Some Things are Meant To Be…

We run by Goodwill to unload Jill’s donation. Among the donations, I spot a perfect drop-leaf table for my new unfurnished room. I can put it against the wall so it will take up little space, but then pull it out to use as a dining table when family visits. I’ve got to have it. “Jill, get me that table.”

“Mom, I have a patient who works for Goodwill. They don’t do it that way. You can’t buy the table before it’s processed.” I tell her to at least ask the guy, but she takes her receipt from him and drives away.

“I can’t believe you didn’t ask.”

“Mom, we don’t even know if it will stay at that store. It might need to go to a distribution center.”

“Well it might not.”

Jill drives me back to Goodwill, pulls into a parking space, and says she’ll wait for me. I walk past the 6 cars dropping off donations and go straight to the source.

“Sir, I’d really like to get that table.”

“Okay, I’ll tell the manager. He’ll price it and put it on the floor.”

“Really?”

He nods.

“So, if I come back in 30 minutes I can walk in the store and buy it?”

“Sure.”

I skip back to the car (not really, I can’t skip) with a big smile. “I got it.”

We drive to my house to get my car so we can fit the table.

We return to Goodwill. “I can’t believe this,” I say walking into the store. “This is perfect. It’s meant to be.”

We see the table. Walking toward the table I feel my space being invaded. Why is this old man so close to me? Suddenly four of us are circled around the table – me, Jill, an old man, and an old woman. The man says, “I think we should check the leaves to make sure they stay up.”

I watch as he puts the leaves up. It’s perfect.

“Oh, this is my table. It was in the donation pile outside. I had the guy mark it and bring it in so I could buy it.”

He ignores me. “They work,” he tells us. His woman is glad they work, “Sometimes they don’t work.”

“Do you want this table?” I ask.

“No, it’s yours. You take it,” the tiny white haired woman says. He adds, “We were only checking to see if it works because she needs something to hold her oxygen.”

“Oh.”

They both smile. I smile back. Darn, they’re so nice. I notice her little pocket book hanging on her arm and his way too big for him jacket hanging on his bony shoulders. They look toward another table, but it’s too big. It won’t fit.

Crap.

“So, if I don’t buy this table then you’ll buy the table?”

“Oh yes, we’d buy the table. She lives on the 3rd floor and I live on the second. Retirement homes are small. I had to get a twin bed or I’d not be able to move in that place.”

“Oh, so if I walk away you’re going to buy the table?”

“We don’t want to take your table.”

“It’s not mine. I can’t buy that table now. God would smack me. So, if I come back here later the table will be gone because you are going to buy it, right?”

“If we don’t buy it will you lose your religion?” he asks.

“No, I’m not going to lose my religion.”

“Okay, we’re buying the table.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

I walk away, but I can’t leave the store. Maybe they won’t buy it. I hang out by the register. I watch them pay for the table. We leave.

“Jill, I can barely function right now. I also bought salt and pepper shakers at Ikea and got home and they were bent. I can’t even use them.”

“Mom, you might be focusing a little too much on material things.”

“Maybe.”

The only reason that table was on the floor was because I had it put on the floor. The only reason I didn’t get the table before the old couple appeared was because I wasted the perfect amount of time at home before heading back to the store. The table was theirs all along. It was meant to be…

Our Country

Gay Marriage?

Kudos to the Supreme Court on the gay marriage ruling? Not from me. I understand, but I see this ruling differently than some. I am not looking at this in an emotional “all about love” sort of way. I’m not addressing this as a Christian. I’m addressing it as an American citizen.

We are diverse and our religious beliefs are bigger than the government. Religious Freedom will most likely be challenged by lawsuits trying to force Christian vendors to service gay weddings and receptions, Christian adoption agencies to place children in gay homes, Christian parents to tolerate sex education which includes homosexual safe-sex in the public schools. Most likely individual gays will not file these lawsuits; it will be the radicals with an agenda. If all along gay partnerships had been contractually supported to afford gays the same protections under the law as married couples i.e., next of kin in decision making, division of property when the partnership ends, fair housing, etc. the Supreme Court may not have been involved. Had we respected gay partnerships and not put religion into the mix we would have perhaps been able to avoid this… now, we’re facing God only knows what with radicals at the helm.

The Supreme Court has robbed us of the opportunity to govern as individual states. They’ve opened Pandora’s Box. What about age of consent, the death penalty, marriage / divorce laws, prostitution (look at Vegas), polygamy? Do we really want to infringe on state governments? Do we want each state forced to abolish the death penalty or allow prostitution? With state diversity we learn from each other. We can look at state laws and how they handle moral issues and compare social, economic, and growth statistics. We will do ourselves no favor having the Supreme Court rule on these moral issues.

Much bigger than this landmark decision, yet largely ignored, is what’s happening around the world. On the same day as the Supreme Court’s ruling on gay marriage, terrorists gunned down dozens of tourists on a Tunisian beach, left a severed head atop a fence outside a French factory and blew up a Kuwaiti mosque in a bloody wave of attacks that followed an ISIS leader’s call to make the month of Ramadan a time of “calamity for the infidels.”

We should probably shift our attention to our ignorance or blindness of evil as it infiltrates our world and our country, while President Obama lights up the White House like a rainbow.

No happy dance happening here.

July 2, 2015 This ruling is based off Ore. anti-discrimination law, which includes sexual orientation. UPDATE: GRESHAM, Ore. — The owners of a Christian bakery in Oregon have officially been ordered to pay $135,000 in damages to two lesbians who claimed that they suffered emotionally after they were told that the bakery could not make a cake for their ceremony because of their religious conviction that marriage is between one man and one woman.

The two lesbians, who claimed to be discriminated against, identified as Rachel Cryer and Laurel Bowman, submitted individual lists of just under 100 aspects of suffering in order to receive the damages. They included “acute loss of confidence,” “doubt,” “distrust of men,” “distrust of former friends,” “excessive sleep,” “discomfort,” “high blood pressure,” “impaired digestion,” “loss of appetite,” “migraine headaches,” “loss of pride,” “mental rape,” “resumption of smoking habit,” “shock” “stunned,” “surprise,” “uncertainty,” “weight gain” and “worry.”

In April, Alan McCullough, an administrative judge with the bureau, recommended a fine of $135,000, with one of the women receiving $75,000 and the other $60,000. Prosecutors had sought damages of $75,000 each. This case is not about a wedding cake or a marriage,” the final order, written by Commissioner Brad Avakian, read. “It is about a business’s refusal to serve someone because of their sexual orientation. Under Oregon law, that is illegal.”

BINGO: Lawsuit #1 ignores religious freedom… there will be hundreds more.

This Baby Boomers Real Life

The First Shall Be Last

Walmart.

After 10 minutes of searching for help, I grab the phone behind the counter and call for assistance in computers. A gal comes, but she doesn’t know anything about computers. She finds a guy who can help me. We go to computers and begin discussing options. A lady interrupts, “What’s the difference between Dell and HP?” He answers her. She says, “Can you come over here for a minute?” She takes him.

I follow. She starts telling us about her Dell experience, and how she spilled Coke on her last HP desk top, and how her son told her she shouldn’t eat while on the internet, and how some computers have fuzzy screens. She wonders which computer will do her Facebook games the fastest. I’m surprised at my patience. She wants to know if I play games. “No, I don’t play games.”

The woman chooses the biggest screen laptop because she’s 64-years-old with bad eyes. I tell her all 60-year-old people have bad eyes. My guy unlocks the cabinet and grabs her laptop. Since I was here first I tell him I’ll take the computer we were looking at. He says, “Sure, as soon as I ring her up.”

I follow them to the cash register. I’m not letting anyone else horn in on my guy. While my guy is ringing up the computer, the woman tells me her granddaughter leased a computer at school then had to give it back. She tells me that’s not safe, and that her granddaughter is going to go to orthodontist school. My man tells her what she owes and explains her warranty. The woman pulls out a wad of money. There’s money all over the counter. She’s digging in her purse. She doesn’t have enough. Oh, dear. She calls her son for advice.

My guy refunds her money and they head back to the computers. I follow them. We’re starting over. Her eyes are bad; can she get the same screen size? Is there enough space for her Facebook games? What brand is this? Is it better than a Dell. She doesn’t like Dell computers. After 20 questions and several minutes she chooses a cheaper computer. I follow them back to the cash register. She’s got enough money. She tells my guy to tape the receipt on the box so no one thinks she’s stealing it. She tells me she’s making chickens for supper. She wants my man to point her to the chickens. He points. She’s off to find the chickens.

Finally, just me and my guy. We head to the computers. Here she comes. “Hey, my son says laptops get hot. They can burn up. I need a lifter or something.” My guy looks at me. I don’t want her to call her son so I nod, “go ahead.” I follow them to computer accessories. My guy hands her something and tells her to pay for it with the chicken. She’s happy.

I’ve got him again. Within 10 minutes, he gets my computer, rings it up, I pay, and kiss Walmart good-bye. I wonder if that woman realizes how lucky she is that I was not the woman in the Walmart video? I could have found someone to beat the crap out of her.

My Life - How I think and how I live...

Boring Peacocks

How many times have I tried to listen to a boring sermon… One time I told a priest friend how boring a different priest’s sermons were and was told we go to church for the mass. What? I thought if we missed the homily we missed mass; it’s that important. I like how Pope Francis puts it right out there.

He told a group of new priests he was ordaining to make sure “that your homilies are not boring, that your homilies arrive directly in people’s hearts because they flow from your heart, because what you tell them is what you have in your heart. Examples edify, but words without examples are empty words, they are just ideas that never reach the heart and, in fact, they can harm. They are no good..

(-for those giving a sermon) The homily must be intent only on pleasing God and not himself. It is ugly to see a priest who lives to please himself, who acts like a peacock strutting around.”

So…I think about this boring stuff…if we listen and speak from the heart we will not be boring because we will connect with the other person.

Peacocks never connect.

This Baby Boomers Real Life

Bed Bugs

Mary Ann lives across the street. She’s 83 and on a tight budget, but she managed to get new living room furniture.

She whispers to me on her driveway, “You’ve not been invited in for a while because I was afraid I’d spread bed bugs in the neighborhood. Don’t tell anyone.”

She’s sure she got them from her grandchildren, who spend the night anywhere and then visit in dirty clothes.

She invites me inside to sit on her new bedbug-free couch. She’s proud of her furniture. We talk about how she found the money to buy it. We talk about the store, the price and the deals. We talk about colors, paint, and decorations. We even talk about the exterminator.

A few days later, she tells me how upset she was when I left. She was never going to invite me in again.

There was a big wet spot where I’d been sitting. She thought I peed on her couch.

Her mind was racing, “Should I try to soak up the pee? If I use soap will the material dry stiff? What if the couch stinks from now on? What is wrong with Debi? She must have some serious problems.”

She paces and debates for over an hour. She touches the spot to see how much I peed. The spot’s dry. It only looks wet. It’s the nap.

“I was so glad you didn’t pee on the couch. I was never going to have the neighbors in again because it would hurt your feelings if I you weren’t invited, too.”

“Seriously, Maryann, if I was that oblivious to wetting my pants my kids would have me in a diaper.”

This Baby Boomers Real Life

Code Word Squirrel

A good friend, Mike, tells me last time he saw me he didn’t think I felt well.

We had been together at a meeting, “I didn’t feel bad. Why did you think that?”

You didn’t look right.

“What didn’t look right?”

Your hair.

“My hair made me look sick?”

It wasn’t fluffy. It looked like braids or rats or something. Like you hadn’t fixed it.

“Oh.. so a bad hair day made me look sick.”

There was more. You’re color wasn’t right. You looked pale.

Because of his sincere concern, I’m amused, “Bad hair; bad makeup. Anything else?”

Your eyes were kind of glassy, like maybe you were on drugs. Maybe you were too relaxed.

“I must have looked like crap. I wonder if everyone thought I looked sick?”

No, he explains, Don’t worry. I stare at you more than the others do,

“This is bad. I could be fired if I look drugged, glassy eyed, and pale with ratty hair. l think we need a code word in case I ever look so out of it again.

He quickly picks our code word. “Squirrel”

If you are with me and someone says, “squirrel” you and I will know I’m having a BAD day.

Daughters and Their Babies

Bad Eyes

I didn’t ask to be an animal caretaker. I’m not even sure I like animals. I’ve always had them because of the kids. Kids leave, but they bring their animals home to me.

This morning I wondered why there was a big empty fish bowl on the counter. Figured Dee’s fish must have died. Why didn’t she dump the water, clean the bowl, and get it off the kitchen counter? It’s a mess in here; a stuffed cluttered refrigerator, expired food, four demanding dog guests, a dead visiting fish, and dog poop all over the yard, which will be mowed today. Being a Meme is worse than being a mom. Meme’s don’t punish or get angry because grandchildren need good grandma memories.

After feeding the dogs, I take my lunch to the back patio. Dee comes outside and wants to know where her fish went.

“How would I know? I figured the fish was dead.”

No, Meme. I cleaned the bowl. I made it my goal to take better care of him. He’s not even my fish. I’m fish babysitting. He was in the bowl when I left yesterday.

“Really? Well, he wasn’t in the bowl this morning.”

Yes he was. I know he was in the bowl.

We’re both thinking, thinking, thinking. Where did the fish go?

“Dee, fish don’t have legs. He wasn’t in the bowl, so you didn’t put him in the bowl.”

Sometimes he jumps out of the bowl. She’s nervous, as she should be.

“Okay, well that’s not good. I threw him away.”

Why would you do that?

“There was dog pee on the floor and a little turd. I left it as long as I could hoping someone else would clean it up, but no one came. So, I cleaned it up. The turd was the strangest little turd, so I figured it was Puff’s. It kept slipping out of the paper towel. That nasty turd was disgusting.”

Dee’s sad for the fish, but not angry.

My eyes are not good. I’ve mistaken mice for leaves and now fish for turds. I’m making an appointment to get my eyes checked.

My Life - How I think and how I live...

My Father

“What would Dad say?”

My sister, Diane, asks me that question at least 3-5 times a year. We decide he’d say something like, “He’ll figure it out.” “If she does that she might not like what happens.” “He won’t do that again.” “She’ll learn.” Or maybe, “That’s malarkey.” Dad rarely gave orders; he’d briefly explain possible consequences; then we faced them. It could be scary. He taught us to think and make decisions. We didn’t need to beg or argue. The choice was usually ours.

Growing up was easy. I don’t remember punishments or lectures. I don’t remember a lot of restrictions or pressure to perform. I never heard screaming or fighting. Dad was predictable. We ate dinner together then he’d hang out with Mom and/or the neighbors. I heard laughter most every day. Dad had lots of friends. He liked everyone. If there was someone he didn’t like he never told us. Neighbors, co-workers, high school buddies, garbage collectors, construction workers, doctors, CEOs, blacks, whites, immigrants, Catholics, Protestants, … they were all the same.

I was a 6th grader in 1965 when our family went to the riverboat in St. Louis. After the boat ride we went back to visit with people Mom and Dad met on the boat. All the parents visited on a big front porch and all the kids played in the yard. We were the only white kids. In 1968, when I was in 9th grade, there was a lot of whispering going on in our neighborhood. Lesbians moved in across the street. Dad was one of the few, or maybe the only one, who didn’t seem to notice. He treated them same as all other neighbors.

Growing up, I never missed mass on Sunday. If Mom and Dad had partied late Saturday night and were not feeling too chipper we’d head upstairs to the choir loft. We had rosaries, pictures of Jesus, the pope, John F. Kennedy, Jr. and a Blessed Mother statue in our home because that’s how cradle Catholics decorated. I’m grateful our parents introduced us to Jesus.

The best thing Dad did for us was love our Mom until the end. The end was challenging and not once did Dad complain. Mom and Dad were in heaven before age 65.

Today, I imagine he’s laughing and having a beer with Mom… exactly as it should be.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

My Life - How I think and how I live...

Almost Sudden Death

It’s December 23, 2014. Mothers are not supposed to die two days before Christmas.

Cancer doesn’t care about mothers or children.

Karen was my grade school best friend. I never quite figured out why she chose me. She was athletic; by far the cutest girl in the class. I was clumsy, immature, housed in a Milwaukee brace, and easily the most unpopular kid in the class. Karen was shy and I was ridiculously social. I suppose we were a good match.

Karen and I met Paula in high school. Paula was a cheerleader and by far the cutest girl in our high school class. I had lost the brace, but otherwise I had not changed. Karen and Paula became good friends. I moved in another direction. It wasn’t something we decided; it just happened.

We graduated. We lost touch for nearly 20 years and reconnected at a class reunion. We more than reconnected. We realized our friendships never ended. Karen, Paula, and I met for lunch, we met other classmates for drinks, we relived the past and we shared what we had lost over the years.

November 2014, I get a message from Karen’s daughter. “My mom has an aggressive cancer. Will you call my dad?” How could that be? We had been together in July and Paula had tried to set a lunch date in October. Karen hadn’t responded, but so what?Sometimes it took a few months to set something up. We were busy. It was nothing for one of us to procrastinate or “forget.”

First, I call Paula. She had received the same text. I call Howard. He wants us to visit Karen in the hospital. We don’t talk about “aggressive cancer.”

When Paula and I walk into the hospital room, I’m not sure my face is able to disguise my shock. What happened? Karen is swollen and bald and discolored. Tears fall from her eyes, but she smiles and asks how we’re doing. For two hours we stay with Howard, Katie, and Karen. We reminisce; we talked about everything but the elephant in the room. We laugh, a lot.

Howard walks us to the elevator and tells us there is one more thing they can try to save Karen. He doesn’t look hopeful. There are no words to make it better. We hug.

I was able to see Karen one more time before she died. Our friend, Dawn, came in from Dallas. Dawn and I visited. Karen knew she was dying and it would be quick. I didn’t talk a lot. Dawn managed to nervous-ramble for over an hour about clothes, and kids, and the past. Karen went from smiling, to crying, to sleeping. When we left, I kissed her good-bye. I knew I’d never see my friend again.

Karen is 3rd from the right; beside me, of course!

My Life - How I think and how I live...

When I Grow Up

I’m afraid I’m going to die before I grow up.

I’ve grown old. I’ve met at least the minimum requirements of sister, daughter, cousin, niece, wife, mother, grandmother, friend, and Catholic. I’ve been a file clerk, fast food employee, bus driver, freelance writer, secretary, advocate, facilitator, and trainer. I’ve been on boards and in clubs; I’ve organized retreats and reunions. I done enough and loved enough for a decent eulogy and obit.

I haven’t done what I was going to do when I grew up. I haven’t written a book. I haven’t even attempted to write a book. I ventured toward the book idea 30 years ago by finding out if I could write something others would read. I sent query letters to magazines by the truckload. I was ignored or rejected for months then given an assignment by a local magazine. I wrote. I obeyed word limits, met deadlines, found good sources, researched, interviewed experts and wrote easy to read, entertaining, thoughtful articles. I was a monthly contributor for nearly six years until I chose to quit. Writing 30 years ago required a lot more leg work than it does today. There was no easy-access research. I went to the library. I used a thesauruses and dictionary, electric typewriter, and finally a word processor. Buying five copies of a magazine and seeing my byline was the biggest payoff. I figure my income was probably $5 an hour, at best.

I stopped writing and drove a school bus for my daughters’ Catholic grade school. Other than the writing job, I rarely looked for work. I was a lucky stay-at-home mom. I had options and people knew it. That’s how I ended up behind the wheel of a run-down stick shift dilapidated yellow school bus.

My life has been good. Of course, a good life is not a life without crosses. I faced health challenges, my parents died young, and my 34-year marriage failed. I had times when I wondered if I’d recover. All of this was necessary. I often think of the Elizabeth Kubler-Ross quote, ” The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen.”

Getting old can be ugly, but unless we give up or become resentful and self-centered we are eventually beautiful. I have become beautiful.

It’s time to write.