Christmas

“One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don’t clean it up too quickly.” – Andy Rooney


So, the big day is nearly upon us and I say if it’s not done for Christmas by now, let it go. I will not, however, be following my own advice. I still have presents to wrap, a menu to plan and food to shop for – not to mention a rather lengthy list of last minute details to accomplish. But, that’s okay. A recent decision not to decorate the tree with anything but lights and shiny garland this year has freed up a bunch of time…

I like the cycle of Christmas, even though there is a predictable low point a few weeks in, where the spirit eludes me for awhile. I’m not alone in this; I’ve noticed it all over town. The happy excitement shopping generated right after Thanksgiving has been replaced with a sort of holiday slog, as people drag their kids and relatives up and down the store aisles, hoping to find something for that impossible person who is difficult to buy for.


Kids melt down and throw fits on the not-so-clean-anymore store floors. The elderly move especially slowly. Moms, daughters and sisters begin to bicker; husbands and dads turn a strange yellowish color under the fluorescent store lights – similar to the pallor a flu casts. Everyone looks tired, feels broke and becomes a little pinched generosity-wise. And, then, the fun returns.


I like sitting by the fire, wrapping presents and watching Christmas shows for the umpteenth time. I like listening to the cheesy music playing everywhere. And, I’m a big fan of holiday decorations – all kinds - the classy displays, the tacky displays, the big blow-ups and the bright lights. The brighter the better, I say. Christmas is the one time of the year where gaudy is not only tolerated it is glorious – at least in my mind.


I like the way complete strangers say, “Merry Christmas!” to each other. I enjoy sending and receiving holiday cards. I like looking at the pictures, opening the pretty envelopes and reading the hand-written notes. And, those holiday letters – priceless! I have one relative who generates the worst poem imaginable every year and somehow manages to surpass herself in terrible-ness year after year. It’s amazing! Mr. Clark and I look forward to the arrival of her card just so we can read it aloud to each other, over and over again. Holiday hoaky-ness – you gotta’ love it!

This year, in an act of holiday hoaky or “it’s the thought that counts,” we sent a poinsettia to Mr. Clark’s dad and his wife. They live in California; we never see or hear from them; it’s the first gift we’ve given them in years. I almost didn’t send them anything again this year, but it’s been a good year and I thought, what the heck? No reason to be a Scrooge every year.


As soon as that poinsettia arrived, Mr. Clark’s dad got on the phone and called us, sounding so pleased and happy Mr. Clark almost didn’t recognize his voice. The elder Mr. Clark described the color of the plant and every detail of the container. He told us how nice the delivery person had been and went on and on about how perfect that plant was for this certain spot in their living room. Now this, coming from a wealthy curmudgeon whose wife used to be an interior decorator, was really quite something.


Mr. Clark and his dad had a long conversation and, by the time they hung up, had caught up and actually sounded close again - all that over an FTD delivery. It wasn’t, of course, about the poinsettia; it was, in this case, indeed, the thought that had counted. Apparently, being remembered by us at Christmas meant more to Mr. Clark’s dad and his wife than any of us would have ever guessed.


Bob Hope said, “When we recall Christmas past, we usually find that the simplest things - not the great occasions - give off the greatest glow of happiness.” And, I have found that to be true. As much as I enjoy agonizing over the gifts, the decorations and the details, it’s the sound of my family, all laughing together under one roof again, that I remember the most fondly and look forward to each year.


Merry Christmas to you and yours, and may God bless us everyone in the New Year!

Bah, Humbug!

“He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree.” – Roy L. Smith



This is my “Bah! Humbug!” time of year. The warm glow of Thanksgiving and initial excitement about Christmas has passed, and the sure-to-occur thankful happiness that Christmas brings has yet to happen. Where I am now is buried in unfinished tasks and a “To Do” list so long there’s no way I can get it all crossed off by December 24.


My mood is not festive and I am feeling overwhelmed. With Mr. Clark’s help, I have managed to accomplish the first round of holiday chores, which includes buying, packing and shipping the out-of-town gifts, designing and ordering this year’s Christmas card, putting the tree up, and pulling the one million and one Christmas bins out of the attic.


I still have to decorate the tree, finish shopping, wrap our gifts, write our festive annual holiday letter, finish decorating the house, and hang the wreaths…Good grief! It’s December 15 and my wreaths aren’t up yet? And, did I mention? My house hasn’t been cleaned in weeks.


Of course, this is all self-inflected, self-created torture. The holidays don’t have to be about any of this. The year Mr. Clark was out of work we didn’t buy anything and my “To Do” list was very short. It mostly involved things like, “Remember we still have our health,” and, “At least our kids are doing well, ‘Thank You, Santa!’”


And, while it wasn’t’ our happiest holiday season ever, we did manage to find some Christmas cheer and I didn’t spend the entire month of December pulling my hair out and yelling things like, “I can’t remember the last time I did something I actually wanted to do!” Ouch!


Christmas should be a humble, happy time – a time to do good for others and reflect on one’s own blessings. It shouldn’t be the task-laden Holidaypalooza it so often turns into; but, how to re-seize the spirit?


Well, as the Good Lord so often does, He stepped into my heart the other day and got me back on track. I volunteer at a clinic for people with no money or health insurance on Mondays and this past Monday was a busy day. LOTS of sick folks, a long line of people waiting to be seen, and one of the two nurse practitioners was out sick. The other one had to take her husband to the doctor, so she called and said she wasn’t sure when she could make it, but she would come in.


It was so cold in the drafty old building where the clinic is, that everyone waiting to be seen ended up crowded into the small reception area where my “job” is to man the desk, take calls and manage traffic flow. One of the things on the reception desk is a bin of hotel soaps, shampoos and lotions that people donate to the clinic for patients to take home for free. Since many of the clients are homeless or staying at Salvation Army or having really hard times, this bin generates a lot of interest – especially on a cold day when everyone waiting to be seen is huddled in the reception room trying to stay warm.

This week there was also a box of brightly wrapped packages in the reception room - hats, socks, gloves and scarves the Fall batch of volunteers from the medical school donated to give away “One gift per patient only, please.”


As the waits got longer with no nurse practitioner in sight, the mood in the reception room soured. Questions like, “Are we ever going to be seen?” and “Is that nurse even coming in?” began to be grumbled, louder and louder. We started turning patients away and rescheduling others – it didn’t look good.


And, then, a retired nurse who dispenses the medications at the clinic, came out of the back and said, gaily, “Has everyone here gotten their Christmas gift?”


One by one, the patients went to the box or asked me for what they needed. “I’d like one of them boxes with a hat and sox,” one homeless man said. Another woman asked if she could have one of the kids’ presents instead of her own, “for my grandbaby who’s waiting at home.”

Opening and donning the gifts took the edge off the tone in the reception room. And, then, one of the patients started digging through the hotel samples, showing others the particularly fine finds, passing them out as if she were Santa Claus. Before long, the atmosphere was downright festive.


The nurse arrived, the patients were seen and the day ended with everyone wishing everyone, “Merry Christmas!” I left the clinic feeling a lot warmer inside than when I’d arrived. So what if some of those holiday tasks don’t get done? Watching those folks’ genuine happiness over some donated hats, sox and hotel toiletry samples had given me a fresh perspective.
 
The Ghost of Christmas Present told Ebeneezer Scrooge, “There is never enough time to do or say all the things we would wish. The thing is to try to do as much as you can in the time that you have. Remember Scrooge, time is short and suddenly, you’re not here any more.” Amen! Mr. Ghost, amen!

Soldiers

“From the bitter cold at Valley Forge, to the mountains of Afghanistan and the deserts of Iraq, our soldiers have courageously answered when called, gone where ordered, and defended our nation with honor.” – Solomon Ortiz



Thank heavens for soldiers! For there are those of us who enjoy the safety and freedoms they have consistently fought to maintain for us, yet do not have the stuff of which they are made, and so are not able to fight.


I was reminded of this last week when I attended the departure ceremony for the local National Guard Blackhawk unit that has been deployed to Iraq. With the exception of my grandfather, who served in the Army as a dentist during World War II, there are no soldiers in my family and so it was with great awe, an aching heart and more than one tear in my eye that I photographed the event for this paper.

There is nothing in me that tells me how to tell a husband, father, son, daughter, wife or, in some cases, grandfather, “Goodbye!” knowing that, because they have been called up, they are now headed straight for harm’s way.


There is nothing in me that comprehends the bravery with which people sign up to become soldiers. There is nothing in me that understands how families endure the uncertainties, separations and hardships they endure, year in and year out, in service of our country.


To me, all of these things are amazing – which is not to say I’m not from a family of good citizens and patriotic Americans – it’s just that we’ve never sacrificed in those ways.


I remember the first time I left my two small children in day care, part-time, for four hours a day, three days a week. It was gut-wrenching for me and they hated it…How did that brave young mother stand so tall and proud, smiling in front of that helicopter, holding her four-year-old son so that I could photography them, knowing it would be a year before she sees him again?


Mr. Clark travels for work and, at times, he’s been gone for as long as a month or two. I can’t imagine sending him off with that brave, tired, proud smile I saw on the faces of those Army wives – not for a month or two, but for a year or more – with no assurance he’d come back unharmed.


And, my grown children - they were blessed with the opportunity to study abroad during college, which wonderful as that was, made me miss them a lot and worry too much…How, how, how do all of those parents send their beloved children/soldiers away, with all of those well-wishes, bright smiles and well-masked fears not knowing how and when they may return again?


They are a different breed, those soldiers of ours and their families. I admire, respect and marvel at their ability to carry on, with braveness, humor and dignity, in the face of circumstances someone like me can not imagine and could not handle.

There was a particularly vitriolic (as in severely bitter or caustic) posting by a blogger this week, about the pictures and brief article on the departure ceremony. He/she called it, “militaristic nonsense,” and went on to say, “to trumpet the latest dispatch of weekend warriors as anything other than another expensive spasm of…the military-industrial complex is…disgusting simple-minded rah-rah journalism.”


Wow! In what country defended by a military like ours, upheld by a constitution like ours, would this yah-hoo not end up in prison or dead by publicly voicing such an opinion? I say, shame on you, sir or ma’am! Your lack of context and humility is appalling.


In response, another blogger said, “That you take exception to the need for such a call…is fine, but they are to be respected…for their sacrifices.”


And, that is where I end this column.


I do not and have never supported the war in Iraq or Afghanistan; however, the brave men and women called to that duty – our soldiers, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, cousins, coworkers and grandparents – deserve our unwavering support, thanks and prayers, as do their families.


God speed and I look forward to attending/photographing the ceremony honoring your return home!

Have & Have Not

“Just as a puppy can be more of a challenge than a gift, so too can the holidays.” – John Clayton



The holidays are upon us and at no time are we more aware of “have” and “have not” than at this time of year. Two Christmases ago, Mr. Clark was out of work and we were out of money. There were no gifts under the tree (that our grown daughter bought us, out of love, fond memories and pity) and try as we all did, the comfort to be found in a non-material celebration eluded us, as we sat at the meal our grown son prepared, pretending not to hear the wolves howling outside our door.


Last year, Mr. Clark had work again – a good job that afforded us the luxury of not only having a modest Christmas ourselves, but also helping a couple of recently unemployed friends make sure Santa came to their houses and left a few treats for their kids.


This year we are bountifully blessed and so, in addition to being a little more generous with each other and our kids, we are able to help friends and family still struggling in the grips of this vile recession and we have “adopted” a Holiday Connection family.


Barrow County Holiday Connection is a cooperative effort between the local schools, DFACS, churches and service organizations that, for the past 12 years, has made the holidays a little more merry and bright for kids whose families are having a hard time. This year there are 450 families who have been screened and identified as truly in need of help and, due to the continued economic strain on most folks, donations are down from past years.


“Our” family is a grandmother raising two grandchildren by herself. The girl is seven, the boy is five and their wish list is simple. He likes Batman, Spiderman, Superman, cars and trucks; she likes ZuZu pets, “hair things,” and makeup. They both need pants, shirts and “maybe a warm coat,” as the family recently moved from Florida where “it never gets this cold.”

I admit, I was a little apprehensive about “adopting” a family with kids this age – after all, those are the peak “please, Santa, make my Christmas dream come true” years and I wasn’t sure an X-Box, Wii or other expensive requests would be within our reach this year. And, then I got their list - oh, my! How un-humble and materialistic do I need to be? There are kids out there still just hoping for coats…


Mr. Clark and I went out on Black Friday to take advantage of certain sales and shop for “our” family locally. I like venturing out on that over-hyped day because it puts me in the mood for the holidays – not so much in the buying that I do as in the spirit of giving I see. This year I saw an elderly man leaving a store with a big smile on his face, the only item in his shopping bag a huge Lego set that I’m sure he got a great Black Friday deal on…I like imagining how happy his grandchildren will be when Grandpa surprises them with the Lego set of their dreams.


I like listening to families debating certain gifts for certain folks and, maybe due to the big excitement Black Friday brings, doing it in a nice way, a happy way, a way that says Christmas is going to be a good one for them this year. I like the lines, the big sale signs and the notion that this many people are having fun spending money on someone else on this particular day....I am also saddened by the thought of all the people who are not in these stores and will not get any gifts this Christmas because, for whatever reasons, their lives have strayed so far from anything even remotely magical that they are alone not only during the holidays, but every day of the year.


Mr. Clark hates shopping. He would rather do almost anything than shop – especially on a zoo day like Black Friday. I was pleased that he wanted to come with me, even if the only reason was to “make sure you don’t go crazy” while hunting down those holiday deals.


And maybe, not surprisingly, we had the best time we’ve had in a long time – shopping for two kids we’ll probably never meet. He found deals I didn’t spot and I suggested additions to “our” family’s list that he agreed with. We scoured the sale bins, debated colors, sizes and relative toy fun values. We ended up going to several stores to get what we wanted, but when we were done, we had the list accomplished affordably - plus a little bit more. I can hardly wait to wrap and then, just before Christmas, deliver those gifts.


If there’s anything our past few Christmases have taught us, it’s that giving is, indeed, WAY more fun than receiving.


The Holiday Connection Coordinator is Michelle Walker, 770-868-4258; it’s not too late to adopt a family, donate toys, send money, or volunteer.

The Carousel of Happiness

“Love and magic have a great deal in common. They enrich the soul, delight the heart, and they both take practice.” – unknown


Do you believe in magic?

I do and I was just reminded of how real magic can be when my dad and his wife insisted the one thing we had to do during my recent trip back home to Colorado was ride on “The Carousel of Happiness.”


“Carousel of Happiness?” I thought, “that sounds a little hokey.” I couldn’t have been more wrong and it turns out there is a wonderful story involved.


“The Carver,” as a person who carves carousel animals is called, is a Viet Nam vet named Scott Harrison who set out to honor his two best buddies, fallen in combat, with a carousel he envisioned building in some magical mountain place. Apparently the young Marine machine gunner had always loved the mountains and his sister had given him a music box to listen to when he needed to escape the stresses of war. The song it played, he later said, was “as sad as it was beautiful” and it put him in the mind of riding a carousel – a universally happy experience.


Some 20 years after he came home from the war, Harrison began carving carousel animals, 56 in all, and a little later, a carousel mechanism in need of animals and a new home came his way. The carousel was originally made by Charles Loof, one of the great carousel makers of the 19th and 20th centuries. It was delivered to Saltair Park, just outside of Salt Lake City in 1910 and operated there for 49 years, but fell into disrepair after the park closed and the animals were sold to collectors.


One amazing part of this carousel story is that my dad remembers riding a roller coaster at Saltair Park during a trip he took as a boy with his dad around 1949. I really wanted him to tell me he rode on the carousel – or at least saw it – but he said he got so sick from the roller coaster he has no memory of the carousel at all.

 took Harrison 22 years to restore the carousel frame and all the original bearings, gears and metal work, as well as carve the 38 animals kids of all ages now ride. He carved 18 additional creatures who populate the carousel rafters, supports and all volunteer-built, completely “green” solar pavilion in Nederland, Colorado, high in the Rocky Mountains, where the recently finished carousel now spins for $1 a ride. Harrison even found a 1913 Wurlitzer band organ to provide authentic music for the carousel, which is rapidly becoming a “must do” for residents of the Denver-Boulder metropolitan area and tourists, alike.

In addition to all of the time Harrison spent turning his dream into a reality, $675,000 in private donations, ranging from $1 to $100,000, was involved. And, the result, which he calls “a simple outpost of joy,” is no less than amazing.


My dad (now in his early 70’s), my little sister (in her late 20’s), my college-age nephew, Mr. Clark and I made a pilgrimage to ride the carousel on the last day of our visit. It was cold, snowy and the mountains were beautiful. I remained a little skeptical about this whole “Carousel of Happiness” idea until I walked into the pavilion, heard the music and saw the huge, friendly-yet-a-little-bit-sad face of the carved walrus keeping the guest book.


My dad paid for rides all around and away we went, choosing our steeds from a fine selection of animals that included a solemn-faced bear, a many-horned deer, a jumping dolphin, a proud and colorful peacock, a kangaroo with a Joey in her pouch, a zebra with multi-colored stripes, a friendly-faced dragon, a frog, an elephant, a great blue heron and an alpaca in ballet shoes. The only horse on the carousel was a painted Indian pony brightly festooned in feathers; my favorite animal was a moose whose sad eyes made me think of all the veterans Harrison honored in building his carousel.


We took one ride after another, changing animals every time, laughing, smiling, waving and taking pictures of each other - enjoying that carousel in such a child-like way it was obvious the name, “Carousel of Happiness” didn’t even begin to describe the fun.


I don’t remember the last time I felt that happy in such an easy, uncomplicated way. It was like being five again – only with my five-year-old dad, sister, nephew and husband all there laughing with me.


Harrison said he made the carousel to honor his buddies – to “keep those guys alive in my heart in a happy way.” I can’t help but think they smile down at him from heaven every time they hear that Wurlitzer fire up or see those animals start to spin.

Simple, happy, magical moments are so rare, so precious, so hard to achieve - in turning his crazy-sounding idea into reality, “The Carver” gave everyone who rides his carousel that wonderful gift.


If you are ever out West, put “Carousel of Happiness” on your “must see” list and when you’re having a bad day, Google Carousel of Happiness and just imagine you are there – magic, it’s real, indeed.

Velveteen Rabbit

“What is REAL?...It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real” – Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit



Becca and Floyd got married last weekend and it was hard for me to stay focused on photographing their wedding because tears kept welling up in my eyes. It started when the groomsmen arrived – eight tall young men looking particularly dapper in their dark suits and deep purple ties. These weren’t just any groomsmen - they were boys who practically grew up at my house, wrestling on the floor, eating their way through the pantry, creating all manner of fun and havoc from the time they were small until one by one, they finished college, got jobs and married.


It seems like only yesterday I was driving them to soccer practice and picking their band uniforms up off the floor…Did those messy, gangly little kids, turned awkward middle-schoolers, then active teenagers and busy college students really become this handsome group of successful young men? Yes, they did. And, most of them married girls I had the fun of watching grow up, too.

I’ve had the privilege of photographing most of their weddings, and, even from behind my camera, I could see each couple has a special story, a unique love, a private understanding - a best friend to face the future with. Such high hopes and happy dreams accompany a couple to the alter, and they stand there with such surety, holding hands, making promises and staring into each others’ eyes…The audacity with which people marry amazes me each and every time I go to or photograph a wedding, and I mean audacity in a good way – the bold courage and daring way. I don’t remember what it felt like to be that sure of anything.


Becca and Floyd included some passages from The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams in their ceremony and while I’ve heard the same passages read at other weddings, the poignancy of the message didn’t touch my heart the way it did as I listened to my son reading for his two friends.


The story is about a velveteen rabbit that belongs to a little boy; over time, he becomes the boy’s favorite toy and constant companion. The boy gets scarlet fever and the doctor says all the toys in the nursery must be burned so they won’t re-infect the boy. Just before he is thrown into the fire, the velveteen rabbit sheds a real tear and because of “strange and wonderful nursery magic” becomes real, then hops away to live with the live rabbits in the boy’s yard.


The passages used at weddings come from a conversation between the rabbit and a wise old skin horse who also lives in the nursery - about being Real.


“Does it hurt?” the rabbit asks. “Sometimes,” the horse replies. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”
“Does it happen all at once…or bit by bit?” the rabbit asks. “It doesn’t happen all at once,” the horse replies. “You become. It takes a long time…Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off…and you get very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”


Isn’t a good marriage so much like this? You start out all fresh and new, with life stretched ahead of you like a yellow brick road. Over time, the nicks and bumps along the way take their toll and you begin to lose some of your fur and become a little shabby; that’s when you find out if your love is real or not. Sometimes things don’t work out and couples split. But, for the ones who do make it, it’s the process of loving and sticking together through thick and thin that makes us Real.

Another verse that’s sometimes read at weddings perhaps explains the kinship found in a good marriage, as well as accounting for how a couple can so unabashedly walk down that aisle. It’s Emily Bronte’s, “Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”


Here’s to happily ever after for Becca and Floyd, and all their handsome groomsmen, and their lovely wives and partners and friends. It does take a long time to become Real, but when it happens it’s about the best thing you can imagine - just ask Mr. Clark and me. Thanks to each other, neither of us will ever look ugly again, except to people who don’t understand.

Sanity

“Not sure if he’s being dramatic because the situation calls for it, or if it just feels good to yell.” – Story People



I didn’t go to John Stewart and Stephen Colbert’s Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear in Washington D.C. on October 30, but I really wanted to. Instead I took pictures at a friend’s wedding, which was probably a much saner way to spend the day than at some rally, but the idea of joining thousands of other folks in making the statement, “Enough of the craziness!” did really appeal to me.


The notion behind the rally (which was, admittedly, hosted by a “news” show on Comedy Central) was that in the midst of all the sturm und drang (storm and stress), yelling, name-calling and extreme polarization that define current news and politics, there is a quiet majority made up of regular folks just going about their business, living their lives - not really angry about anything or looking for anyone to blame.


I like that idea; it makes me feel better than the Fox News version of reality where we’re all going to hell in a hand basket faster than we can imagine and we need to be angry and scared and have someone to blame at all times. Hey! While you’re up, turn up the volume, because things aren’t nearly frantic enough yet…


This is where you Fox News enthusiasts jump in a starting yelling “liberal media!” at me, but in the interest of restoring sanity, let’s just agree to disagree; you go on to the Sports section, while I commiserate with readers who share these views with me.

So, restoring sanity – what does that mean? I think it means simply spending more time and energy acknowledging how things really are, and less time and energy trying to stay all riled up all the time.


For example, take the local news. Contrary to what some say, most of it is pretty good – cities trying to take care of citizens, schools trying to teach kids, governments trying to do the best they can on ever-shrinking budgets. There’s births, engagements, weddings, church and school news. There’s pictures of people donating money to good causes and coverage of charity events. There’s recipes and sports and page after page of pictures of people doing fun or interesting things. And, then there’s the shenanigans, controversy and bad headlines generated by the few – a very few – in our community.


In an effort to restore sanity, why not keep things in perspective? Sure there’s bad news, but in general there’s a whole lot more good going on. It’s up to me to choose which I focus on. Contrary to what we hear in some news, it’s all not black or white, wrong or right, my way or the highway; most of life, at least in my experience, is defined by compromise, reason and just trying to get along.

All this crazy loud Fox-style news has given us a taste for drama that is simply not reality based. Most of our lives don’t involve that much controversy, yet we’ve been led to feel that we have to pick sides all the time because extreme polarization is the new norm. Again, not so, I say. Real life is quieter and, yes, more boring than all that and that’s just fine with me. It’s about sanity, not how whacky can we all be.


In falling victim to the explosive media, we distort our view of reality and reduce our ability to function effectively. I, for one, don’t want to base my views on life or cast my vote in reaction to what I don’t want or what I’m scared of. I prefer to make choices based on how I’d like things to be.


I’ll admit, I get caught up in the drama at times. There are days, sometimes entire weeks, when I don’t walk my dogs or get any exercise because I’m so busy chasing the little tempests my news beat teapots generate; that’s no way to live. In striving to restore sanity, I must maintain focus, which means sometimes these things just don’t matter that much. Generate a few less words, go walk your dogs…restore some sanity.


A couple of weeks ago I had a photo session with a little girl in a park. Her name is Madison; she’s precocious and strong-willed and, in general, from the time she was very small, she has called the shots during our photo sessions. This particular hour hadn’t gone as well as I wanted and I was working hard to get a few last perfect shots.

All of the sudden, Madison flung herself down on the grass and said, in a very serious tone, “You just need to lighten up, Lorin; put that camera down and come play with me.” That is what I did and on the way back to the car, I got some of the best shots of the day.
 
Madison knew how to restore sanity and she’s only four; if only we could all be so wise.

Connected

“Look before, or you’ll find yourself behind.” – Benjamin Franklin



I just had my first birthday on Facebook and I must admit, I haven’t felt this well celebrated in years. As you may or may not recall, I wrote a column back in March about being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the future via Facebook. It wasn’t a very cheery column because at the time I had no interest in adding posting minute and generally uninteresting details of my life on Facebook to my daily “To Do” list. Boy! was I wrong.

It turns out if you want to keep up with your kids, coworkers, family and old friends or seem surprisingly hip to your photography business clients, Facebook is the way to go. Since I began actively checking my “wall” several times a day and going to other people’s “walls” to read their “status” updates, I know a whole lot more about the people in my life than I used to and, contrary to my initial notion, most of it is pretty interesting.

For example, my little sister in Colorado is a landscaper and, according to her most recent post, she has put 2,665 bulbs in the ground in the last six days. My son and his wife just ran a half marathon in Athens and within moments of crossing the finish line a photo of their two lovely, exhausted, exhilarated selves was on-line. I never would’ve gotten to share in their glory and enjoy the comments of their friends, had I not been able to check in on it all via Facebook.


One of my daughter’s college roommates is a Fulbright Scholar in Jordan and her postings are wildly interesting; so, too, are those of an old friend who is a PhD astronomer/single parent. His postings range from exotic shots of faraway planets and odd pieces of rock that somehow made their way to Earth, to super cute I-Phone images of his four-year-old daughter. Another friend manages a bank in Atlanta and some of the things his customers say and do, well, you couldn’t make that stuff up if you tried.


I read about the parenting trials and tribulations of family and friends who live so far away I would never be able to put them in any real life context were it not for their daily posts and somehow because of what they put up on their “walls” and how I respond, we all feel a lot closer than we have in years. It’s the power of just being able to quickly, easily and for no extra fee - share.


The future is surprising that way. It comes up with things you think you’re really going to hate, but then end up loving because they’re just so interesting, useful or fun.


The other day I picked my car up from the mechanic and an older man in the waiting room was scrolling slowly through his cell phone, trying to find his own number. We laughed, that man, the mechanic and me, because we all agreed that without our cell phones, we’re useless when it comes to phone numbers – even our own.

”When those things first came out I couldn’t imagine myself having one,” the mechanic said. “Now look at us –we can’t live without ‘em.”

Our first mobile phone was one of those huge old “bag phones” that came out in the late 1980’s. It was in Mr. Clark’s company car and we felt pretty special having it. My son, who was eight at the time, would sit in the car and pretend to make calls because it made him feel “like a movie star.” Good times, great technology…


The other day I started volunteering at a clinic in Athens for people with no money or insurance. As you might expect, the place was crawling with UGA interns gaining school credit while learning to serve humanity. One of the girls I worked with wanted to find a phone number, but because the clinic can’t afford computers, she didn’t know what to do. Finally she picked up a phone book and said, “Can you show me how to use this? I’ve never even opened one of these up. I always just use my phone.” Amazing…


Mr. Clark read that the average person under 25 sends at least 50 text messages a day, while the average person over 50 sends under five; that’s quite a disparity. I admit to being annoyed when the young people around me sit silently, thumbs flying, texting away while they’re supposed to be doing something else, but it’s not all old school curmudgeon for me - some days I send way more than five texts.


You would think my positive experience with cell phones and Facebook would make me more willing to embrace new technologies, but it hasn’t. I’m like an old Rottweiler, still suspicious of anything new and very wary of change. Each passing birthday presents the challenge of working a little harder to stay young and current, because as the years fly by it becomes easier and easier to cling to the past and become stagnant. Who knows what techno-challenge this year will bring? Those I-Pads look like a lot of fun on TV…

Cancer

“Better to light one small candle than to curse the darkness.” – Chinese Proverb



Our world is awash in pink this month – pink merchandise, pink newspaper pages, little pink ribbons are everywhere, on everything. “Think Pink” is the theme for October because it is the official breast cancer awareness month and, while I’m all for a cure for breast cancer, I’m not sure I’m a fan of using it as a marketing tool.


It seems a little crass to me – like the reality that breast cancer kills women and effects hundreds of thousands of lives each year fades into the background when what we’re focused on is buying things that have pink ribbons on them in an effort to show we care.


Please, don’t get me wrong. I’ve never had cancer, so I can’t pretend to understand how people whose lives have been touched by it, in any form, think or feel when the topic of “cancer awareness” comes up. I’m only talking my version of the talk because I’ve never walked their version of the walk. From my perspective, though, no one should profit from the exploitation of the merchandise marketing power of an illness – any illness.

I have a friend who is dying of ovarian cancer. It has metastasized throughout her body and she does not have long to live. She is younger than me, has a long-time husband and a daughter who has just started college. I can’t imagine what they’re going through…


I met Joanne at the hospital, where we worked together for years. She is a strong person, opinionated, talented, never afraid to speak her mind. She has a loud laugh, a dry sense of humor and a very tender heart. She’s the kind of person you could exchange terse words with in one situation and then find yourself laughing with and hugging her a short while later. And, as devoted as she was to her work, her devotion to her family, especially her daughter, is clearly greater.


Her daughter was a talented dancer, actress and singer in high school and Joanne was always proud of her accomplishments. And, as tenuous as a career in show business might be as a goal, Joanne’s daughter is now well on the way to making it a reality, I’m sure in part because of Joanne’s strong belief in her talents and support of her dream.


It took the cancer a long time to knock Joanne back and she fought and kept fighting a difficult fight. At work, when she was still well enough to work, she was always brave, strong and upbeat, laughing loudly about her recent hair loss or surprisingly curly hair re-growth or whatever sign of the battle had most recently appeared. When the cancer got to the point that conventional treatments were no longer effective, she went out of state for experimental trials. And, no matter what the latest news was – and, it was often not good – she never stopped smiling, laughing and being brave.


I stopped by to see her in the hospital last week and there she was, the same Joanne – joking about how hard it was to get her hospital gown snapped correctly, laughing, smiling and asking me about my life. It broke my heart. How can I think I have problems when this strong, delightful, tough, tough woman with so much still ahead of her is attending “end of life” classes and getting ready for yet another round of chemo?

I felt small, sad, humbled and inspired sitting across from her as she perched on the edge of the bed and talked about how much she’s looking forward to her daughter’s Christmas visit. I so wanted to do something, to help in some way - but how? Anything I had to offer seemed insignificant in the face of the challenges Joanne faced.


Then, it came to me; I could offer her a photo session. She hates pictures of herself and I hate pictures of myself; we have that in common. I wasn’t sure if she’d go for the idea, but I offered anyway and she surprised me by immediately saying, “Yes.” It’s not that a photo session is a big deal; it’s not. It’s just something I could personally offer.

We all want to be part of something big, something good - something like finding a cure for cancer; and there’s all kinds of cancer. Just because Joanne’s cancer doesn’t have a color or a month or big merchandising campaign behind it, doesn’t mean she can’t use a show of support, even if there’s no little ribbons involved.


It’s easy to go out and buy things. It’s not so easy to look around, see someone who’s struggling and ask yourself what tangible thing can I offer? Maybe it’s a ride to a medical appointment or an offer to clean the house. Maybe it’s making food or doing a load of wash or cutting the grass. Is there something they’ve always wanted to do, but never got the chance? Is there a way to make that happen?
 
My bet is reaching out will feel better than whipping out that debit card; let’s try it and see.

Blind Bird

“God finds a low branch for the bird that cannot fly.” - Turkish proverb



I am a sucker for animals in distress - always have been. The tough thing about helping an animal is I never know how it’s going to turn out. Some rescues have happy endings, others are very sad; the point is I have to try.


My latest rescue is a male House Finch who, up until recently, I called Blind Bird. Like all House Finches, he is social, spending his time in a small flock that nests in the trees near my side porch. And, like all House Finches, Blind Bird loves bird feeders. His favorite feed is sunflower seed, so I keep one feeder full of those, just for him.


I think Blind Bird hatched this year, because when I first started noticing him, he was small and brownish gray. As the summer progressed he got bigger and his head and chest turned a pretty shade of dark red. According to the bird book, male House Finches are typically more orange-red, but since Blind Bird looks, acts and sounds like the other House Finches I’m sticking with my theory that he is one of them.


I first noticed Blind Bird because he was slow to fly away when I came up to replenish the feeders, and even from a short distance away, I could see his eyes were matted and dull, like he had some kind of eye infection. Having suffered the heart break of watching baby bird after baby bird die, after falling from a nest and being “rescued” by me, I resolved to let nature take its course, so all I did in an attempt to help Blind Bird was make sure finding food was never a problem for him.


Blind Bird seemed to function alright. He could flit from his bird feeder to the nearest tree and he had a voracious appetite. Maybe his immune system just needs extra time to tackle whatever’s wrong with his eyes, I thought week after week, as Blind Bird came and went, always with same sick-looking eyes.


Then, last week, Blind Bird’s health took a turn for the worse. When I went out to refill his feeder, I found him sitting completely still, puffed up like a very sick bird does. His eyes were crusted completely shut and he didn’t seem to be able to hear because he didn’t move at all when I got close enough to see how bad the situation was.


A short debate in my mind followed. Try to save Blind Bird from what looked like certain death? Or, just let him be like I had so far. The decision was quickly made when my old tom cat slinked around the corner – health-wise, Blind Bird obviously had nothing to lose and if something didn’t intervene, he’d be cat dinner tonight.


Because these things unfold the way they do, I was, of course, due to cover a school board meeting for the paper in less than an hour…Clothes not changed, hair not combed, no makeup on, I threw the cat in the house and ran up to the attic to retrieve the cage I keep for bird rescues. Wash it, line it, fill the water and food then rush back outside hoping Blind Bird had flown away. Nope, there he was, still sitting there completely still, as if quietly waiting to die.


I grabbed Blind Bird and put him in the cage, shut the cage in a bedroom safe from the cats and dogs, changed my clothes, combed my hair and makeup-less but on time, made it to the school board meeting. Thankfully it was a short one, because all I was focused on was getting back home to start Blind Bird’s treatment plan.

After washing all the gook off, I dabbed some antibiotic ointment on each eye, put a drop of antibiotic syrup in his beak, gave him some water and put him back in the cage. Then I wrapped the cage in a thick dark towel and stashed Blind Bird on the upper porch, safe, secure and warm for the night.


The next morning I was hesitant to lift the towel, so sure a dead Blind Bird is what I’d find. But, there he was, hopping around, looking a whole lot better than he had the night before. Another treatment and out went Blind Bird to hang in the cage near his favorite bird feeder for the day.

This was my routine with Blind Bird every day for the past five days and today he’s looking pretty sharp. His eyes are all cleared up, he’s active and he’s regained his cheery chirp. Tomorrow, after one last morning treatment, I’m going to let him go and in anticipation of this, I’ve started calling him Free Bird.


Of course, there is no guarantee that my tom cat won’t get Free Bird or that he won’t fall victim to some other peril; nature offers no guarantees. At least he’ll face whatever lies ahead with a healthy body and a pair of good eyes. He’ll also have the comfort of being back with his friends. All during Free Bird’s recovery, other House Finches perched on his cage and chirped to him, as if offering encouragement. I like to think that made all the difference.

Dogs

“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” – Robert Louis Stevenson


My old dog Raffi is dying and that makes me very sad. He’s had a good long life, but for the past few years he’s been plagued by arthritis and an ever-growing number of inoperable tumors, so maybe it’s time for him to go, but, I don’t feel that way. He still likes eating and barking and sitting in the sun; he still takes a lot of joy from living, so every day he’s still with us seems like an extra blessing.

Raffi is a chocolate Lab mutt, rescued from the pound as a puppy. His purpose in life was to be a companion to my Rottweiller Pru (another rescue) who had apparently been raised with other dogs because she didn’t like being alone. Pru took to Raffi the moment we brought him home, showing her approval by quickly bouncing him, then rolling him over and giving him a good long bath with her tongue. From then on, they were best friends.


Wherever Pru went, Raffi followed, and wherever Raffi was, there you’d find Pru. Being raised by a rambunctious Rottweiller was no easy assignment and Raffi took more than one hard hit to the head during their daily play sessions. He never seemed to mind, though, and always came back for more.


Probably because of all the mild head injuries, Raffi has never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s always taken a simple pleasure in life that seems to elude more complex dogs. Raffi likes barking and eating and sitting in the sun. He’ll lie on the porch for hours watching the birds and squirrels. And, he loves hanging out with his people and sleeping soundly in the middle of whatever’s going on, on his big dog bed.


We got Raffi when our kids were still in high school and he spent afternoons during his early years sitting alertly in a big arm chair next to one of them or their friends after school, smiling and looking around animatedly, as if he was listening to the conversation or helping them play the Nintendo game. Surprisingly, years later, when one of those kids – now adults – drops by, Raffi jumps into that same arm chair, like, “Aren’t you going to sit with me?” It’s the only time he does that; I think it’s because he recognizes them, even all these years later, and remembers what good old times they had.


The thing about a dog like Raffi is being around him is so easy. He’s a giver, not a taker, and all he’s done every day of his life is show up ready to contribute. He doesn’t ask for much in return. He doesn’t want to be the alpha-dog; he’ll let the other dogs get petted and fed before him every time. He’ll even sleep on the hard floor if another dog wants his bed.


“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” Raffi would say if he could talk. “I just want everybody to get along.”


Pru was older than Raffi and she died several years ago. Unwisely, an effort to calm my grief, I went right out and got two more pound puppies – both female, both black, both mutts – nothing special about either of them except they were at the right place at the right time. And, while Raffi has never taken to them the way he did Pru, he’s done a good job of being their old uncle – letting them nip at his ears when they were little and wrestle with him now that they’re grown.


One of the dogs is a Lab-Beagle mix, all bark and no brains; the other’s a little herding dog, nervous and high-strung. And, while they jostle for position in the house, tear things up and bark at everything that goes by, Raffi just keeps on keepin’ on, calm and steady, simple and now slow, never making any waves.


Lately Raffi’s taken to fits of happiness, where all of the sudden, out of the clear blue he’ll come up and start nudging and smiling and asking for love, wagging his tail and barking a bit – like he just wants to share how happy he is to still be alive. He’s like an Alzheimer’s patient – the rare and joyful kind who likes saying, “Hi!” and waving at everybody.


I don’t know how much longer Raffi will be with us, but I’m sure going to miss him when he goes. That saying about dogs is so true in Raffi’s case – if I were only half the person he has always thought I am, I would be a better person than I am today. God speed, old friend, God speed.

No More ER

“Please take a moment to locate the nearest exit, keeping in mind it may be behind you…White lights lead to red lights, which indicate exits.” – Airline safety guidelines


For the first time in eight years I will not spend Monday in the emergency room. No, I’m not accident prone, it’s that I’ve been working in a busy ER, first as an EMT, then as a social worker since the fall of 2002 and a long Monday has always been my one of my shifts.

Becoming an EMT was something I’d always wanted to do, so when both kids went to college I became certified. It took nine months and was pretty grueling. I was old enough to be the mother of most of my classmates and while they gloried in learning about what to do in the most unimaginable and possibly horrible circumstances, I worried about how I would handle things, once the practice ended and the people not breathing or the blood on the scene was real.

It turned out I never quite got over those worries and the fear that someone would need my help and I would freeze and not be able to give it haunted my two years as an EMT. While adrenaline made the people I worked with come alive and work faster and more efficiently in all those “Codes” (heart attacks), “Code 3 Calls” (running lights and sirens) and MVC’s (road accidents), I prayed for a quiet day, each morning, on the way to work.

Having no sense of direction didn’t help. The joke in our family is, “if Mom says go right, go left,” and that’s generally a successful way to navigate. So, the stress of writing down how we got to a scene, so I could reverse it in my mind and find my way back to the hospital was intense – especially when the situation was serious and I knew my paramedic partner would be too busy saving lives in the back of the truck to scream directions at me.

I like to think I would’ve been a better EMT if the ambulances I worked on had GPS, the way they do now. Maybe with the directions taken care of I could’ve been less fearful on the scene?

Anyway, in spite of the best efforts of my kind and knowledgeable coworkers, I wasn’t a very good EMT, so when an ER social worker position came open, I jumped at the chance to wear civilian clothes again and know that no lives depended on me.

The emergency room is a strange place – always open, always bright, always the same temperature, often completely out of tune with what’s going on outside. There are no weekends or holidays. It is a world focused on 24/7 availability, 365 days a year – the doors are always open, no exceptions. Of course, ER workers take time off, but it comes with the responsibility of making sure your shift is covered, so that the big ER machine won’t even notice one of its cogs is gone.

The emergency room is a place of portals – odd portals that most people experience only rarely in their lives. People die there and are born there and lose total touch with reality there. To listen to some of the mental patients, you’d swear there were demons haunting those halls…

The emergency room is a place of intense emotion – people saying “goodbye,” people making difficult decisions about “further measures to be taken,” people hearing horrible news about illness, accidents and death. It is also a place of great hope, great light and amazing inspiration. While some people sink to their deepest depths within those walls, others rise to whatever challenge they’re facing with such courage, strength, grace and faith that it brings a tear to even the crustiest old ER worker’s eye.

It’s strange to go to a place where things that literally change people’s lives forever happen, and talk with your coworkers about what’s in your lunch, how your kid did at little league, or what was on Facebook last night…Challenging to remember that everyone in those ER rooms is having a really bad day. On a good shift, it’s easy to connect with that; on a bad shift all you want is for your replacement to arrive.

I don’t know how many people I’ve called to deliver bad news about an accident, illness or death. I don’t remember how many families I’ve been with while someone they love suffered or died. I can’t begin to count the number of sandwiches, warm blankets, cups of coffee, teddy bears, color books and stickers I’ve handed out. There’s been an awful lot of them - all memorable in their own way, yet forgettable, too, as sometimes that’s how you keep showing up at such an intense place day after day.

I’ll miss the ER, even though I’ll still be covering shifts when coworkers need time off. I’ll miss the stories and the intensity of the work. It’ll be a challenge to remain as humble and thankful as that place has kept me, but the white lights have lead to red lights and it’s time to see what comes next.

9-11

“Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day? Did you shout out in anger…Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer…or did you just sit down and cry?” – Alan Jackson lyrics


The events on September 11, 2001 did not touch me personally, but to this day I can’t hear Alan Jackson’s song, “Where were you when the world stopped turning?” without a lump forming in my throat and a tear coming to my eye.

On that day in 2001, Mr. Clark and I were driving down the east coast towards home, having just dropped our daughter off at art school in Providence, Rhode Island. It was an emotional trip – our youngest child now in college, so many hopes and dreams at stake, all so very far away.

We got the news of the terrorist attacks in a spotty manner over a few hours time. The radio in the truck we were in didn’t work very well and we were on a stretch of road where reception wasn’t good. First we heard something about the Twin Towers being hit, later something about an attack. On down the road, we heard a scratchy report about a plane crashing into the Pentagon; then another plane went down in Pennsylvania…all domestic flights; no way to know how many were injured, missing or dead. What in the world was happening?

The next town we came to was Nags Head, North Carolina, so we stopped for lunch and to figure out what was going on. We went into the first restaurant we saw – a fish place. You could’ve heard a pin drop - all eyes tuned to TV behind the bar. We had no way to comprehend the things we were seeing…a kind of a shock set in. Good Lord! is this real?

We immediately called our daughter and to our great relief, she immediately picked up. She was in the campus book store buying art supplies. Far from television, radio news or reality, she had no idea what was going on. We debated going and getting her, bringing her back home – after all, who knew if there were more attacks planned?

She vehemently told us she would be fine and promised that if “something else weird” happened, she would follow a contingency plan we had yet to work out, to get to someplace safe where we could come pick her up…How crazy was all this?

That evening we came up with a plan that involved our daughter going to an old friend’s house within easy driving distance of Providence. It was inland, not close to any potential terrorist attack points. Our daughter’s roommate had a car and we made the girls promise they would keep the tank full, so that if they had to leave quickly, they could.

The next day we stopped at an Army surplus store and I put together an “Emergency Box” of things I thought a girl faraway, within reach of a potential terrorist attack, might need: a gas mask, some water purifier pills, some pepper spray, food rations, a first aid kit, a small fire extinguisher and one of those all temperature blankets. I also enclosed $100 bill with the strict instructions to leave it in the box in case of an emergency.

My daughter called when the box arrived. “You’re freaking me out, Mom,” she said. “Baby, the whole country’s freaked out,” was my reply.

I was in technical school that fall of 2001, training to be an EMT. (Working on an ambulance had always been my fantasy, so I made it my mid-life crisis/reality once both kids went off to college.) We talked a lot about 9/11 during and after class. We wondered if we could handle rushing into a building everyone else was rushing out of. We wondered if we would have the courage and stamina to work tirelessly hour after hour, day after day, month after month the way those heroes at Ground Zero did. We wondered if we had what it takes to simply show up at a wreck scene, stay calm and do what needs to be done. We wondered if we would graduate…

I did graduate and went on to work on an ambulance for the next few years. My daughter graduated, too. I remember feeling proud and relieved that the $100 bill was still in that unopened “Emergency Box,” as we packed her up to move her back home. And, I remember being sad as the aftermath of 9/11 unfolded – war; sickness for the Ground Zero rescue workers; pain and unending sadness for the families of those lost in the attacks.

Now, there’s a hoopla about a “mosque” (or is it a Muslim community center) proposed near Ground Zero. There’s a big debate; everyone has an opinion; emotion is running high. What is the “right” thing for those Muslim Americans to do?

President George Bush put it clearly and, in my opinion got it right, when he said, during a speech to Congress and the nation on September 20, 2001: “The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends…Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists and every government that supports them…Americans are asking, ‘What is expected of us?’ I ask you to uphold the values of America and remember why so many have come here. We are in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith.”

Crown Vic

“Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance.” - Epicurus


Because it’s the only car we have that has air conditioning, I have been driving a 1993 Crown Victoria all summer and I will admit, that has challenged my sense of what really matters stuff-wise.

I came up in the hippie days of the mid-70’s, in Boulder, Colorado where the atmosphere was nothing if not laid-back, hip happenin’ and super chill. Needless to say, “things,” as in possessions, weren’t considered important in the big picture of who one was or where one was going.

I have pretty much kept to that philosophy during my adult life. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Clark and I like nice things - it’s just that we’ve never prioritized acquiring them. When the choice came up between a new sofa or a trip we always picked the trip, and, for the most part, have no regrets about that. Our kids grew up well-traveled and unfettered by concerns about what kind of shoes they should wear or what label was on their jeans.

There have been some embarrassing moments – moments when we rethink our modus operandi with regard to possessions. One example comes around when we get a new piece of furniture, and by new, I mean something only gently damaged from one of those “scratch and dent” furniture outlet stores. Proudly, we bring the new item home and put what it replaced out on the curb for someone else to pick up and use. Sadly, more often than not, our things sit on the curb for a long time, unclaimed until the city hauls them away as trash. Ouch! That chair never looked that shabby when it was in the house.

Car-wise, we have always been a fans of the 10-year-old “retired luxury car,” as Mr. Clark calls them – an old Volvo or Mercedes, top of the line in its day, fallen victim to a newer, even more luxurious model. One of the ways I “car shop” is to spot a pretty ride in traffic and say, “Look! In 10 years that could be mine!”

Because of Mr. Clark’s period of unemployment when the recession began, we have fallen behind on our 10-year rule. Our current fleet consists of a 1994 Volvo sedan, a 1995 Volvo wagon, and the Crown Vic. Both Volvos have door and window issues, as well as no A/C. And, the poor Crown Vic was badly burglarized one Thanksgiving holiday weekend, while our son-in-law was using it in Atlanta. In two back-to-back incidents, it lost its front seat, its back seat, all four door panels, a bumper and the dome light. We were able to patch her together again, but her seats don’t match, her dome light hangs down and her windows no longer work.

Poor Crown Vic! About all she has going for her is that cold A/C, which feels like heaven on a hot summer day. Never mind how shabby we look and we do look shabby - did I mention her paint is badly faded, as well?

“Why not get some things fixed?” you might ask. Well, after that prolonged period of unemployment, the last thing Mr. Clark and I feel like doing, now that those pay checks are coming in again, is spend money - better to rebuild the savings, after all, who knows what the future might bring?

By the end of last week, however, I had lost my ability to focus on abundance and was at the end of my shabby possessions/Crown Vic rope. I had more errands and driving to do than usual, as well as a couple of photography appointments in Atlanta. Because I was so embarrassed about my ride, I arrived at those client sites red-faced and sweaty, having hiked in from a remote parking spot - classy, really classy! I had started complaining loudly about the state of our fleet; then I volunteered at the monthly food distribution the Benevolence Ministries hosts at Holly Hill Mall.

It was a much needed eye-opener for me. The line was longer than usual and it was hot, really hot. Luckily there were plenty of volunteers and things went quickly. And, as I hauled food to people’s cars, my perspective gradually returned and I became thankful again. Here were folks living out of a car that wasn’t as nice as the one I was complaining about. Here were handicapped people, out-of-work people, elderly people, young people and kids – lots of kids – lined up in the heat waiting for the brief respite from need and worry that a box of free food can bring. So many sad eyes, so many people having such hard times…

As I cranked up the A/C in the old Crown Vic and headed for home, I said a prayer of thanks for the abundance in my life – an abundance that allows me to, at times, complain about having things like that good old car to fall back on.

Anniversary

“More marriages might survive if the partners realized that sometimes the better comes after the worst.”  - Doug Larson 


      Mr. Clark and I just celebrated our 31^st anniversary which sounds like we’ve been together forever to some and to others, like we’re just starting out. I have to admit, saying I’ve been married for that long surprises me. Just a short while ago we were two hippie kids saying our carefully written, not-too-binding vows over carrot cake; now we’re a couple of middle-aged folks with grown kids. Where has all the time gone?
      We began our journey together on August 19, 1979. It was a glorious day for the casual outdoor wedding we had planned – friends and family, nothing big, to be held at a little house we rented in the mountains outside Boulder, Colorado. It looked like something from a Woodstock film clip – all the men sporting pony tails or big, bushy Afro’s, wide ties and even wider lapels; the women in flowing gowns with colorful flowers in their hair. 
      The house we lived in was by a pond, so the ceremony was on a dock my dad built especially for the wedding. We were married by the same judge who married my dad to the wife he still has, and my brother to the wife he still has, so there was, apparently, some luck in having him officiate.
      Mr. Clark rented a white tux with tails and I wore a sexy little off-white number I’d found in a thrift store for $35. Our entire wedding budget was $300, a gift from my dad, so we had to be creative.
      A friend who sold flowers from a cart at outdoor concerts (but hoped to own a flower shop someday) said she’d arrange the flowers, if we’d buy them. A couple of friends who worked in restaurants (and wanted to be chefs someday) said they’d make the food, if we’d buy the ingredients. Another friend (who wanted to be a photographer someday) offered to take pictures for the price of the film. Yet another friend, this one a waitress with dreams of becoming a pastry chef, made a marvelous carrot cake that was so delicious the top tier still tasted good when we pulled it from the freezer a year later.
      As you can see, we were young and Mr. Clark and I weren’t the only ones bringing hopes and dreams and a wish for good luck to our wedding that day...
      The ceremony was short; we made promises to each other we thought we could keep – no ‘til death do us part – just some nice quotes and sweet sentiment to see us through the next few years, because that was as far as we could see. Ed’s parents were divorced and so were mine; my brother was in his second marriage; and, most of our friends vowed never to marry, making statements about true love not needing a license.
      We didn’t have a registry and we didn’t get many lasting gifts because, frankly, no one expected us to last. Instead, we had a honeymoon fund and our guests gave enough for us to spend a week in Cancun, Mexico, back when it was still a sleepy little fishing village. We slept in an open beach hut in “hamacas matrimoniales” – two hammocks hanging side by side - and had a wonderful time.  
   Fast forward a few years and our kids arrive – two of them, bam, bam, 15 months apart; then on to those wonderful, tiring, every-hour-is-filled child-raising years. Before we knew it, we were celebrating our 10^th anniversary; 20 years together found us in Georgia with kids graduating from high school. By our 26^th anniversary both kids were out of college and our daughter was married. Next came our son’s wedding, followed by some very quiet time in our marriage. What to focus on now that our obvious job together was done?
      When Mr. Clark’s job fell prey to the recession, times got pretty grim; nothing like a little “for worse” to make “for better” seem pretty far away. And then, right when we were about to give up hope, “better” came back. Mr. Clark landed a good job and we were able to see a future again.
  If you’d asked me on that dock that day if I’d still be standing next to Mr. Clark 31 years later, I probably would’ve said it doesn’t matter – so lovely was the “now” we were living in. Marriage has turned out to be a better surprise and a longer adventure than I expected. It’s been a deeper, richer, more challenging experience than I could ever have imagined. We’ve shared times of closeness and of great distance. And, all along the way we’ve been well-blessed and enjoyed more than a few bits of good luck.   
  Once the glue that children provide is gone, you find yourself asking yourself if you’d renew those not-so-binding vows, eat another slice of carrot cake, and stick together to see what comes next; for Mr. Clark and I the answer was, “Yes.”
      Our daughter gave us a framed picture of a heart with the words, “Mom and Dad, tied together by stuff too difficult to explain to someone new,” calligraphed on it; what a lovely anniversary gift and so true.