerned about offending them). I was then told that no, I did not have to stand over and write down every item. The movers said that they inventoried the boxes. I was skeptical, but Doug assured me that I did not have to. Okay, less work for me. So, as we walked through the house with the supervisor, I pointed out the piles and my labeling system. He said he understood. We did switch labels to colors – yellow for items to be stored for easy access to be shipped overseas and red for long term storage. Easily done.
About halfway through the second day of packing, I saw one of the movers grabbing things from this pile and that pile and putting them in one box. I pointed out that he was mixing piles.
“Oh.” That was his response. “So you want the piles separate?”
“Yes!” I was nervous now. “That’s why they are labeled and separated!”
I started looking through the box he was packing. In it were things from my childhood, renaissance festival garb and an instrument or two. NO!!! I breathed deeply.
“I had these separated into clearly marked piles of items that need to be packed together.” I went over to the instruments and asked him where particular instruments were. He did not know. I looked at his “inventory” of each box he had packed. Each box read “basement, miscellaneous”. That’s an inventory??? All these boxes need to be repacked, I said and I ran to the supervisor. Had he not explained this to his fellow packers? Apparently not.
I get very frustrated – sometimes just plain livid – when I pay attention in life, act responsibly only to somehow, in the end, be punished for it. I learn too often that it does not matter what I do, fate will step in, swing its ugly hand around and what will happen, will happen regardless of my actions. This is one of those attitudes I’m working on in boot camp.
I want to say that I believe that packer was genuinely distraught over the situation. He spent the day looking for those two instruments and informed me when he found them. He had to unpack and repack eight boxes. Later, he came to me and said “Don’t forget, we’re here for you. If there is anything not right, speak up.” I believe he did that of his own accord and was sincere. Good man. It took the movers two full days to pack us out.
When Doug first found the house we lived in, we were just dating. I remember him telling me about it and taking me to see it. It was locked so all we could do was walk around it, stand on the porch and peer in the front window. To this day, I can still see what I saw in the house that day. That’s funny because I was just dating him and really didn’t think much of the house. If I were to buy a house, I’d want more than a few feet between it and the next house. Anyway, I do remember that day vividly. So after the movers were long gone and we had relaxed on the front stoop eating leftover pizza, we got up, held hands and walked to the front window and peered in one last time.
I am not a very organized person. (Stop laughing, my dear students. At least I can admit it.) So when I found out that we were required to inventory our belongings I was a little overwhelmed. You’ll see the word “overwhelmed” many times in my writings of these days. I decided to begin right away. I started with what I considered easy, books. I listed every book Doug and I owned. Next I listed my clothes since I had to go through them anyway to get rid of pieces. I then moved to smaller groups like kitchen items, games, camping gear, pictures, furniture, etc. Do you want to know how many socks I have? How many frames we own? I can tell you. I was so pleased with myself. I was organized! I should have known that punishment loomed in my future.
I was instructed (more than once) that on the day the movers packed us, Doug and I were required to supervise the packing and keep an inventory of what was placed in each box. Doug and I discussed this one. I was concerned that movers would not appreciate us looking over their shoulder, that they may be offended that we thought they’d steal from us. I wanted the movers to like us so they’d do a good job. He assured me that these movers were informed as to these requirements and that they had done pack outs for other Foreign Service families. Great!
With all that in mind, I gathered items that needed to be packed together and marked them for long term storage, unaccompanied baggage or (a third category) storage ready to be transferred to wherever we were posted. For instance, all my renaissance festival stuff was in a pile, all our exercise equipment, our instruments, etc. This way, I thought, inventory would be easy as would packing and unpacking. On certain shelves of books, I marked long term storage on other shelves I marked store for overseas. Same with my music.
When the movers showed up, I was ready with my little pad of paper and pencil. I reminded the movers that we were required to watch the packing and inventory each box (I was still concerned about offending them). I was then told that no, I did not have to stand over and write down every item. The movers said that they inventoried the boxes. I was skeptical, but Doug assured me that I did not have to. Okay, less work for me. So, as we walked through the house with the supervisor, I pointed out the piles and my labeling system. He said he understood. We did switch labels to colors – yellow for items to be stored for easy access to be shipped overseas and red for long term storage. Easily done.
About halfway through the second day of packing, I saw one of the movers grabbing things from this pile and that pile and putting them in one box. I pointed out that he was mixing piles.
“Oh.” That was his response. “So you want the piles separate?”
“Yes!” I was nervous now. “That’s why they are labeled and separated!”
I started looking through the box he was packing. In it were things from my childhood, renaissance festival garb and an instrument or two. NO!!! I breathed deeply.
“I had these separated into clearly marked piles of items that need to be packed together.” I went over to the instruments and asked him where particular instruments were. He did not know. I looked at his “inventory” of each box he had packed. Each box read “basement, miscellaneous”. That’s an inventory??? All these boxes need to be repacked, I said and I ran to the supervisor. Had he not explained this to his fellow packers? Apparently not.
I get very frustrated – sometimes just plain livid – when I pay attention in life, act responsibly only to somehow, in the end, be punished for it. I learn too often that it does not matter what I do, fate will step in, swing its ugly hand around and what will happen, will happen regardless of my actions. This is one of those attitudes I’m working on in boot camp.
I want to say that I believe that packer was genuinely distraught over the situation. He spent the day looking for those two instruments and informed me when he found them. He had to unpack and repack eight boxes. Later, he came to me and said “Don’t forget, we’re here for you. If there is anything not right, speak up.” I believe he did that of his own accord and was sincere. Good man. It took the movers two full days to pack us out.
When Doug first found the house we lived in, we were just dating. I remember him telling me about it and taking me to see it. It was locked so all we could do was walk around it, stand on the porch and peer in the front window. To this day, I can still see what I saw in the house that day. That’s funny because I was just dating him and really didn’t think much of the house. If I were to buy a house, I’d want more than a few feet between it and the next house. Anyway, I do remember that day vividly. So after the movers were long gone and we had relaxed on the front stoop eating leftover pizza, we got up, held hands and walked to the front window and peered in one last time.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Allow me to introduce Lulu
I haven’t written about my neighbor Lulu yet. I think that’s because if I write about her, I must think about her intently and that makes me miss her. I met Lulu, whose given name is Josephine, when I was about 40 and she was about five. She would come across the street (at the direction of an older brother or her mom) when she’d see me out working in the yard. She always wore Red cowboy boots which both she and her mom, Kathy, swore she never owned, but in which I can clearly see her. Sometimes I was delighted to have Lulu visit and chat with me while I weeded, raked, and planted, other times I was in one of my Marlene Dietrich moods and just wanted to be alone. Sometimes I would be working and barely hear a soft voice say “Hi, Laura.” Sometimes I’m sure she’d say it several times before it registered to me that I was hearing someone for real. It was so soft. I’d wave or call “Hi” back to her. She’d then proceed to talk to me in that same soft voice. I had no idea what she was saying. Occasionally I’d cross the street to find out; other times I’d just cast a well timed smile her direction. She liked to ask questions. I can remember her watch me answer them as though it wasn’t the answer she was after, just conversation. It was never annoying.
As Lulu grew older, she started asking genuine questions to which she wanted answers and what impressed me was how thought out her questions were and how she remembered the answers. Lulu is a thinker who pays attention to what is going on around her. What she lacked in fashion sense those days she made up for in smarts. Doug and I used to look forward to watching across the street to see what Lulu was wearing that day. I wish I had kept a log because, unfortunately, I haven’t the memory Lulu has. I do remember a frilly, fancy nightgown sort of thing she wore as she rode a skateboard or scooter. And she always had those mythical red cowboy boots on until they no longer fit her.
At a certain age she’d see our light on late at night and call. This would amaze me because I had piano students older than her who would not come to the phone if I called them. We’d talk and look out our front windows and wave at each other. I miss that. She went through a short stage where, I swear, she was watching our house and when I came home from teaching or if I was in sight in the yard she came right over to visit. I really like my alone time and this was difficult for me. I liked Lulu. She completely won me over when she started bringing over books to practice her reading. We’d sit together on the loveseat and she’d point and read very slowly. I love those memories. We read to each other for years. Reading to each other is something Doug and I have always done. I think that’s rare and valuable. I don’t remember all the books that she brought over except Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books and the Twilight series. After that, we came to an agreement with her visits: If she rang the bell twice and I did not answer, I was busy and would not answer. Her mom, I think, coached her to ask me if it was a good time for a visit when she came over. She did this faithfully. Another trait I admire in Lulu is, when it was not convenient, she never tried to talk her way in. While definitely a little girl, she showed maturity. I eventually started to call to see if she wanted to come over and I’d visit her and her family.
As the move got nearer Doug and I got busier and Lulu still wanted to visit. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t want the visits, I just had a lot to do. I am easily distracted and adding any variables to the mix meant I didn’t get as much done. So I started a Lulu Do list. Because she was willing to do absolutely anything all sorts of things went on this list: tear down these boxes for recycling, find all the candles in the house and put them in this pile, put these magazines in chronological order, etc. Sometimes I didn’t have anything for her to do so she’d bring over her clarinet and play for me. She was also learning some pieces on the piano from me so she’d sit and practice while I worked. True friendship is when you can be anything your friend needs. That’s what we had.
I held my breath every time I sent Lulu home those days because I usually sent her home with something that was too special to give away but I didn’t want to keep. I was afraid Kathy would say “Enough!” She didn’t. Lulu got books including my old Bible (the one with the hand tooled leather cover my father made for me), my keyboard (in hopes she’d keep playing), a pile of board games and food from our cupboard that couldn’t practically go with us and which we couldn’t give to just anyone. I offered her a dress I no longer wore but she declined. That was another defining moment for Lulu. As a child, I don’t know if I could have said no to something offered to me. I would have felt too uncomfortable. The dress I offered her was pink based and flowery. Not Lulu. Too froo-frooey. I was wondering if she’d be one of those girls who never wore dresses, but that is not the case. Read on.
We decided to have a concert so we practiced some duets and solo pieces on piano and clarinet. We made up a program, set a date and time, invited people and practiced and practiced. We set up our dining room as a recital hall, passed out programs and performed. I don’t remember what I wore but Lulu had on a purple paisley (if I remember correctly) dress with spaghetti straps and a jagged hem and strappy heeled sandals. My little pinky flowered dress was clearly not sophisticated enough for Lulu.
The young people in my life made such a huge impact on me. I loved our lesson time but I also looked forward to the more relaxed time we shared outside of lessons. The parties. Many of my piano students have met Lulu at our annual Halloween party. There was one year that she wanted to come to the party. I said no. It was just for piano students. The next year she helped me decorate for it. As we were decorating a mini van pulled up. One of my families (with four kids) was an hour early. I was not dressed. The house was not totally ready. AAAAHH! We greeted each other and laughed at the error in time and the mother asked if she could help. I stuttered not knowing what to ask of her. Lulu made a suggestion and off they went. I went upstairs to dress. By the time I came back down they had everything ready. The mother said something to the effect of “I just did what she told me to do.” Lulu stayed and partied with us that night.
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t remember my students. I still am on the lookout for this year’s Christmas gift. Habits. As I face the difficulties in personal discipline, I remember how I advised you and that moves me into action. (In other words, some of you will delight to know – my words have come back to bite me.) I started to learn the Russian alphabet last week. I had 33 index cards with a letter on each. I used the same games I taught you when you were learning to say your musical alphabet backwards, say it in thirds (skips) etc. I had the alphabet down in about three days. Dang! I was a good teacher!
As Lulu grew older, she started asking genuine questions to which she wanted answers and what impressed me was how thought out her questions were and how she remembered the answers. Lulu is a thinker who pays attention to what is going on around her. What she lacked in fashion sense those days she made up for in smarts. Doug and I used to look forward to watching across the street to see what Lulu was wearing that day. I wish I had kept a log because, unfortunately, I haven’t the memory Lulu has. I do remember a frilly, fancy nightgown sort of thing she wore as she rode a skateboard or scooter. And she always had those mythical red cowboy boots on until they no longer fit her.
At a certain age she’d see our light on late at night and call. This would amaze me because I had piano students older than her who would not come to the phone if I called them. We’d talk and look out our front windows and wave at each other. I miss that. She went through a short stage where, I swear, she was watching our house and when I came home from teaching or if I was in sight in the yard she came right over to visit. I really like my alone time and this was difficult for me. I liked Lulu. She completely won me over when she started bringing over books to practice her reading. We’d sit together on the loveseat and she’d point and read very slowly. I love those memories. We read to each other for years. Reading to each other is something Doug and I have always done. I think that’s rare and valuable. I don’t remember all the books that she brought over except Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books and the Twilight series. After that, we came to an agreement with her visits: If she rang the bell twice and I did not answer, I was busy and would not answer. Her mom, I think, coached her to ask me if it was a good time for a visit when she came over. She did this faithfully. Another trait I admire in Lulu is, when it was not convenient, she never tried to talk her way in. While definitely a little girl, she showed maturity. I eventually started to call to see if she wanted to come over and I’d visit her and her family.
As the move got nearer Doug and I got busier and Lulu still wanted to visit. Don’t think for a minute that I didn’t want the visits, I just had a lot to do. I am easily distracted and adding any variables to the mix meant I didn’t get as much done. So I started a Lulu Do list. Because she was willing to do absolutely anything all sorts of things went on this list: tear down these boxes for recycling, find all the candles in the house and put them in this pile, put these magazines in chronological order, etc. Sometimes I didn’t have anything for her to do so she’d bring over her clarinet and play for me. She was also learning some pieces on the piano from me so she’d sit and practice while I worked. True friendship is when you can be anything your friend needs. That’s what we had.
I held my breath every time I sent Lulu home those days because I usually sent her home with something that was too special to give away but I didn’t want to keep. I was afraid Kathy would say “Enough!” She didn’t. Lulu got books including my old Bible (the one with the hand tooled leather cover my father made for me), my keyboard (in hopes she’d keep playing), a pile of board games and food from our cupboard that couldn’t practically go with us and which we couldn’t give to just anyone. I offered her a dress I no longer wore but she declined. That was another defining moment for Lulu. As a child, I don’t know if I could have said no to something offered to me. I would have felt too uncomfortable. The dress I offered her was pink based and flowery. Not Lulu. Too froo-frooey. I was wondering if she’d be one of those girls who never wore dresses, but that is not the case. Read on.
We decided to have a concert so we practiced some duets and solo pieces on piano and clarinet. We made up a program, set a date and time, invited people and practiced and practiced. We set up our dining room as a recital hall, passed out programs and performed. I don’t remember what I wore but Lulu had on a purple paisley (if I remember correctly) dress with spaghetti straps and a jagged hem and strappy heeled sandals. My little pinky flowered dress was clearly not sophisticated enough for Lulu.
The young people in my life made such a huge impact on me. I loved our lesson time but I also looked forward to the more relaxed time we shared outside of lessons. The parties. Many of my piano students have met Lulu at our annual Halloween party. There was one year that she wanted to come to the party. I said no. It was just for piano students. The next year she helped me decorate for it. As we were decorating a mini van pulled up. One of my families (with four kids) was an hour early. I was not dressed. The house was not totally ready. AAAAHH! We greeted each other and laughed at the error in time and the mother asked if she could help. I stuttered not knowing what to ask of her. Lulu made a suggestion and off they went. I went upstairs to dress. By the time I came back down they had everything ready. The mother said something to the effect of “I just did what she told me to do.” Lulu stayed and partied with us that night.
There is not a day that goes by that I don’t remember my students. I still am on the lookout for this year’s Christmas gift. Habits. As I face the difficulties in personal discipline, I remember how I advised you and that moves me into action. (In other words, some of you will delight to know – my words have come back to bite me.) I started to learn the Russian alphabet last week. I had 33 index cards with a letter on each. I used the same games I taught you when you were learning to say your musical alphabet backwards, say it in thirds (skips) etc. I had the alphabet down in about three days. Dang! I was a good teacher!
Thursday, November 5, 2009
The Long Goodbye
Telling my students and their families that we were moving in the near future was not what I had imagined. I knew that they would be disappointed yet happy for Doug and I, which they were. I did not expect genuine hurt and sorrow. The week after I had told them all that we were leaving one of my students asked me how she would get her lessons from me after we moved. I was quiet (stunned, really). I gently told her that there would be no more lessons after I moved and that she could get a new teacher. She quietly took this in. The next lesson she was defiant and irritating. “What is the matter with you?” I wondered aloud. I figured it out after I left her house. She was hurt and probably a little angry that I was leaving.
An adult friend of mine was particularly down one day when we were talking about our move. She said “You’re excited, but it is really hard on those you’re leaving behind.”
I thought, “Back off. Don’t try to guilt me.” My defenses went up until I thought about it. She was right. I was leaving people behind. By choice. It was the right choice to make and they all supported us but that did not change the fact that I was leaving my friends behind. And that became the single most difficult aspect of this long goodbye that Doug and I had before us. I told the news of our move with a broad smile on my face, “He passed! We’re moving! We get to travel the world!” Translate “He passed! I’m leaving you! I’m getting out of here to see what else there is to see. I’ve had enough of this place!” And it was all true.
I love my students so I was careful to tell them that, although I was very excited, I knew that the sorrow of my leaving would set in at some point. I explained that all I could see immediately was the opportunity, the adventure the romance of it. I imagined that when I arrived to Falls Church and sat in that empty apartment and realized that I knew no one that I would miss not only teaching but miss my students as my friends. Many times I just wanted to get it over with, quit teaching, ready myself and the house and leave. The long goodbye was wearing.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will prepare myself for a lifetime membership to AA. It depends.
Doug left Olup and Associates to come home and ready himself and the house for our move.
As far as readying the house, I (with the help of a dear neighbor – more on her later) worked in the kitchen, lower bathroom and the upstairs painting over the rental house white that was so cheap it came off if (and that’s a big if in our case) you wiped it with a wet cloth. Doug hired people to tuck point the house and trim dead branches from our trees.
If that sounds like the work distribution was a little uneven, it was not. Doug spent hours each day filling out the mounds of paperwork required by the State Department, researching and hiring a management company to rent our house, advertising various items of value to sell on Craig’s list - including my Jeep (sniff), going through the years of records he has meticulously kept for us to weed out what we no longer needed, and visiting his parents as he could. He did the brainy work; I did the busy work.
It was not a little discomforting to realize that we had been living in a house that would not meet basic rental standards and codes. What was the matter with us? How could we have lived without window coverings for 12 years? Why would we watch (and listen to) the plaster falling off the basement walls until you could practically see the bare earth and not do anything about it? How could we look at marked up, unpainted walls and deteriorating (otherwise gorgeous woodwork) every day and not pick up a paint brush, a piece of sandpaper or stripper or whatever and work a little bit? Anyone?
Here’s an idea for you. Pretend that you are going to move in four months. First, look around and get rid of what you don’t want to take with you. It feels good to donate and give things to charities and friends and you can make some money on Craig’s list and at Half-Price Books. Next, examine your house and make a list of repairs and polishes it needs. Do one thing everyday toward those repairs. It’s not that difficult. I’m sure the impetus of the impending move and the excitement over all the possibilities our futures held helped motivate us. I’m certain or we’d still be sitting in a curtainless house with black streaked, pop-splattered walls with holes between the outside bricks and only an occasional wall in the basement.
We came up with a new rule for ourselves during this time. Actually two. Let me step back a few years to our first such rule. Throw away any item of clothing that has a hole in it. Period. Except favorite work jeans. I will rationalize wearing anything torn or stained as long as the tear or stain is under my arm (just don’t lift my arms), under where my hair hangs (just don’t pin my hair up) or – for pants – under a long enough top that would cover it (just don’t lift my arms which would lift the top . . .) So we cleaned out our drawers and closets years ago ridding ourselves of all holey clothing. God bless us. In the process of purging for this move we made countless trips to St. Vincent de Paul with carfuls of goods.
First new rule: Do not keep or use any item that St. Vincent de Paul refuses to put on their shelves or even in their freebie box. How embarrassing. “What do you mean you won’t take this pan with half the Teflon worn off? I just cooked dinner in it last night! I’m still standing! Poison, bah.” Now, I will say that the interesting thing about St. Vincent de Paul standards is this: It seems that they will take any baby doll. I had some dolls that looked like they were horror movie props: one eye closed, hair half trimmed, naked and written on – even one with a stuffed body though they won’t take stuffed animals. Go figure.
The other new rule is, for decency’s sake, don’t live in a house that won’t even meet standard rental codes. We all deserve better than that.
Emotionally things did not relax for long when we learned that he was approved. There was always something else to wait for; something else dependant on something else and on and on. As with any job, there is a salary range for newbies into the Foreign Service. One possibility is a salary match (to certain degree, I’m sure) to your previous job if you are employed full-time within 30 days of the start of your training. While we wanted to get going, say our goodbyes and move on to our new lives, we had a lot of work to do to prepare. And while we needed more time, Doug was no longer employed full time and needed to get to that September training. I was quite anxious. Doug had already taken a significant pay cut working for Olup and we didn’t want that to happen again coupled with the fact that I would not be working at all. So as not to appear to be lazy here, we knew that our time in Washington D.C. would last anywhere from apx. four to eleven months so my taking on work under such uncertain circumstances was not practical.
So, where was I? Oh, yes I was feeling anxious. I try to be careful abut what I present to God in prayer; not too selfish (oh, Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz), not too unrealistic (world peace). So when I prayed that Doug would get called to the September training to he could get the salary match I felt I was wasting my time and God’s. At first I thought I was being selfish, then I realized it was different. Here I sat before the Lord worried about money. After all Doug and I had recently been through I was worried about money. I laughed. As Bill Cosby said to the Lord as Noah, “Right.” I relaxed again.
An adult friend of mine was particularly down one day when we were talking about our move. She said “You’re excited, but it is really hard on those you’re leaving behind.”
I thought, “Back off. Don’t try to guilt me.” My defenses went up until I thought about it. She was right. I was leaving people behind. By choice. It was the right choice to make and they all supported us but that did not change the fact that I was leaving my friends behind. And that became the single most difficult aspect of this long goodbye that Doug and I had before us. I told the news of our move with a broad smile on my face, “He passed! We’re moving! We get to travel the world!” Translate “He passed! I’m leaving you! I’m getting out of here to see what else there is to see. I’ve had enough of this place!” And it was all true.
I love my students so I was careful to tell them that, although I was very excited, I knew that the sorrow of my leaving would set in at some point. I explained that all I could see immediately was the opportunity, the adventure the romance of it. I imagined that when I arrived to Falls Church and sat in that empty apartment and realized that I knew no one that I would miss not only teaching but miss my students as my friends. Many times I just wanted to get it over with, quit teaching, ready myself and the house and leave. The long goodbye was wearing.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will prepare myself for a lifetime membership to AA. It depends.
Doug left Olup and Associates to come home and ready himself and the house for our move.
As far as readying the house, I (with the help of a dear neighbor – more on her later) worked in the kitchen, lower bathroom and the upstairs painting over the rental house white that was so cheap it came off if (and that’s a big if in our case) you wiped it with a wet cloth. Doug hired people to tuck point the house and trim dead branches from our trees.
If that sounds like the work distribution was a little uneven, it was not. Doug spent hours each day filling out the mounds of paperwork required by the State Department, researching and hiring a management company to rent our house, advertising various items of value to sell on Craig’s list - including my Jeep (sniff), going through the years of records he has meticulously kept for us to weed out what we no longer needed, and visiting his parents as he could. He did the brainy work; I did the busy work.
It was not a little discomforting to realize that we had been living in a house that would not meet basic rental standards and codes. What was the matter with us? How could we have lived without window coverings for 12 years? Why would we watch (and listen to) the plaster falling off the basement walls until you could practically see the bare earth and not do anything about it? How could we look at marked up, unpainted walls and deteriorating (otherwise gorgeous woodwork) every day and not pick up a paint brush, a piece of sandpaper or stripper or whatever and work a little bit? Anyone?
Here’s an idea for you. Pretend that you are going to move in four months. First, look around and get rid of what you don’t want to take with you. It feels good to donate and give things to charities and friends and you can make some money on Craig’s list and at Half-Price Books. Next, examine your house and make a list of repairs and polishes it needs. Do one thing everyday toward those repairs. It’s not that difficult. I’m sure the impetus of the impending move and the excitement over all the possibilities our futures held helped motivate us. I’m certain or we’d still be sitting in a curtainless house with black streaked, pop-splattered walls with holes between the outside bricks and only an occasional wall in the basement.
We came up with a new rule for ourselves during this time. Actually two. Let me step back a few years to our first such rule. Throw away any item of clothing that has a hole in it. Period. Except favorite work jeans. I will rationalize wearing anything torn or stained as long as the tear or stain is under my arm (just don’t lift my arms), under where my hair hangs (just don’t pin my hair up) or – for pants – under a long enough top that would cover it (just don’t lift my arms which would lift the top . . .) So we cleaned out our drawers and closets years ago ridding ourselves of all holey clothing. God bless us. In the process of purging for this move we made countless trips to St. Vincent de Paul with carfuls of goods.
First new rule: Do not keep or use any item that St. Vincent de Paul refuses to put on their shelves or even in their freebie box. How embarrassing. “What do you mean you won’t take this pan with half the Teflon worn off? I just cooked dinner in it last night! I’m still standing! Poison, bah.” Now, I will say that the interesting thing about St. Vincent de Paul standards is this: It seems that they will take any baby doll. I had some dolls that looked like they were horror movie props: one eye closed, hair half trimmed, naked and written on – even one with a stuffed body though they won’t take stuffed animals. Go figure.
The other new rule is, for decency’s sake, don’t live in a house that won’t even meet standard rental codes. We all deserve better than that.
Emotionally things did not relax for long when we learned that he was approved. There was always something else to wait for; something else dependant on something else and on and on. As with any job, there is a salary range for newbies into the Foreign Service. One possibility is a salary match (to certain degree, I’m sure) to your previous job if you are employed full-time within 30 days of the start of your training. While we wanted to get going, say our goodbyes and move on to our new lives, we had a lot of work to do to prepare. And while we needed more time, Doug was no longer employed full time and needed to get to that September training. I was quite anxious. Doug had already taken a significant pay cut working for Olup and we didn’t want that to happen again coupled with the fact that I would not be working at all. So as not to appear to be lazy here, we knew that our time in Washington D.C. would last anywhere from apx. four to eleven months so my taking on work under such uncertain circumstances was not practical.
So, where was I? Oh, yes I was feeling anxious. I try to be careful abut what I present to God in prayer; not too selfish (oh, Lord won’t you buy me a Mercedes Benz), not too unrealistic (world peace). So when I prayed that Doug would get called to the September training to he could get the salary match I felt I was wasting my time and God’s. At first I thought I was being selfish, then I realized it was different. Here I sat before the Lord worried about money. After all Doug and I had recently been through I was worried about money. I laughed. As Bill Cosby said to the Lord as Noah, “Right.” I relaxed again.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Once again, it depends
My recovery from the surgery was easy and disappointing. I didn’t get to play the sympathy card nearly as much as I had looked forward to doing. I was in some pain and had to move easily and slowly for a few weeks but that was it. I immediately started concocting stories as to how I got the scars. “I was stabbed in a bar brawl.” “A playful lion cub at the Belize zoo got me.” “Pumpkin carving got out of control this year.” The biopsy on the lumps came back negative.
The man who was assigned to our security clearance finished two weeks early. We both received our medical clearances. Some time later, there was a phone message from the man assigned to ur security clearance. He had some questions for me. Yikes. I sweated and my heart raced. I called him right away to get it over with. He apologized and said that someone in the State Department wanted clarification of something. He was looking over the application that Doug had turned in and said "He says that during his period of unemployment he was home looking for work. Is this true?" "Yes." "Alright, then. That's all I need." WHAT??!! That's it? Really, what did they think I'd say, "No he was out prostituting himself. I'm just a piano teacher and we really needed the money." Jeez. We received the final security clearance soon after. The last hurdle was the "Final Suitability". This is where someone goes through his file with the proverbial fine toothed comb to see if there is any reason he may not be a good fit. This is considered a formality by many, however some have been turned away at this point. Doug had been reading of a couple of cases. One involving someone who had experimented with drugs years ago and another who was dismissed from an employer under suspicious circumstances from which they were later acquitted. It was enough to keep them out of the Foreign Service.
The smattering of good news-bad news and the unknown left me feeling a bit unstable at times. I’d overreact. I’d under react. I would give everything I did one chance. If it didn’t work I’d declare any efforts on my part fruitless; what would happen would happen regardless of my input and I’d peacefully wander on. I wouldn’t be in this life that much longer anyway.
We spent our 2009 Memorial Day weekend on the road to the Chicago area to meet with two couples who had served for years in the Foreign Service and one couple in our position as new hires. We were able to hear their stories and ask questions. It was very soon humorous because every (no exception, no kidding) answer began with the words “Well, it depends.” “Do we need to take our furniture with us?” “Is the job 9-5 or 24/7?” “Will I be able to work?” “Will we have a house or an apartment?” “Can I get around and see the country while Doug works?” You get the idea. And that has been a huge frustration as well as serious patience builder. Everything depends on something else. It’s cosmic, man.
Even though we knew that Doug was in, we still didn’t know when he’d get called to the training class. More waiting. It was like being in the theater; you’re on! Go! Perform! Now sit in the wings and cool your heels for the next hour or two. 3-2-1 Go! In a way we needed time at home; time to say goodbye, time to fix up the house to be a rental property, time for us to visit our out of state families. In another way, we just wanted to move on.
I was (and still am) quite concerned about fitting in and being the proper image for my new life and Doug’s new career. I have sat in front of a mirror watching myself eat. If you want a serious Miss Manners wake up call, do this. At age 47, I threw out the last of my college clothes (see? I told you I don’t have a weight problem) and went shopping at places like Talbots (thank you, Marna). I figured that at least I’ll look the part. What happens after my mouth opens is in the cards, but I’ll look good so help me.
Speaking of opening my mouth, I’ve been practicing using it less. I love the word practice. I’ll probably be using it a lot. Practice indicates determination but not necessarily ability. On our last Sunday at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church I gave the homily at the early service outdoors and Doug did so at the late service indoors. I asked the people gathered there to complete this sentence: Practice makes _____. Of course they said perfect. I asked them if they truly believed that. They laughed. I told them that I believe practice makes permanent. So I do a lot of practicing with great hopes. I have practiced thanking Doug for pointing out the obvious to me before I even have a chance of demonstrating that I already know it (like take off the parking brake before backing up). Thank you. When someone has interrupted me or is not answering the question I asked, I have practiced hearing them out before I have my say. I have practiced saying a variety of truly colorful words rather than vulgar, (the old definition of common) foul swear words. And these things take practice, dear reader; they do not come easily. I have noticed that what happens is I realize the act is not so difficult or painful, it is laying no blame that is hard. But nog it (one of the truly colorful expressions) if I don’t look good while setting that all important good example. If that sounds boastful, forgive me. I do not always set that good example. I have, however, learned from many who have, at the right time, set a good example for me. So I know what it looks like because I’ve seen it. Their lesson live on. Thank you.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, everyone’s medical clearance levels, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will stay at home and become a fat drunk. It depends.
___________________________________________
The man who was assigned to our security clearance finished two weeks early. We both received our medical clearances. Some time later, there was a phone message from the man assigned to ur security clearance. He had some questions for me. Yikes. I sweated and my heart raced. I called him right away to get it over with. He apologized and said that someone in the State Department wanted clarification of something. He was looking over the application that Doug had turned in and said "He says that during his period of unemployment he was home looking for work. Is this true?" "Yes." "Alright, then. That's all I need." WHAT??!! That's it? Really, what did they think I'd say, "No he was out prostituting himself. I'm just a piano teacher and we really needed the money." Jeez. We received the final security clearance soon after. The last hurdle was the "Final Suitability". This is where someone goes through his file with the proverbial fine toothed comb to see if there is any reason he may not be a good fit. This is considered a formality by many, however some have been turned away at this point. Doug had been reading of a couple of cases. One involving someone who had experimented with drugs years ago and another who was dismissed from an employer under suspicious circumstances from which they were later acquitted. It was enough to keep them out of the Foreign Service.
The smattering of good news-bad news and the unknown left me feeling a bit unstable at times. I’d overreact. I’d under react. I would give everything I did one chance. If it didn’t work I’d declare any efforts on my part fruitless; what would happen would happen regardless of my input and I’d peacefully wander on. I wouldn’t be in this life that much longer anyway.
We spent our 2009 Memorial Day weekend on the road to the Chicago area to meet with two couples who had served for years in the Foreign Service and one couple in our position as new hires. We were able to hear their stories and ask questions. It was very soon humorous because every (no exception, no kidding) answer began with the words “Well, it depends.” “Do we need to take our furniture with us?” “Is the job 9-5 or 24/7?” “Will I be able to work?” “Will we have a house or an apartment?” “Can I get around and see the country while Doug works?” You get the idea. And that has been a huge frustration as well as serious patience builder. Everything depends on something else. It’s cosmic, man.
Even though we knew that Doug was in, we still didn’t know when he’d get called to the training class. More waiting. It was like being in the theater; you’re on! Go! Perform! Now sit in the wings and cool your heels for the next hour or two. 3-2-1 Go! In a way we needed time at home; time to say goodbye, time to fix up the house to be a rental property, time for us to visit our out of state families. In another way, we just wanted to move on.
I was (and still am) quite concerned about fitting in and being the proper image for my new life and Doug’s new career. I have sat in front of a mirror watching myself eat. If you want a serious Miss Manners wake up call, do this. At age 47, I threw out the last of my college clothes (see? I told you I don’t have a weight problem) and went shopping at places like Talbots (thank you, Marna). I figured that at least I’ll look the part. What happens after my mouth opens is in the cards, but I’ll look good so help me.
Speaking of opening my mouth, I’ve been practicing using it less. I love the word practice. I’ll probably be using it a lot. Practice indicates determination but not necessarily ability. On our last Sunday at St. Anne’s Episcopal Church I gave the homily at the early service outdoors and Doug did so at the late service indoors. I asked the people gathered there to complete this sentence: Practice makes _____. Of course they said perfect. I asked them if they truly believed that. They laughed. I told them that I believe practice makes permanent. So I do a lot of practicing with great hopes. I have practiced thanking Doug for pointing out the obvious to me before I even have a chance of demonstrating that I already know it (like take off the parking brake before backing up). Thank you. When someone has interrupted me or is not answering the question I asked, I have practiced hearing them out before I have my say. I have practiced saying a variety of truly colorful words rather than vulgar, (the old definition of common) foul swear words. And these things take practice, dear reader; they do not come easily. I have noticed that what happens is I realize the act is not so difficult or painful, it is laying no blame that is hard. But nog it (one of the truly colorful expressions) if I don’t look good while setting that all important good example. If that sounds boastful, forgive me. I do not always set that good example. I have, however, learned from many who have, at the right time, set a good example for me. So I know what it looks like because I’ve seen it. Their lesson live on. Thank you.
I was tempted (not very, but I was) to have a t-shirt made with the answers to the most often asked questions. It would have had two words on it: it depends.
Where will you go? It depends on open posts, everyone’s medical clearance levels, the desires of others and our desires (in that order).
When will you get to come home? It depends on the length of each post; usually two years but perhaps one or three and not a literal calendar year but approximate years.
What will you do while Doug works at the Embassy or Consulate? It depends on my grasp of the language. I hope to write and tell stories as well as learn the nation’s folktales. If we are posted in one of the south sea island embassies I’ll walk my legs lean on the beaches and learn to dance. If we are posted in Siberia I will stay at home and become a fat drunk. It depends.
___________________________________________
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