Taking A Moment to Stop and Smell the Birthday Roses

The first birthday I actually remember celebrating was when I turned six. My mother had been plotting a surprise and pulled in my dad as co-conspirator. He summoned me to go with him to the dump (in those days it wasn't a landfill; it was more of a spot where people just went ahead and "dumped" their unwanted stuff). I loved going to the dump with all of its potential treasures, and in keeping donned my dump clothes: horrible plaid pants, a mismatched striped shirt, ratty old coat and knit hat. Off we went, and upon our return I was horrified to walk into the living room, dressed like Fred Sanford, to be greeted by a dozen squealing friends in frilly party dresses. There's a photo somewhere of six-year-old me in my dump clothes looking extraordinarily ticked off.

Over the years, of course, there were other birthday celebrations. I had skating parties in high school, my birthday being in winter, and parties in general in college and beyond. Scattered throughout my belongings are pictures of me smiling with flowers at age 20, toasting with a glass of champagne at age 30, twirling in a velvet dress at age 40, and nuzzling a dolphin in Mexico at age 50. A few come to mind that were not so great, but all in all I've been lucky. My birthday, the only day of the year that is technically mine, generally has turned out to be a pretty good time.

This year's birthday, I'm happy to report, was one of the good ones. With our now dozens of ways to communicate I got emails, text messages, phone calls, flowers, cards, and visitors, not to mention a fine dinner and fireside chatting with family and a hundred or so salutations on Facebook. I feel fortunate to have so many people who care about me, something I don't really ever forget but which comes clearly into focus on this one day a year when I awake and murmur, "Another twelve months gone by. I wonder what's next?"

With all my possessions, with all my travels, and with all it seems I've accomplished in five-plus decades on this planet, there's really nothing in the world like the people who populate my life. Birthdays are good for remembering that.

This is not to say, however, that we learn much as time passes. Today when two of my friends stopped by I looked a bit like Frankenstein's bride. I wasn't wearing dump clothes, but it was close. Maybe next year I will learn, and will don a ball gown when I climb out of bed to see, at 57, what wondrous things are headed my way.

Then and Now

The News then: "There's been a storm in New York City. Forty are confirmed dead."

The News now: "This is a terrible story. Please be prepared, some of these pictures are difficult to see. You may want your children to leave the room. There's been a terrible storm in New York City...yes, that's right, I said in New York City. Forty people are dead, more are sure to die. Awful. Just awful."

Language then: "He and I went to the store.

Language now: "Me and him went to the store.

Watching TV then: "Now Beaver, you know your mother and I never fight."

Watching TV now: "I want a bleeping divorce, and I don't give a bleep about the bleeping kids or the bleeping house or your bleeping money, so bleep you!"

Driving then: Get in the car, put the kids in the back, drive away.

Driving now: Get in the car, secure the kids' car seats, insert the kids, double check security features, turn cartoons on back seat TV, click the seatbelts, lock the windows, lock the doors, insert the blue tooth, insert the CD, plug in the GPS, drive away.

Dealing with kids then: "Get your butt up and go to school, and when you finish school, get your butt out and find a job."

Dealing with kids now: "Oh honey, I know it's so hard and I know you're tired, but you really need to get out of bed and go to school, but if you really really feel like you can't get up it's okay if you take a mental health day. And don't worry about a job. Daddy and I will support you with our unconditional love and of course our unconditional money until you find a job you really really like and that you really really deserve."

Leaving the house then: Leave.

Leaving the house now: Check the back door lock, check the side door lock, check the timers, check the windows, check the motion detectors, set the alarm, triple lock the door, leave.

Communication then: "I need to make a long distance call. Can you ring me when you're off the party line?"

Communication now: "OMG! WTF? U R 2 Cool!!

Love then: See someone, wink, date, feel a tingle, fall in love.

Love now: Write and post a personal profile online (with sexiest possible photo), sift through potential love interest profiles, send an email to one, check email responses and select good-looking match with closest interests to your own, set a time to meet, set a place to meet, alert all friends and family as to where and when and who, meet, discuss similarities and differences, discuss feelings that "resonate," be sure long-term goals are on "the same page," meet again, articulate "dream vacation," articulate "dream job," articulate "dream home location," begin dating, share views on staying fit, share views on children, review financial statements and portfolios, clarify prenuptial requirements, discuss "dream retirement," and (maybe) fall in love.

Cleaning then: Mop the floor, dust the bureau, wash the dishes.

Cleaning now: Disinfect doorknobs, disinfect countertop, disinfect floor, disinfect toilet, disinfect sink, disinfect laundry, disinfect dishes, and when finished disinfect hands.

Weddings then: Go to justice of the peace, get a keg of beer, buy a cake at the grocery store, invite some friends to the house, go to Niagara Falls.

Weddings now: Hire wedding planner, select weekend, host family golf tournament on Friday afternoon, host rehearsal dinner for 200 of friends in fine restaurant on Friday evening, host wedding and reception for 500 friends in state-of-the-art venue on Saturday, host brunch in fine restaurant for 50 friends on Sunday morning, spend $75,000 on food, open bar, flowers, dresses, shoes, hair, make-up, jewelry, tuxes, gifts, band, rings, limos, cake, and go on month-long honeymoon trip to Europe.

Dealing with dogs then: They lived outside, they ate table scraps.

Dealing with dogs now: They sleep in beds, they eat heart-healthy shiny-coat-causing teeth-cleaning natural homemade whole foods in fun shapes and sizes...while wearing a sweater.

Politics then: A couple of people throw their hats into the ring, tell us what they'll do for the country, we vote and elect one.

Politics now: A dozen people spend millions of dollars berating opponets, shout each other down in televised debates, and run hundreds of ads telling us why the other socialist/communist/fascist guy is going to bring the country to the brink of ruin, all the while mugging for cameras and inspiring pundits to collect millions of dollars in advertising while shouting each other down and causing voters to collapse in apathy by the time an election rolls around.

Then had some problems for certain. But it's no wonder we're all so worn out in the Now.

Whitney: A Sad Goodbye

The first time I heard Whitney Houston sing was in 1985. I was in a car. I can't recall who was driving, where I was, or where we were going, but I remember the song coming on the radio, Saving All My Love For You, and my reaction, which was "Who is THAT?" What a voice. Hitting notes that were astonishing. Interpreting words that raised goosebumps on my arms. Her voice and the song were perfect. Beautiful. Timeless. I knew then I was listening to a star on the rise.

Fast forward a few years. I was living my life and Whitney Houston had become a part of it. Granted, not a big part. She was a voice I heard on the radio, a face I saw on award shows, in interviews. So beautiful, so much life in her eyes, such talent. She became part of the swirl of music and celebrity that surrounds us all.

Fast forward a few more years. Suddenly I'm watching, with peripheral vision, Whitney getting thin. And thinner. There is talk of drugs and of falling. A falling down of another lovely star for whom fame is too much. Too much money, too many cameras. I found myself in Spain on business one year and had a dream about Whitney. A dream that she had died. I came downstairs in the hotel and told a person with whom I was working that I was worried about Whitney Houston. Ridiculous. I should have been worrying about whether or not my clients were happy and instead I was wringing my hands over a women who did not and would never know my name. But I couldn't get past it. Yes. Ridiculous.

A few years ago I was passing through JFK and saw Ms. Houston. We were both standing on the curb outside the airport. I was waiting for a taxi, she was waiting for a limo. She was surrounded by battered silver trunks and a dozen other suitcases. There was no entourage, no photographer. A fellow passing by remarked that the silver trunks looked like they'd been traveling. I was about three feet away from her. She was skinny and bundled, a knit cap pulled over her head. She was wearing sunglasses, I guess to hide her identity as it wasn't really sunny. Not looking so good. She smiled at the guy and said "Yes, those trunks have been around." I wanted to approach her and say something. Say, "I had a dream about you." Of course I didn't. Her limo arrived as did my cab. She'd seen me staring and we exchanged a glance as my taxi pulled away. I thought about hearing that first song back in 1985. My mind whispered, seeing her thin frame grow smaller there on the curb, "Take care of yourself. I had a dream..." 

I was so...disheartened I guess...to hear that Whitney Houston had died. I wasn't crushed or devastated. For heaven sake, I didn't know the woman. Disheartened is the only word I know to use because it's disheartening to hear of another person joining the ranks of so many gifted artists who can't take the pressure of fame. They turn to drugs, illegal or otherwise, and seem unable to pull themselves far enough away to realize the money and the accolades and the rest of what comes with being known isn't, in the end, worth it. They give their gift -- and ultimately their very lives -- to the public, and we the public suck them dry. So here is this pretty girl, this mad-talented woman who through her successes and her gifts and her struggles touched the hearts of so many people, ending up dead in a hotel bath tub.

There are moments when I want to be famous. I want everyone to know my name, to talk about me as a brilliant writer. Well, okay, let's get real. I'm a decent writer, can certainly string sentences together and can spin a story better than some, not better than many. Could I be fiction-famous? Maybe. If I had the right connections and if I set aside walking the dog and socializing for 20-hour writing days...yes, perhaps fame could be mine. Would I turn to drugs if suddenly I couldn't walk outside without photographers and fans mobbing me? What if I couldn't go to WalMart without a disguise? At this stage in my life, I imagine I could endure the price of fame without Xanax or Valium or gin or heroin. But who knows? And I think of Whitney. Maybe she thought that, too, back when she was just a sweet girl singing at church, thought she could handle the massive pressure of millions of eyes watching and judging. There's no way to tell, really, what might happen to any of us if fame knocked at our door and we were there, smiling, to answer breathlessly,"Yes, here I am; take me on the grand ride."

Many people will be wringing their hands over poor Whitney for a long while I suppose. I've done my hand-wringing about her, when I was in a hotel in Spain, and again curbside at JFK. She was a remarkable person, now standing alongside other remarkable people: Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger and Billie Holliday; Elvis Presley, Amy Winehouse, Brian Jones, John Belushi; Jimi and Janice and Marilyn. And all the rest. Will these fame-induced drug deaths never end?

 All this just makes me sad.

Whitney Houston: Another Lost Soul Leaves Us

Rest in peace, Whitney. What a cryin shame.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8QaI-M9sxW4

Rotary, Spaghetti, and Splendid Americana

I went to a Rotary luncheon on Thursday. The last time I was at a Rotary lunch was about 30 years ago when I was a reporter and covered one for my paper. I don't actually remember much about the decades' ago event. The lunch this week, which I believe I'll remember for a long time, was steeped in Americana, a description I use with utmost respect.

There were maybe 30 Rotarians in a cordoned-off room at a local restaurant. Rotary insignias hung in strategic locations, insignias I was told represent visitors from other chapters. There was also draping and official name badges and a bell that was rung periodically for reasons I couldn't quite determine, but which was charming and brought forth some laughs. After lunch, the meeting was kicked off with all of us standing and saying the Pledge of Allegiance (I'm thinking the last time I said the P-of-A in a group of people was 45 years ago, with grade school classmates). We then sang God Bless America, and after bowing our heads for a short prayer were off and running.

Rotary has always been a staple in my town, a part of life here that people probably don't think about much but would surely miss if it was gone. And I learned a few things today that I didn't know. I was aware that Rotary sponsors our Music in the Park event during the summer. What I didn't realize is that Rotary has as part of its mission statement stamping out polio, which still exists in third world countries. I also learned that our Rotarians sponsor local foreign exchange students. In fact, the speaker this week was the sheriff from a neighboring county, whose daughter is in Denmark thanks to the very Rotarians with whom I was enjoying fish and salad. Before his presentation, the sheriff gave a nice report about how she's doing followed by a heartfelt thank you for Rotary's part in his daughter's continuing education in another part of the world.

I was at the Rotary lunch on Thursday as a guest, and as such was reminded how really special service organizations are to small towns like mine. These groups offer important though often behind-the-scenes contributions that we all take for granted. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm happy to know that every week this particular group of people meets, has a bite to eat, plans projects, and takes time out of busy lives to quietly weave much-needed threads in the fabric of our community.

(By the way, Rotary is hosting a spaghetti supper soon. Their flier is below. Why not stop on down and show this fine organization some support.)

No Longer Waiting To Exhale

It's a strange February weather-wise. No snow, and today the thermometer read 53 degrees. I was out and about all day without a coat.

A friend from New Jersey (former hometown resident) was here visiting over the weekend. We took a drive this morning and thoroughly enjoyed the atypical sun and spring-like temperatures, the winter grasses flat and brown but still somehow beautiful. The car ride took us into the hills surrounding the valley that is now (again and finally) my home. Jackie remarked that it's interesting to look at this town with eyes that have seen many other places; eyes that started here, left, and have returned with so different a perspective. We mused about being young here and wanting nothing more than to get out to explore the world, or at least some other version of it. We both went exploring, which -- for us -- was the right choice. I don't think I ever took a drive when I was a teenager in Sherburne that didn't have the purpose of getting away from my parents' house, away from teachers, away from what I thought was a suffocating small town, away. Today's drive was a pleasure trip. We were thirsty to drink in sights that to others might be meaningless tilting fences and sagging barns. This hour-long automobile stroll was an unhurried delight.

I've lived here full-time just short of twelve months. My outside self has changed, but more stunning is my inside self: how I've quieted. I take pleasure in sweeping the porch, or in slicing an onion. Sometimes in the middle of the day I flop down on the bed and talk to the dog, looking into his eyes and noticing how intently he looks back. A few days ago I found a box of greeting cards that I've been meaning to sort for ten years and sorted them: birthday, get well, thank you, Christmas, sympathy. Yesterday Jackie and I went to a Super Bowl party and heard a fellow say his house is two ridges over from a certain location. Not two exits or two blocks, but two ridges. I've been mulling this expression all afternoon, and in fact pointed out the ridges on our drive today. Life has become astonishingly slow, and in this slowness I've again found my life. It's as though I've been inhaling for 30 years and now, at last, I'm exhaling. 

It feels...good.

Never have I so appreciated the expression that youth is wasted on the young. I wonder what I missed growing up here, although I wonder this with no regret. I observe now how I observe. I notice the way the sun slants off a certain hill, and marvel that I notice. Today I pointed out tree shadows and wished momentarily that I'd brought my camera, although while I might have captured the image, I couldn't have captured the emotion. Happily, the tenderness of those shadows lingers in my mind and is not ousted by the frantic rush to a train station. I still taste the winter portrait there, like a nice wine.

All things happen for a reason. My return home twelve months ago seemed premature. Now I realize, as I ponder ridges and deer prints in occasional front yard snow, that coming back to this place where family ghosts tug at my sleeve, where the moon and the maples and the smells are as familiar as my own voice in a quiet room, was simply meant to be.

Muppet vs. Puppet

Fox "News," which shall now until forever on this blog be referred to as "Fox" because, of course, there is precious little news on that program, has finally lost its collective mind.

On December 2, 2011, the Fox installment Follow The Money ran this segment, which lasted 7 minutes:

http://mediamatters.org/mmtv/201112020036

In response to Fox's charge that the new Muppet movie is brainwashing our children with dangerous liberal ideas about rich people being bad, the Muppets held a press conference on January 26. Yes. I just said that. The Muppets -- you know, those adorable funny fuzzy PUPPETS -- held a press conference to respond to Fox's allegations:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y8YhED4IgQA

I have been sputtering about this all week to anyone who'll listen and somehow feel as though I've entered an LSD-inspired hallucination. Is Fox with its ultra-conservative agenda, the agenda that seems to instruct its media minions to use as frequently as possible buzzwords like "class warfare" and "liberal news bias" (the latter of which includes CBS, ABC, NBC, CNN, MSNBC, Newsweek, various wire services and The New York Times) so desperate for a palatable Republican candidate that they are now lumping Kermit and Miss Piggy in with the current administration as those to blame for the so-called impending American leftist/socialist morally corrupt totalitarian regime? I suspect the answer to that question is yes, they are that desperate, just as I suspect it's no coincidence that Fox is taking potshots at little guy vs. big guy themes because the man most likely to win the Republican nomination also happens to be very rich and more than a tad out of touch with the aforementioned little guy.

It is not news that the right has for years pointed fingers at "liberal" Hollywood, and it's also not news that creative types -- ie, writers, artists, filmmakers, actors, and the like -- lean toward liberal thinking, such thinking characterized by a desire for workable social programs as opposed to elite greed. And yes, if we look at films over the years, those aimed at kids or not, there is a common theme toward the disenfranchised fighting back against "the man." Take 101 Dalmatians (1961), featuring Anita and Roger, regular folks who own a bunch of pretty dogs vs. Cruella De Vill, the rich lady lusting for a spotted coat. We also have Snow White (1937), a common gal battling against her wealthy stepmother the Queen. And of course, can anyone forget the venom spewing forth from Mr. Potter in It's A Wonderful Life (1946)? Mr. Potter who, without interference from poverty-stricken George Bailey, would have turned bucolic Bedford Falls into Sin City? This message of little guy going up against big-and-maybe-wealthy guy is as old as time, going back as far (and probably farther) as poverty-stricken Jesus taking on the Romans. But now that we have what Fox and its kin keep insisting is a socialist in the White House, it seems it's time to take aim at a frog and a wig-wearing pig who apparently are the latest culprits twisting the minds of our ill-fated children and causing them to become lazy welfare-lovin' food-stamp-orderin' rich-folk-hatin' communists.

Maybe Fox's next target should be Charles Dickens, who in 1843 painted a rather dark portrait of a rich fella beating up on the poor, a fella named Ebenezer Scrooge. In fact, that's a great idea since the Muppet Christmas Carol features Scrooge AND Kermit AND Miss Piggy, all of them no doubt in socialist kahoots. Go for it, Fox! You can save some ammunition and take down literature and puppets in one fell swoop, though I'd be careful about getting rid of all the bobbing marionettes: you might lose your jobs.