What Matters Most

In riding through the storm of family matters, what becomes clear is simply this: family matters.

Cancer

There is a commercial on television right now. It asks the question What if cancer got cancer?

The idea is at once provocative and clever.

It evokes an almost childlike taunt of How would you like it if that was done to you?

Cancer is depicted as a bully whose  prey is always undeserving. And whose prey is menaced by not just by  physical pain, but emotional scars. Because even in cancer’s arrest or capital punishment, fear remains--it is the elephant in the room.

Cancer is not an equal opponent—the fight is never fair. So perhaps maybe cancer may only be eradicated by itself: dirty fighter to dirty fighter.

Because I have seen its terror and its gruesome victory. And the only thing deserving its torture is cancer itself.

Sending the Nanny Instead

A Mom came up to me when Samantha was in first grade and said I had no idea that Sam was one of the best readers in the class! I replied Yes--but how do you know that? The Mom responded because I saw her color level when I came in to help administer the SRA’s (Scholastic Reading Aptitude tests).

Recently a New York City private school sent a notice home stating that they no longer wanted nannies substituting for parents at the book exchange or cafeteria duty or reading time. The school was of the opinion that it was in the best interest of the students to have in their mothers or fathers participating in the school’s volunteer activities and not the paid help.

My experience tells me otherwise.

I am of the opinion that parents have no business being in school at any time during academic hours. One reason is managerial-- the school’s administration is obligated to staff its library, cafeteria and classrooms with academically qualified or certified staff that has also passed a drug and background check. It’s why communities are taxed or tuition is paid. Another reason is societal-- stay-at-home parents as well as parents who work outside the home are spread so thin with scheduling and scheduling conflicts that adding/mandating volunteerism is an unnecessary burden. Parents have more than enough obligations (and guilt) to keep them running around like a hamster in a wheel—especially in the crunch months of December and May and June.

But the number one reason I am so opposed to parents lurking in the school building during academic hours is because of privacy issues. Parents—as opposed to their hired help who will be fired for doing so----snoop at every opportunity. Parents become privy to things outside of their right to know while in the school building and then think nothing about spreading the acquired information at the bus stop or playing field or the aisle in the supermarket. It is pervasive and wrong. And it matters not whether the gossip is positive or negative—it is gossip nonetheless and should not made so accessable.

Because in the best interests of a student lies not in how much their parent volunteers during the school day; but rather how engaged  a parent is in their student when the bell rings at 3:00—that is when the critical work begins---the time when the child’s sneaker hits the sidewalk and the unanswered blanks need to be filled.

The Sandwich Generation

They call us the sandwich generation. We are the caretakers of parents, children, husbands, and (for some) grandchildren or grandparents.

We are pulled like a Gumby doll—stretched in too many opposing directions.

We are the family firefighters—the peacemakers---the organizers.

We are so consumed with doing that we forget about being.

It can be tired and lonely business at the top of the food chain. The nightly 3 am wakeup call brings physical as well as mental sweats.

Yet while there is no profession more challenging, there is no career with greater reward. Joy sits with the sorrow, calm walks beside the turmoil, vigor resides along the fatigue. And being a daughter, a mother, a wife, and for some a grandmother or granddaughter is a multiple grant—with unique dividends in each investment--- a greater opportunity for our own growth--even when our well is sucked dry.

Because as my father would say it beats the alternative—it beats the absence of it all. We are gifted here for the ride—traffic and all. Which is what I am reminding myself of in the quiet of this morning, as my accounts lie still, the market is not yet opened, and my coffee remains warm.

Take A Picture....

When I was an adolescent not only did I use these words myself, but I also had them cast upon me as well.

I have even heard the phrase uttered from my own children’s lips.

In the past, when an adolescent was met with unwelcome and scornful stares while engaging in borderline bad behavior, the object of the stare would snottily turn to the person issuing the judgmental gaze and say Why don’t you take a picture--it lasts longer.

Because there was a time when attention paid to bad behavior was unwanted and cameras were left in the closet merely for the blowing out of candles.

But now—not so much.

Taking pictures is no longer difficult to do-- even second graders routinely carry around cell phones with camera features. The world is such that the entire point of adolescence (and early adulthood) is to photographically document borderline bad behavior at all times and then post it on Twitter or Facebook or Instagram.

We want people to take pictures of us so that we are thrust into an eternal stare. And if there is no one to take the picture for us, we take it ourselves—in the form of a “selfie.”

 I have to wonder if that aforementioned phrase is still as biting or as relevant as it had been in the past.

 It seems outdated.

Because we have gone from a culture of Stop looking at me to Keep looking at me. In today’s world one would not say Take a picture—it lasts longer as much as Take out your camera and let me strike my pose.

On Wedding Ceremonies

I am not ashamed in any way to admit that the primary reason my husband and I chose to have a nuptial mass for our wedding was to waste time. We sought to narrow the time gap between the church service and the cocktail hour.

When a wedding invitation arrives it is met with a flurry of anxiety filled questions all of which center around the ceremony: Where and when is it? Do we have to go? Is it close to the reception? How much dead time is there in between? Do I have time to go back home and change? Who else is going and does that mean I have to go too? Should I wear the same outfit? Is it a mass or are they just running in to say their “I do’s?”

All this inquiry completely clouds the fact that the ceremony should be the highlight of the day. The most visually and emotionally filling experience is the bride walking down the aisle, the father kissing her good bye, and the look in the groom’s eye as he gazes at his soon-to-be wife.

And yet it is this very part of the day which is often missed because of logistics.

But I have noticed an increasing trend. More and more brides and grooms are choosing to say their vows at the reception venue rather than in a church. It eliminates the Should we go? debate and ensures a captive audience. Guests, in full regalia, are handed glasses of champagne before the ceremony and are handed a few more as they walk the hundred steps directly to the cocktail hour.

This fusion of ceremony with reception constructs a personal, dignified exchange of vows with a built-in pre-game.

It is seamless.

This trend, in most every way, is perfect.

And when my husband and I opted for our nuptial mass we ended up receiving much more than we bargained for. For sure, we wasted everyone’s time. Father Hickey, the celebrant, was completely incoherent in his newly found sobriety. His homily eternally rambled in a meaningless circle with the only remarkable observation being that Karen loved Arthur and Arthur loved Karen.

He topped it off by forgetting to say You may kiss the bride--which added to the awkwardness.

It would seem that Father Hickey’s game (as well as ours) was desperate for some pre-game.

So much for best laid plans-- and sober living. 

Keeping it Fresh

One of the things that gave my house curb appeal when I first saw it was the front door—rounded and painted a coral-rust color.

It blended well with the yellow undertone of the stucco at that time. It also told an exterior story of the house’s interior—brown, avocado, and apricot.

But none of those colors overlapped with mine. None of those colors told my story. 

And so, several days after the property deed was in hand, I changed the front door color from coral to aqua-ish blue.

It became the external signature of my home. Blue was the locator for anyone searching for my address.

When I created my blog two years ago I chose a simple template from the 30 or 40 simple options through Google. I wanted it to visually suggest that it was word-focused. I chose the casual font and self-explanatory title to give it an immediate signature.

But at some point, all things require re-energizing.

So about 3 weeks ago I collected thirty-odd paint chips for my front door. I knew that the color would remain the same—because blue set it apart from my neighbors--it told my story. But the aqua undertones were stale. My front entrance needed the equivalent upgrade I had recently done to the interior to show outwardly.

And so now the door is wisteria-infused dusty-blueberry.

The entranceway retains its character—yet is refreshed.

And so too with my blog. I cast off the book-ish background for modern art. I simplified the font of the title even further—yet kept its message: an informal collage of experience-based ideas.

The blog retains its character---in content and image—yet is invigorated.

Because stale is stale; and fresh is fresh. The trick is to keep things the same, but different. And you have achieved your goal when people wonder out loud Did you do something new or is it just my imagination?

Well Remembered

Typically at a wake, friends and relatives gather to pay their respects. Wakes are an homage to a life. People often share poignant stories about the deceased. The coffin-ed person is revered—elevated— fondly remembered.

But not at this wake. This wake was atypical. I listened to the cousins and friends speak unflatteringly of the woman lying stone cold dead in the front of the room. Each relative shared their favorite evil story—upping each other by saying “yeah, well, if you think that was bad, let me tell you what she did to me/us…”

It was awful—to the point of embarrassment.

The most disturbing thing of all was that I highly suspected that all these stories were true—the deceased was just not a very nice person and would forever be remembered as such.

This woman was not a “loved one” as much as she was an “unloved one.”

And a week or two ago while I was standing in the lobby of the country club I saw a much older woman with whom I had had some very tedious and irritating encounters in the past. I had always found her to be odious—self-important, rude, with bad auburn haircolor.

 I could not think of a single pleasant thing to say about her.

Yet it wasn’t the fact that she was so repugnant that blew me away when I saw her—it was the fact that I had thought she was already dead. I could have sworn that the flag had been held at half-staff at the club several years prior in her memory.

But there she was—living and breathing and seemingly quite healthy.

I felt disappointment that this woman still walked the earth—I also felt awful about having that thought-- to the point of embarrassment.

And it made me think back to that wake with the underloved person in the coffin. I thought too about that scene in the Wizard of Oz when all that remained of the wicked witch was the black hat and cloak resting on the ground—and the munchkins singing ding dong the witch is dead.

And you have to wonder if wicked witches ever see it coming—being besmirched instead of being beloved post mortem. You have to wonder if they might have changed their behavior had they known. Because it is better to be not remembered at all, than to be remembered with scornful song. 

Ice Cream for Lunch

Anyone who has multiple children will tell you that as the brood increases, the rules relax. Part of it is time driven—you simply can’t spend hours chopping up carrot sticks and reading several books at a time. And part of it is the realization that babies are not nearly as delicate or as un-resilient as you originally suspected. You realize it is more than okay to let some things slide.

And so it was with Kara.

When her sisters were at Locust and Stewart school, she and I with enough regularity to qualify me as a bad parent, ate ice cream for lunch.

It was awesome.

Decadent.

Lunchtime sweets were our secret—we told no one about our guilty pleasure.

And last Sunday, while shopping for work clothes for her new job we realized that we were hungry—it was 2:30 pm and we hadn’t eaten lunch yet.

So as we approached the Carvel on the journey home we knew what we had to do: stop for vanilla cones with sprinkles.

And it was awesome—the ice cream and company were still as sweet--just as sweet as when she was a little girl.

Yes You Are. Oh No I Am Not.

Grandpa Vespo said You see that-a Irishman over there?

I replied Yes.

Grandpa said He’s-a been living in this country for over fifty years and he still-a speaks with an accent.

I chuckled and said But Grandpa you still speak with a little bit of your accent?

Grandpa said Me? No. I lost-a my accent years ago.

One of my favorite friends said My biggest character flaw is that I was born without a sense of humor. And despite asking my family for one every Christmas I always find myself disappointed to not to find it wrapped in a big red bow under my tree on Christmas morning.

I told her that that was one of the funniest things I had ever heard—that she was one of the funniest people I knew.

She completely disagreed.

And in the doctor’s office the general practitioner asked me Do you exercise? I said No but I do play platform tennis 2 or 3  times a week. The doctor affirmed That’s exercise. I shook my head and responded No. That’s playing a sport—I hate exercise and I never do it.

He retained his puzzled look.

Sometimes mirrors are selectively reflective. Sometimes we see things that aren’t there or don’t see things that are there. It’s why the pot is unaware it is black; and the kettle is left laughing in its wake.

Blog #500

How lucky Adam was. He knew when he said a good thing, nobody had said it before.

                                                                                                    Mark Twain

Seconds before seeing the ball hit the racquet, I was already in pursuit.

It drove Van the tennis pro absolutely crazy.

He would scold Where are you running to? You need to wait for the ball to land first before you run.

Yet that is precisely what I have done with my blog. I just started writing it—with instinct surveying its course. I trusted that the right direction would be wherever my words led me.

I simply wrote one post at a time--exploring thoughts as they came—with no worries.

And here I am—at blog post 500—something unimaginable to me when I began filling the page.

My blog is one of my greatest achievements—second only to my success as a parent.

I believe that I may now officially call Thoughts from Karenland a proud body of work—a compilation only I could have created.

And I would argue with Van the tennis pro that even though I did not know with certainty the precise location of the ball’s landing, by observing the angle of the racquet head before the ball was struck I could make an educated guess of where I ought to be running to.

I was rarely wrong—which also drove him absolutely crazy.

Because faith and instinct forerun creativity and motion. And when you trust in yourself, where you land has less import than the unbound choice to take flight. 

Uncloseted

I was sitting around with some peers when someone said Did you hear why she is getting a divorce? After 20+ years of marriage she decided to become gay.

Sometimes I think about all the people I knew in high school and in college and how none of them were gay.

I realize now of course that that was statistically impossible. 1 in 16 people are homosexual or bisexual—and that is a conservative number. Roughly that means that in every classroom I ever sat in in all my years in school one or two of my classmates played on the opposing team.

That’s a lot of people not to know about.

And when the person sitting next to me used the phrase “decided to become gay” I felt compelled to correct her. Because people do not become gay—it is not a recruitment decision. People are born gay. And for a thousand different and same reasons they simply chose to lie about who they are—to not identify or to live on the “down low.”

And it is our job to get the message right----and to avail keys to the fearful, because a closet is no place to live.

Post-Internet Gossip

A relative came up to me at a family gathering and said Did you know that cousin so-in-so makes $$$$$ a year?

I wanted to take a shower—not because I had been perspiring in the summer heat but because I felt grimy from her gossip.

This was not her business to tell.

So I replied How do you know that—did so-in-so tell you directly?

I was hoping to shame the gossipmonger with my inquiry.

But she was not at all fazed. The relative simply responded No—he didn’t tell me. I looked it up online. All salaries for executives of public corporations are posted on the internet—their stock holdings and bonuses too.

I had no idea.

There was a time when people lacked easy access to other people’s affairs. One had to work hard to find out how much money someone made or the price they paid for their house or if they indeed had an educational degree in the area they claimed.

People had the ability to tweak reality for the sake of privacy, or the betterment of public relations, or for practical self-gain.

People formerly owned the breadth and gravity of their self-created spin.

Which has prompted me to recall something Sadie’s son—the writer-man who grew up in the large garden style cooperative apartment complex near my house in Yonkers and graduated from the local public high school once humorously wrote in an email:  I liked to mock-pretentiously say that Greystone was the estate where I was raised and Gorton [high school] was where I prepped. Well, it worked before the internet.

In every possible way --we were all different people before the internet.

Truth be Told

My oldest daughter spent a week at Princeton University’s field hockey camp. She found the facilities and dormitory to be aged and poorly maintained. She also felt a disconnect with the people she met on campus. This, at age 14, prompted her to say I am just not that impressed. I don’t think I would ever want to go there.

My response was Well that’s good. Because I am pretty sure that they don’t want you either.

She was a bit insulted by my candor.

An ultra-conservative committee member turned to me and inquired What exactly is it about him that you do not like?

I answered straight from the gut: I think he is a big pussy in the way he uses others to do his dirty work. And when I hear him speak all I hear is Christina Aguilera in the background singing: You must have to talk so big to make up for smaller things.

The committee member was completely speechless—for a solid ten minutes.

And in one of the most dramatic scenes on film, Tom Cruise as Lt. Kaffee in A Few Good Men turns to Jack Nicholson’s character and says I want the truth. Nicholson, playing Col. Jessup replies You can’t handle the truth.

The truth is tricky business. If you can’t handle it, reconsider your inquiry.

Spontaneous Generation

It is one of my mother’s favorite stories to tell: When she was a newlywed she sought to impress my father with her baking skills. So she chose to make poppy seed rolls from scratch. But as she was placing the tiny black seeds on the top of the bread dough something peculiar kept happening—it appeared as if the poppy seeds were walking right off the roll.

Upon closer inspection she determined that the seeds truly had been walking----and not simply rolling off. The poppy seeds had—in my mother’s words “made bugs.”

It was this exact wording that my brother always liked to correct whenever my mother recounted her tale. He enjoyed reminding her that nonliving things cannot “make” living things. The poppy seed bugs had hatched from microscopic eggs, not poppy seeds.

Because there is no such thing as spontaneous generation--it is something that all kids learn in school--Louis Pasteur had proved it long ago: life only arises from life.

But all that flies in the face of The Big Bang Theory—the idea that life began on earth when all the chemicals floating around in the sea—the primordial soup—randomly stirred itself into RNA and then mitochondrial DNA and then bacteria.

Seemingly we are all descended from a random chemical reaction--a scientific version of spontaneous generation.

So maybe my mother was not completely incorrect. Maybe bread (or a poppy seed roll) is not too far off from being the staff of life afterall.

A Commencement Message

She was 40 years old and cleaning the house in preparation for her husband’s surprise party.

The phone rang.

It was the president of the university. He was calling to inform her that she, Rita Dove, poetess, had won the Pulitzer Prize.

Rita was filled with emotion—first shock and then self-satisfaction--followed most intensely by fear.

In an instant, her world had changed.

She felt unprepared—uncertain---terrified.

And when the university president required that Rita appear for a press conference later that day, her anxiety-filled response was A press conference? I don’t know what to do at a press conference—I have never done one before.

And the president curtly responded You’ll learn--and then he hung up.

No one ever really knows what they are doing until they actually do it.

There is fear at all crossroads—at any path formerly untaken. And it is especially true as 22 year olds receive their diploma at college’s end—which is why the simple words You’ll learn was so befitting as part of Emory’s University’s keynote commencement  address.

For once the ingredients are mixed and the cake is baked there is nothing left to do but to eat it. Cake is not made merely to be had. And while observing and inhaling the aroma of the prepared treat hints at its possible tastiness, the only way to know for sure is to sample its flavor. Only ingestion ascertains the goodness (or not) of the ingredients.

Because truth be told graduation is an ending. For every graduate—with or without an itinerary---the future is uncertain. Some paths are chosen and some are thrust. Some roads are mapped and some are blind. Some passages are dead ends and some are highways. And no one knows which is which, until they resign themselves to walk.

 It is the only way to learn.