Ageless Beauty
I am a people watcher, and I love faces. Baby’s faces are precious with their little puckers and pouts and children’s faces are joyous to watch when they are excited and happy. Oftentimes at the mall I look at the faces of the shoppers and try to imagine what’s going on in their heads as they hurry from one store to another. But the best faces are those of the elderly.
I’ve heard several older people say, “I’ve earned every one of these wrinkles,” and it’s true. Each face is etched with signs of happiness and sorrow. If we are lucky enough to live long enough, our faces become a road map of our lives. The frown lines between the eyes tell a story of concentration, or lines around the eyes tell a story of laughter. Each line or wrinkle adds to the character of the person in question.
When we are young, say in our teens or 20s, we don’t worry much about wrinkles or getting old. By the time we’re in our 30s and 40s we women especially, start fretting about the laugh lines around our eyes and spend millions of dollars each year trying to erase them. By the time we’re in our 50s and 60s we’ve pretty much accepted that we don’t look “young” anymore, but we’re still trying to erase the appearance of age. But to me, it isn’t until your 70s, 80s and 90s that the face takes on a wonderful character of its own.
Old age is a relative thing. Now that I’m in my 50s, 70 is still young. I’m sure to someone in their 70s or 80s that perception changes. I think I mentioned in a previous column that inside every “old” person is a young one. Our bodies may let us down from time to time, but happily our spirit remains young if we let it.
Perhaps the current perception of aging beauty is attributable to the Baby Boomers. We are, after all, getting older. I am a Baby Boomer and as I age I look back at how that unique group of people has changed the world around them. Each stage of our lives has impacted fashion, cosmetics, car manufacturing and medicine, just to name of few areas. Ever noticed how many advertisements are aimed at aches and pains, diseases of the aging, or the failings of our bodies? The target market is growing older. Beauty creams and hair color products are aimed at men and women both. But there is nothing more beautiful than a man or woman accepting age with grace.
Really look at the faces around you. Appreciate and find the beauty in them all, including our own. We may rail against growing older, but then, it beats the alternative.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Empathy – The Forgotten Emotion?
We are born with the capacity to feel empathy; that is, the ability to be sensitive and caring about another person’s feelings, thoughts and experiences without actually experiencing them ourselves. Babies and young children show distress when others around them are distressed. Maybe we’ve seen instances when a young child will offer, with a sad look on their faces, to wipe a tear away from someone they know. They are empathizing, understanding and feeling the sorrow of another. Somewhere along the line we seem to lose that capacity.
For example, recently there have been several crimes committed in our small towns – break-ins, fights, shootings. The perpetrators should be caught and punished; there is no question about that. But have we given any thought to the families of those perpetrators? They have committed no crime and yet we oftentimes say or do things to condemn them as well. A myriad of reasons as to why the culprit did what they did are often laid at the parents’ feet. They should stay home more, work less, pay more attention, raise their children differently, etc. etc. There is not one of us who is a perfect parent. We all make mistakes but we assuredly parent to the best of our ability in most cases.
Children do not grow up in a vacuum. They know it is wrong to steal, they know it is wrong to fight, rape, wantonly destroy property or kill. They know right from wrong, unless there is some pathological reason present. We are responsible for the decisions we make, not our parents, not our sisters or brothers, not anyone else but ourselves. So why do we condemn the family?
Put yourselves in the family’s place for a moment. Your child, your sibling, your grandchild has just been arrested. What do you feel? Anger? Fear? Shame? Sorrow? Devastation? Humiliation? Self-recrimination? And how do we, as friends, co-workers and acquaintances, react to the news? Are we supportive and understanding toward the parents or siblings of the perpetrator? Do we offer sympathy and a listening ear when needed? Or are we condemning of the entire family? The brothers and sisters of a crime suspect often experience the hardest time when a crime has been committed. They are sometimes exposed to nasty, vicious comments from their peers. It’s not their fault a law has been broken. Children can be particularly mean to each other. It’s our responsibility to encourage our children to be empathetic and sympathetic.
Stop for a moment and imagine your child or your brother or sister being arrested. Would you feel any of the emotions listed above? Do you need love and support from those around you? The world needs a little more love, and it certainly needs a lot more empathy.
We are born with the capacity to feel empathy; that is, the ability to be sensitive and caring about another person’s feelings, thoughts and experiences without actually experiencing them ourselves. Babies and young children show distress when others around them are distressed. Maybe we’ve seen instances when a young child will offer, with a sad look on their faces, to wipe a tear away from someone they know. They are empathizing, understanding and feeling the sorrow of another. Somewhere along the line we seem to lose that capacity.
For example, recently there have been several crimes committed in our small towns – break-ins, fights, shootings. The perpetrators should be caught and punished; there is no question about that. But have we given any thought to the families of those perpetrators? They have committed no crime and yet we oftentimes say or do things to condemn them as well. A myriad of reasons as to why the culprit did what they did are often laid at the parents’ feet. They should stay home more, work less, pay more attention, raise their children differently, etc. etc. There is not one of us who is a perfect parent. We all make mistakes but we assuredly parent to the best of our ability in most cases.
Children do not grow up in a vacuum. They know it is wrong to steal, they know it is wrong to fight, rape, wantonly destroy property or kill. They know right from wrong, unless there is some pathological reason present. We are responsible for the decisions we make, not our parents, not our sisters or brothers, not anyone else but ourselves. So why do we condemn the family?
Put yourselves in the family’s place for a moment. Your child, your sibling, your grandchild has just been arrested. What do you feel? Anger? Fear? Shame? Sorrow? Devastation? Humiliation? Self-recrimination? And how do we, as friends, co-workers and acquaintances, react to the news? Are we supportive and understanding toward the parents or siblings of the perpetrator? Do we offer sympathy and a listening ear when needed? Or are we condemning of the entire family? The brothers and sisters of a crime suspect often experience the hardest time when a crime has been committed. They are sometimes exposed to nasty, vicious comments from their peers. It’s not their fault a law has been broken. Children can be particularly mean to each other. It’s our responsibility to encourage our children to be empathetic and sympathetic.
Stop for a moment and imagine your child or your brother or sister being arrested. Would you feel any of the emotions listed above? Do you need love and support from those around you? The world needs a little more love, and it certainly needs a lot more empathy.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Act Your Age
Long into my adult years I used to wonder when I’d feel “grown up.” I could see people my age, acting like what I thought adults should act like – serious, worried about business and world affairs. I just never felt that ponderous, for lack of a better word.
I often hear parents telling their children to “grow up.” What does that mean exactly? Is being fun-loving, excited about the world and things in it, and full of awe childish? Then forgive me, but I hope I always remain a child. I hear adults say about other adults, “why would they act so childish” or “don’t they realize they’re too old for that?” What are they being too old for?
I enjoy life far too much to “grow up.” Responsibility is a part of being an adult, and lord knows, I’ve had my share of responsibility. I raised two reasonably responsible children of my own; I took in three orphaned teenagers and adopted one of them when I was but 24 years old and did the best I could do to see that they were put on the right path; I spent 23 years of my life being responsible for other people’s children in my daycare; I took care of my mother-in-law who was wheelchair bound, blind with cataracts, hard of hearing and had a tracheotomy tube, during the last year and a half of her life. And yet, I still don’t feel “grown up” if it means acting my age. Someone tell me what my age acts like.
I’m 58 years old (a woman never tells her age, but then I don’t feel like a woman, I’m still a girl at heart!) I shop for sensible but fun clothes, I like my hair in trendy cuts, and I do odd things now and then, like dye my hair pink and wear outrageous eye makeup. Does this mean I’m acting like a child? Gosh, I hope so!
Children are wonderful, aren’t they? They don’t worry if their hair is mussed, they dig in the dirt for treasures, and they wonder at the clouds passing by. They are full of life and energy and fascination. WHY would we want to be anything other than that! And yet we have this unfortunate tendency to want to beat it out of them. – Stand up straight, don’t dawdle, stay in line, come on! We need to get going…
I guess I was fortunate in having parents and teachers who understood the nature of a child to want to explore and discover. I haven’t lost that tendency. And hopefully I haven’t lost the desire to be unique and fun loving.
There’s a joke that makes the rounds on the Internet that goes something like inside every old person is a young person wondering what the heck happened. Someone once said to me, you’re either living or you’re waiting around to die. I’d rather be living, thank you very much.
Long into my adult years I used to wonder when I’d feel “grown up.” I could see people my age, acting like what I thought adults should act like – serious, worried about business and world affairs. I just never felt that ponderous, for lack of a better word.
I often hear parents telling their children to “grow up.” What does that mean exactly? Is being fun-loving, excited about the world and things in it, and full of awe childish? Then forgive me, but I hope I always remain a child. I hear adults say about other adults, “why would they act so childish” or “don’t they realize they’re too old for that?” What are they being too old for?
I enjoy life far too much to “grow up.” Responsibility is a part of being an adult, and lord knows, I’ve had my share of responsibility. I raised two reasonably responsible children of my own; I took in three orphaned teenagers and adopted one of them when I was but 24 years old and did the best I could do to see that they were put on the right path; I spent 23 years of my life being responsible for other people’s children in my daycare; I took care of my mother-in-law who was wheelchair bound, blind with cataracts, hard of hearing and had a tracheotomy tube, during the last year and a half of her life. And yet, I still don’t feel “grown up” if it means acting my age. Someone tell me what my age acts like.
I’m 58 years old (a woman never tells her age, but then I don’t feel like a woman, I’m still a girl at heart!) I shop for sensible but fun clothes, I like my hair in trendy cuts, and I do odd things now and then, like dye my hair pink and wear outrageous eye makeup. Does this mean I’m acting like a child? Gosh, I hope so!
Children are wonderful, aren’t they? They don’t worry if their hair is mussed, they dig in the dirt for treasures, and they wonder at the clouds passing by. They are full of life and energy and fascination. WHY would we want to be anything other than that! And yet we have this unfortunate tendency to want to beat it out of them. – Stand up straight, don’t dawdle, stay in line, come on! We need to get going…
I guess I was fortunate in having parents and teachers who understood the nature of a child to want to explore and discover. I haven’t lost that tendency. And hopefully I haven’t lost the desire to be unique and fun loving.
There’s a joke that makes the rounds on the Internet that goes something like inside every old person is a young person wondering what the heck happened. Someone once said to me, you’re either living or you’re waiting around to die. I’d rather be living, thank you very much.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Working It Out
I always said when I turned 40 and got my head screwed on straight, I’d blow up like a balloon. Up until then I weighed 110 pounds or less, and I ate all the time: breakfast at home, a bagel with peanut butter and coffee when I got to work, 10 o’clock break, lunch at noon, 3 o’clock break, supper. Stop. I didn’t eat after supper; that was my concession to maintaining my weight. And I maintained a size 3 figure. Sure enough, at age 40 I got divorced, remarried, my metabolism slowed down and I started putting on weight. The only correlation I can make with the marriages is that my new husband would lovingly offer me candies and treats, hand feeding me Roman style each night on the sofa as we watched television. It was bound to happen. I got fat.
I am many sizes larger than a 3 these days; I huff and puff going up the stairs and I can’t walk any distance before “pooping” out. I am in sorry shape my friends.
To the rescue, just in time for New Year’s Resolutions, enters Ripley Central School! With a grant, they have converted the old “big” gym (to those of us over 50,) or the old “little” gym (to those of you who are younger,) into a glorious, fully equipped, state-of-the-art exercise room. I was actually working at the school when they started the project. It saddened me to see the old bleachers torn out and the stage boarded up; so many memories there. But now! Oh my! The architects incorporated the curve of the old stage opening into the design and have created a gym area with basketball nets, and a two-story exercise facility that rivals anything the high priced commercial gyms have.
There are, naturally, tread mills, stationary bikes, stair climbers and elliptical machines. In addition, there is an entire section of weight machines along with free weights. Got a muscle that hasn’t been used lately? There’s a machine for that. Got a roll of fat that needs trimming? There’s a machine for that. (My apologies to the cell phone ads.) It is exercise mecca. And here’s the greatest thing about all this equipment – it is open and available to all Ripley residents, free of charge until June! If you’re like me, you’ve been making excuses about why you can’t exercise. Commercial facilities are too expensive. It’s too far to drive. It’s too cold out, etc. etc. etc. All my attempts at stalling have been wiped out. My only excuse now would be pure laziness. I don’t rule that out, mind you.
The Tuesday after Christmas my husband, the bon-bon feeding accomplice to my weight gain, and I went down to the school to try it out. While he rode bicycle and walked across Texas on the treadmill, I ventured to try every weight machine available. Rachael Swan was on duty that day, and although professing little knowledge of fitness programs for others, showed me how to use each piece of equipment. I proceeded to work my abs and triceps, my quads and glutes, my obliques and pecs … in short every muscle and area of my body that I never knew existed. I was exhilarated! I was exhausted. I was foolish. By Wednesday night I could hardly move. I had only done 5 to 10 reps on each machine, but to a body unused to exertion, it was torture.
My New Year’s Resolution is to get back down there, take advantage of the free use of the exercise equipment, get my weight down, my stamina up and become the new improved me. I challenge all of you Ripley residents to join me. I’m sick of seeing skinny, fit people in gym workout commercials. I want to see a bunch of overweight, out of shape people like me in there, trying to make our lives healthier. Evening hours will be available after school resumes. I’m going to go get some buns of steel. C’mon and join me!
*As with all fitness programs, check with your doctor first to make sure it is safe for you to begin an exercise program.
I always said when I turned 40 and got my head screwed on straight, I’d blow up like a balloon. Up until then I weighed 110 pounds or less, and I ate all the time: breakfast at home, a bagel with peanut butter and coffee when I got to work, 10 o’clock break, lunch at noon, 3 o’clock break, supper. Stop. I didn’t eat after supper; that was my concession to maintaining my weight. And I maintained a size 3 figure. Sure enough, at age 40 I got divorced, remarried, my metabolism slowed down and I started putting on weight. The only correlation I can make with the marriages is that my new husband would lovingly offer me candies and treats, hand feeding me Roman style each night on the sofa as we watched television. It was bound to happen. I got fat.
I am many sizes larger than a 3 these days; I huff and puff going up the stairs and I can’t walk any distance before “pooping” out. I am in sorry shape my friends.
To the rescue, just in time for New Year’s Resolutions, enters Ripley Central School! With a grant, they have converted the old “big” gym (to those of us over 50,) or the old “little” gym (to those of you who are younger,) into a glorious, fully equipped, state-of-the-art exercise room. I was actually working at the school when they started the project. It saddened me to see the old bleachers torn out and the stage boarded up; so many memories there. But now! Oh my! The architects incorporated the curve of the old stage opening into the design and have created a gym area with basketball nets, and a two-story exercise facility that rivals anything the high priced commercial gyms have.
There are, naturally, tread mills, stationary bikes, stair climbers and elliptical machines. In addition, there is an entire section of weight machines along with free weights. Got a muscle that hasn’t been used lately? There’s a machine for that. Got a roll of fat that needs trimming? There’s a machine for that. (My apologies to the cell phone ads.) It is exercise mecca. And here’s the greatest thing about all this equipment – it is open and available to all Ripley residents, free of charge until June! If you’re like me, you’ve been making excuses about why you can’t exercise. Commercial facilities are too expensive. It’s too far to drive. It’s too cold out, etc. etc. etc. All my attempts at stalling have been wiped out. My only excuse now would be pure laziness. I don’t rule that out, mind you.
The Tuesday after Christmas my husband, the bon-bon feeding accomplice to my weight gain, and I went down to the school to try it out. While he rode bicycle and walked across Texas on the treadmill, I ventured to try every weight machine available. Rachael Swan was on duty that day, and although professing little knowledge of fitness programs for others, showed me how to use each piece of equipment. I proceeded to work my abs and triceps, my quads and glutes, my obliques and pecs … in short every muscle and area of my body that I never knew existed. I was exhilarated! I was exhausted. I was foolish. By Wednesday night I could hardly move. I had only done 5 to 10 reps on each machine, but to a body unused to exertion, it was torture.
My New Year’s Resolution is to get back down there, take advantage of the free use of the exercise equipment, get my weight down, my stamina up and become the new improved me. I challenge all of you Ripley residents to join me. I’m sick of seeing skinny, fit people in gym workout commercials. I want to see a bunch of overweight, out of shape people like me in there, trying to make our lives healthier. Evening hours will be available after school resumes. I’m going to go get some buns of steel. C’mon and join me!
*As with all fitness programs, check with your doctor first to make sure it is safe for you to begin an exercise program.
Merry Christmas – Say It Proudly
No one would ever accuse me of being a right wing conservative, but I agree, let’s bring back the “Merry Christmas” in Christmas. A few years back some religious groups started a movement to boycott stores who would not allow their employees to wish a merry Christmas. It seems to be working. Wal-Mart employees are now encouraged wish their customers Merry Christmas and while Target never did tell their employees they couldn’t say “Merry Christmas,” they did ban the Salvation Army from ringing their bells outside Target stores. In the political correctness of the times, a number of businesses felt it incumbent on themselves to include all the holidays of the season, i.e. Chanukah and Kwanzaa. And yet retailers are focused on the holiday of Christmas. The trees, decorations and gifts are aimed at Christmas shoppers. Santa Claus is featured in many stores, and he is a Christmas symbol.
This is a Christian country. We were founded on Christian principles. A majority of Americans (76 percent) consider themselves Christian. And yet we have no “official” religion because the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States prevents the government from any authority in religious matters. This is a good thing to my mind. Government should not dictate religious ideals, but neither should they discourage religious expression. The idea that retailers should guard themselves against discriminatory practices by eliminating the word “Christmas” is ludicrous. Ben Stein, political speechwriter, law professor, economist, columnist, actor and Jew wrote a lovely piece about Christmas. In it he said in part, “I am a Jew…and it does not bother me a bit when people say Merry Christmas to me…it shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year.”
We have lost the meaning of the holiday along the way. It is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ; not a contest to see who got the most toys, or who lit their house up the best. However, whatever your personal beliefs, it is a season of hope and love. Where else in the world are so many religions and beliefs tolerated? Where else are we free to express those beliefs as we see fit without fear of reprisal? Wish everyone you meet a “Merry Christmas” and say it proudly. And should you be wished a Happy Chanukah or a Happy Holiday in return, smile and be content in the brotherhood of man.
No one would ever accuse me of being a right wing conservative, but I agree, let’s bring back the “Merry Christmas” in Christmas. A few years back some religious groups started a movement to boycott stores who would not allow their employees to wish a merry Christmas. It seems to be working. Wal-Mart employees are now encouraged wish their customers Merry Christmas and while Target never did tell their employees they couldn’t say “Merry Christmas,” they did ban the Salvation Army from ringing their bells outside Target stores. In the political correctness of the times, a number of businesses felt it incumbent on themselves to include all the holidays of the season, i.e. Chanukah and Kwanzaa. And yet retailers are focused on the holiday of Christmas. The trees, decorations and gifts are aimed at Christmas shoppers. Santa Claus is featured in many stores, and he is a Christmas symbol.
This is a Christian country. We were founded on Christian principles. A majority of Americans (76 percent) consider themselves Christian. And yet we have no “official” religion because the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States prevents the government from any authority in religious matters. This is a good thing to my mind. Government should not dictate religious ideals, but neither should they discourage religious expression. The idea that retailers should guard themselves against discriminatory practices by eliminating the word “Christmas” is ludicrous. Ben Stein, political speechwriter, law professor, economist, columnist, actor and Jew wrote a lovely piece about Christmas. In it he said in part, “I am a Jew…and it does not bother me a bit when people say Merry Christmas to me…it shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year.”
We have lost the meaning of the holiday along the way. It is the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ; not a contest to see who got the most toys, or who lit their house up the best. However, whatever your personal beliefs, it is a season of hope and love. Where else in the world are so many religions and beliefs tolerated? Where else are we free to express those beliefs as we see fit without fear of reprisal? Wish everyone you meet a “Merry Christmas” and say it proudly. And should you be wished a Happy Chanukah or a Happy Holiday in return, smile and be content in the brotherhood of man.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Silver Bells
Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.
The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.
The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.
The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.
The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.
My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.
When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.
Ring-a-ling…It’s Christmas time in the city. The Salvation Army bell ringers are out in full force everywhere you go. The red kettles beckon us to give, and give again, for the less fortunate.
The work the Salvation Army does is well documented. 83 cents of every dollar collected goes directly to client services. This is one of the highest percentages of any non-profit in the world. They don’t just provide meals at holiday time; they provide disaster relief services, day care centers, summer camps, services for the aging, AIDS education, medical facilities, and shelters for battered women and children, among many other services. More than 30 million people a year are aided in some form of service provided by the Army.
The Salvation Army had been depicted in the movies as a soup kitchen, with sitting through a sermon preaching the evils of “demon rum” as the price of admission. They do in fact have an aggressive program devoted to defeating substance abuse. They run 120 rehabilitation centers across the country, treating those who can no longer cope with their addictions, supplying housing, meals, necessary medical care and work therapy.
The Army is not perfect. People run the organization on a local as well as national level, and people are not perfect. I’ve heard stories where a local head of the church picked clothes from the donation bin that were particularly nice for his own children, rather than sell them to the more needy of the community. I’m sure there are other similar tales of corruption, but overall, the good they do far outweighs any minor, local indiscretions.
The Salvation Army is a Christian religious organization, devoted to helping their fellow man. I know of people who refuse to donate because they are not their church. The charity the Salvation Army gives, the work they do, the causes they support, are given without prejudice.
My daughter and son-in-law have decided to make bell ringing an annual tradition. They stand outside their local Target and ring the bell. They smile and wish everyone, whether they give or not, a merry Christmas. The bell ringers come from all walks of life and from all religions; and they stand outside in the cold, the snow, the rain, and the wind, hoping to fill the kettle before the next shift comes around. I knew a bell ringer once, an elderly man, who stood outside and sang songs and rhymes of his own creation to the passersby. He was very entertaining and always had a kind word for those who stopped at his kettle. One year he wasn’t there. When I enquired about his absence I was told he was no longer at that location because he had offended some patrons with his pleas for donations. It’s a sad world when we can’t take a bit of good natured teasing about how we spend our money. Evidently he pricked a few consciences a little too hard.
When you pass a red kettle this year, pull out your wallet or fish for change, and give. I know it’s hard for me to not put money into every kettle I see, but hopefully the bell ringer will understand that I’ve already given or mailed in a contribution. Smile and wish them a Merry Christmas and thank them for the work they do. The money they raise may help you or someone you love some day.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saying Goodbye
Such Sweet Sorrow
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
It seems I’ve spent most of my adult life saying goodbye to the people I love. I moved away from home to Columbus, Ohio when I was 20. It was an adventure then, moving away from the small town where I’d grown up to the big city. I don’t remember it clearly anymore, but I’m sure I blithely packed up and waved goodbye with a smile on my face, anxious to get on with my life. I soon learned that I’d miss my folks and siblings more than I thought imaginable. But it was only a 4 ½ hour drive, so I was able to visit several times a year. Each passing year seemed to take me further and further from home, however; first to New Hampshire, then on to Minnesota. Visits got less frequent, once a year, maybe twice in a good year. And as my parents got older and I got wiser, each parting was harder than the last. I’d try to smile, assure us all that I’d be back soon, then hop in the car and drive away. I always insisted on me being the driver. That way I couldn’t cry as long or as hard because I had to pay attention to the road. I always knew I’d cry the whole way back if I was just a passenger.
The hardest goodbye was when I came home from Minnesota for good. I left two adult children behind, and it broke my heart to leave them. We tried to go out for a “goodbye dinner” the night before we left, but nobody could eat. We tried to talk about normal things, but nobody felt like talking. The next morning we pulled away from the home my children had grown up in, my husband driving the U-Haul truck, me driving the car. I sobbed for the first two hours on the road, my heart alternately screaming, “Don’t go!” or “Come with me!” I felt like someone had ripped my heart in two.
I’ve only been back to Minnesota once since then. The goodbyes that visit were easier than the initial one, but still wrenching. Then, this Thanksgiving my son came to Ripley for the week. I longed to see him, but dreaded the newest farewell to come. My son is divorced and his little girl, six year old Abby, lives near Ithaca, New York now. We both looked forward to driving out for a short visit with her, but dreaded that goodbye. Abby hasn’t seen her dad in quite awhile and he wasn’t sure how she’d react to him. Several months can be a lifetime to a six year old. Abby answered the door and saw me first. “Grandma!” she cried with arms outstretched. But as she started toward me she saw her dad and pivoted on the spot and ran to his arms. My heart soared to see her excitement.
She pulled us inside to tell us all about her day at school, learning about Thanksgiving, pilgrims and how she learned another word for Indians was Native Americans. The joy my son and his daughter felt during that visit was palpable. Abby was going to a friend’s birthday party that night, so we took her. She and “Daddy” played in the maze and slide of the play place. When it came time for us to leave he asked her if she wanted us to take her home or did she want to stay at the party a bit longer and go home with her friend’s mother. Abby opted for her friend’s mom so we put on our happy faces and hugged and kissed her goodbye, saving our tears for later. But when we got outside I remembered the booster seat had to be transferred to the other car, so I suggested my son go back and say a final goodbye while I took care of it. He came back to the car a few minutes later, Abby clinging to him. He had found her sitting in the corner of the ball pit, crying, because she’d changed her mind and wanted to be with her dad.
I watched from the rear view mirror as they held each other, whispering, “I love you, Daddy,” and “I love you too, Abby.” She fell asleep in his arms as we drove. When we got to her house, they shared a final I love you, then he handed her to her mom as she waved a sleepy little hand goodbye. I knew the pain my son was feeling. I felt it too. A few days later I said goodbye to my baby, my son. Even though we know there will be other visits, albeit infrequent, it’s never easy saying goodbye.
It’s officially the Christmas season now. The season for sharing…giving…loving. Give your loved ones a special hug this year, tell them you love them, cherish every moment you can be with them. Life is too short and the world needs more love as we wait for the next goodbye.
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