beth anderson

Useful comfort…

Was washing some pots and pans at the kitchen sink when a flash of memory caused me to smile. And all because I thought of my mom’s old cookie sheets. I had just washed one of mine that I’d used to roast some vegetables the other day. Her cookie sheets could not have been used for that purpose. They were flat with no sides, just a slight rim at either end to grab to pull out of the oven.

They were thin, lightweight and easy to slide cookie from the sheet to a plate. Most cookie sheets I see these days are rimmed all the way around. Yes, it keeps things from falling off and offers greater versatility but I miss those old cookie sheets.

‘Tis the baking season. While most people are thinking about pies, my younger self would be making a cookie baking schedule. During my high school years, I began my tradition of cookie baking. In those days I mostly made spritz cookies. Those are the buttery little morsels that pop easily into the mouth. The dough is pressed through a cylinder which accommodated different designs. One cookie sheet could hold 18-24 cookies depending on the design.

The problem with the older presses is they were built to just turn to the right. Used to living in a non-lefty world, I would struggle year after year to turn to the right utilizing my right non-dominant hand. Or I’d have to use my left hand to turn to the right, very awkward. Regardless of the technique, it resulted in painful blisters on both hands. For that reason those cookies were the last to be made.

And I liked decorating those little cookies using my mother’s old frosting decorator cylinder. It looked like a large aluminum syringe and the plunger was pushed from the top so there was never a worry about hand injury for me. It had lots of different aluminum tips. Buttercream frosting, made from butter and confectioners sugar, could be thinned and tinted to perfection. I can’t tell you how many tiny trees and wreaths I decorated. I must have had a different level of patience then.

One detail I recall is our kitchen table had a leaf that folded down when not needed. When extended up, it didn’t provide a truly flat surface. And those old cookie sheets of my mother’s were far from being perfectly flat. One learned to work with what one had.

Because I’m me, there was a ritual to my baking. It involved an outfit and certain music. In the early days jeans with a dish towel tucked into a front pocket sufficed. This morphed over the years into athletic shorts topped by a chamois shirt or sweatshirt. And always a backwards baseball cap to keep hair out of the eyes. Stacked on the turntable in the adjacent living room were some requisite albums: Jo Stafford’s Ski Trails; the Broadway version of The Sound of Music; and one of The Great Songs of Christmas albums from the record club. For decades, those albums had flour dust on the edges from being flipped between batches of cookies.

Cookies varied from year to year. Spritz cookies were a constant. Some years there were cut sugar cookies or gingerbread men. Many years there were Russian Tea Cakes because they looked like snowballs. Another constant was fudge in addition to a confection known in my house as French Chocolates. Today they’re known as truffles.

I cranked out dozens of cookies using only two cookie sheets. I suppose that’s all one needs with just one oven. I almost forgot the raspberry chocolate chip meringue cookies. Those required the cookie sheets to be lined with brown paper. So it involved using right-handed scissors to cut a grocery bag. More systemic torture for me. It was worth it.

Meringues, fudge, Russian tea cakes, French Chocolates (my creations)

Kid stuff…

I spend a fair amount of time lost in memories. Actually, that isn’t correct. The term “lost in memories” implies one is wandering aimlessly or gazing wistfully. My mind works in images. People, events, scenery trigger images from the past in my head. Much of the time I feel free to wander those paths.

Where I lived as a young kid in Burlington, Vt., was a child’s dream setting. A dead-end street surrounded by woods on two sides created endless possibilities for adventure. Across the street was a large piece of land that everyone on our short block “owned” and maintained. It was a large field that the dads kept mowed.

Clumps of rhubarb and lilacs abounded one side and a dense arborvitae hedge the other side. Woods stood guard on one end and the other opened into a sweeping backyard. It was our ground, our field of battle. And battle we did.

Endless games of kickball and baseball were conducted with the zeal of unfettered childhood. Makeshift items were used as bases, objects like my tiny bicycle which was always second base. We avoided sliding into second as much as possible but sometimes it was merited. The victim could look forward to sporting the badge of bravery, a knee covered with mercurochrome.

Insects are buzzing, the sun is pounding down. All is quiet. Two little kids observe from a sturdy limb in a nearby tree. Their world is hot and dusty, and empty. There is no play in the field on this day. They’re trying to fathom the day’s events. Most of the adults are at a funeral. The image of a young woman, face frozen in anguish, the cords of her neck stretched in grief flutters in my memory. She is the sister of a young playmate. We sit in the tree looking out at our world and try to make sense of what it means that her young husband has died in a car accident.

Our understanding would be years in coming. On that day we knew things would never be the same for some people. We didn’t have the depth to fully comprehend the impact. Our beloved playground held us in its embrace as we puzzled through our thoughts.

Our confusion is still fresh in my memory. As kids do, one of my memories is of endless platters of sandwiches being served that day. It was like I’d gone to sandwich heaven. We kids munched and raced along the street, chasing one another for the mere thrill of the chase. One of the older neighbors spoke to us and we quieted ourselves, still not comprehending the somber tone but respecting our elder’s wishes. Because someone had gone to Heaven, for real.

Shortcuts and adventures…

I enjoyed outings to the woods. There had been woods behind her house and at the end of the dead-end road I lived on as a young child. In those days Westerns were popular on the television. Many an episode of Bonanza and The Big Valley were re-enacted among the trees. Many “forts” were built. Many acorns were ground into “flour.” It was the fantasy realm of a small girl who read voraciously.

Moving to another state resulted in the loss of those beloved woods. However, new settings require exploration. As I made new friends at school, the discovery of a new wooded area wasn’t far behind. My brother and I were active kids. He found the shortcut to the nearby junior high where he attended school and played on the school’s tennis courts.

The next street over from my new residence ended in a dead-end. A large wooded area loomed and a narrow dirt path beckoned to all kids. The path wound its way a short distance before opening up to a clearing where paths branched off in a variety of directions.

To the left was a path through trees that opened up to the back of the school’s tennis courts a playing fields. If one followed a path that went fairly straight, it eventually wound up on some side street at least a half mile or more away. A path to the right branched off to a stream. Beyond the stream, another side street emerged. This sounds straightforward but the woods are seldom simple.

Paths tend to wind their way around objects such as growing trees or fallen trees. There are changes in elevation, tree roots, rocks. Depending on the time of year there may be foliage. Leaves, pine needles, and moss decorated the woods.

One mostly went along the trails on foot, but they were large enough for bicycles. I mostly biked through to take a short cut to the tennis courts. But there were occasions when a few of us would bicycle in, stash our bikes, and explore. A few times we brought picnic lunches. Hey, we were imaginative back in the day. It was so much fun to comb through the woods. We could monitor projects that other kids were building to dam the stream. There were various tree houses and forts in progress. A different type of playground, one with trees, trails, and a stream. Additional skill set? Yes. Additional manner of problem solving? Yes. Additional opportunity to be active and have fun? Yes!

Alas, the path through the woods became obsolete. The property was sold and houses were built. I know there were paths from streets at the far end of the woods but never explored those unfamiliar areas. Paths and trails are useful things. They get us where we want to go. They offer us a look into a different environment. They give us the opportunity to use the imagination. Heed Robert Frost’s advice and take the road “less traveled.” It just could “[make] all the difference.”

“And I’ll make a wish, take a chance, make a change/And breakaway.“ Kelly Clarkson

Ponderous pondering…

“So Eden sank to grief/So dawn goes down to day/Nothing gold can stay.” Thought I’d change things up with a poetry snippet from Robert Frost’s poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.” I’ve referenced this poem in previous posts, especially in my previous blog thequarryschild.com .

I hold myself to some pretty high standards. It was how I was raised and I’m glad I was raised to have morals, goals, manners, etc. That said, I’m far from being a perfect human being. Perfection is an ideal that will never be achieved. I gave up on that long ago. What you see is what you get with me. Yes, I can be brutally honest. Yes, I can be very sarcastic. Yes, I can be the most loyal friend you’ve ever had.

For some reason I’ve always felt the latter was tremendously important in one’s life. However, life’s journey has shown me it’s a concept many do not embrace. Hey, I get it. The years pass and everyone’s lives become different and diverse. Each of us has a variety of challenges thrown at us. It’s difficult to navigate all of those important shoals of one’s life and keep up with friends.

I had many students in the past who would preface a sentence with, “I’m not gonna lie, Ms. Anderson, but I didn’t __________________ .” Choose from the following to fill in the blank: a) read the book; b) do the assignment; c) get past page 15 of the book.” Always with a smile on my face, my thoughts were any of the following: 1) really? Gee, I wouldn’t have known; 2) yes, it’s painfully apparent; 3) thank you for sharing, but why would you tell that to your teacher?” Of course there were several other choices. Mostly I chose just to say, “thank you for sharing.”

There is a point to this. It pains me to say, “I’m not going to lie, but friendships may be disappointing.” Notice I could not type the word “gonna” in terms of my personal vernacular. That aside, I’ve had a few friends I’ve maintained a relationship with since we were youngsters. I’ve gone out of my way at times to stay in touch. As an adult I’ve also tried to create communication with some from the past only to discover that “talking” through texts and other forms of social media is just so two-dimensional and flat. One’s tone and personality is not conveyed properly and it just leads to disaster. This happened all too recently and, to be honest, I’m tired of ending up on the wrong end of the stick. I’ve practically stood on my head trying to accommodate some individuals but heaven help anyone who misunderstands and isn’t willing to talk things through as adults should.

Therefore, I’ve made a conscious decision to abandon further pursuits on my part. If someone reaches out to me, I’m happy to reciprocate. But gone are the days of me texting, emailing, cajoling, phoning, etc., when often I receive a perfunctory reply or none at all. If you know me, and you’re reading this, you may wonder if you’re one of those people. Truthfully, you should know. If you’re unsure, ask.

My career is in the rear view mirror. It was wonderful and I really enjoyed it. The next chapter is open and I’m working on carving out time for new pursuits, personal care, and elder care duties. If you’d like to share in my thoughts and activities, it’s up to you. I’ve done more than my share over the decades and I’m worn out. I’d love to have you in my life but I just cannot work to maintain it anymore.

“Nothing gold can stay.” Stuff changes, people change, our lives change. While we may look back on the good times, the good times have eclipsed us. They’re memories and while memories are wholly important, they’re intangible. Memories are wisps of life that melt away if we let them but we cannot expect them to repeat themselves.

In terms of personal relationships, I lost someone who was an integral part of my life for a very long time. Truth be told, I have yet to deal with those feelings. I often turn to the words of others for help. Sarah McLachlan has helped me more than once… “So afraid to love you/But more afraid to lose/Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose…”. From “I Will Remember You”

In terms of the “good old days,” they’re gone and cannot be recreated. “And I hope when I get old I don’t sit around thinking about it/But I probably will/Yeah, just sitting back trying to recapture/A little of the glory of, we’ll time slips away…”. Bruce Springsteen “Glory Days”

Time to move away from the thoughts that I’m still like I was back in the day. Nope, I’ve evolved and learned to use my words effectively. I matter and it’s time I’m treated that way. Cheers!

The doldrums of summer…

During the month of August, in the northeastern US, we watch as summer fades into the promised glory of autumn. The weather is changeable. One day it’s overcast, gloomy and 70 degrees. Or it could be sunny and 85 as it is today.

I sit on the patio, in the shade of a lovely ornamental Japanese maple, its leaves waving faintly. The sun is hot and I had my fair share of it yesterday. The shade is welcome today. Nearby a chickadee calls out. A soft splash signals birds stopping for a drink and/or a quick bath.

Lovely surroundings, yet the word doldrums appears in the title of this post. We associate doldrums with sadness or depression. And yet, this is August. The name of the month means reverent or distinguished. How may that jibe with a state of stagnation?

It’s nice to live in an area where there is a distinct change of seasons. The one drawback is each season is finite. August marks, for me, the slow slide into the end of the growing season, the end of summer freedom before school begins, the last frenzied flurry of summer activities.

Stagnation envelopes the surroundings. There will be no more green growth. The sun will weaken in its strength and visit us for a shorter time each day. Days will grow shorter. Vegetation will die off and become crackly and brown.

As gloomy as this may sound, it’s merely preparation for autumn – a glorious season in its own right. For now, it’s best to enjoy the last of August as summer drifts away. “Nobody on the road/Nobody on the beach/I feel it in the air/The summer’s out of reach…”. “Boys of Summer” Don Henley

“The mists hang low in the morning hours/And the smell of harvest grows more strong./The calendar cries the last day of August-/And summer has lingered a little too long.” From Summer Must Go by Lenore Hetrick

Who are any of us?

More than I care to admit, I ask myself who I am. More than I care to admit, I wonder what happened to who I used to be. More than I care to admit, I just don’t have answers.

Before I get too involved, I’m not really sure how people viewed my younger self. I was funny, pretty carefree, athletic, attractive. Though I was in top-level classes throughout school, I’m not sure if other kids considered me smart. Smart ass, yes. I maintained good grades with minimal effort on my own part. I could also pick up any sport with ease, yet was not dedicated to one.

Life events changed me from being a leader throughout elementary school to being more of a follower later on. I just wanted to belong. I wanted to be liked and included.

My anxiety issues began to manifest themselves when I was in high school. I started to become fearful of certain outcomes. I was afraid to go on trips with friends. I thought something catastrophic would happen. In fact one college weekend trip I backed out of lost me two friends. I understood many years later they weren’t really friends. But, oh, how important they were to me then.

I attended many parties, having a great fondness for beer. At some of these parties I wandered off with a boy or two to make out. I always put the brakes on if things got too heavy and I managed to maintain my virtue. In my naïveté it may have earned me a reputation as a tease. In all honesty, I had no idea what I was doing. I just knew what wasn’t going to happen.

By senior year, I’d been dumped by the boy I thought was “the one.” Boy, was I a moron. With college looming I began to become more anxious. I was accepted to a few nice schools but was too afraid to leave home. This was a person I didn’t know. This unease was new to me and frightening. I’d already been through a lot by the time I was seventeen. My father was an alcoholic. Between the ages of 6-15, there’d been domestic violence at my house. From the ages of 10-15, I was the victim of physical and verbal abuse from my brother.

I’d been in a car accident in third grade and sustained a compound fracture of my leg. I was absent a fair amount from school. Years would pass before I would understand it was more emotional than physical. I began to eat as a comfort but because I was active I kept the weight off.

College was the tipping point. I liked the academic part of college. Learning was fun. I hated being a commuter student but I was paying my own way, was too scared to leave home, and had to work when I wasn’t in class. Hanging around with some folks who weren’t right for me, it allowed me to continue to indulge my fondness for beer and to eat in an unhealthy manner. The weight started to add up. I’d given up trying to be athletic except for teaching tennis during the summers, something I really enjoyed.

I’ve made lots of mistakes but I think most of us have. I was too tied to a lifestyle where I acted the way I thought I was supposed to instead of being myself. And now, being myself has become lost to me. The closest I come is writing in this blog but, even then, I’m careful about my words.

Part of my role in life is being a survivor. I don’t seem like I’ve had many cares in the world, but I’ve been through some difficult and dark times. I’m not looking for a prize. I’m looking for me. The one who was quick to grin and laugh. Not the one with the jaded and sarcastic quips. The one who was brave and was the leader. Not the pathetic sheep.

Don’t ask me to fight for your causes. I’ve been left hanging out to dry a few too many times. And if you’re going to be my friend, be my friend. Don’t be my friend as it suits you. I’m done with fair weather friends or people who are my friend until I disagree with them about something. I know I’m not easy. I can be moody. I can be too honest. But if you look past that, I can be so much more.

So, who am I? Not sure yet. I do know I will continue to pursue my dream of being a mystery writer. I’m happy when I’m writing and feel close to my original self.

“Oh, mirror in the sky/What is love?/Can the child in my heart rise above?/Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?/Can I handle the seasons of my life?” Landslide- Fleetwood Mac

I’m still sailing, navigating the shoals of grief for the loss of a very important person in my life. And for that “one” high school boy, go suck an egg.

Summer senses

Summer is full of a variety of images to me. I live in an area with four distinct seasons and, though summer is never long enough, I still enjoy the seasonal changes. One thing that never changes is the joy-filled memories that thoughts of summer bring.

Things and images I associate with summer: plums, sweet corn, water, laughter, firelight, shimmering heat, just to name a few. The sweet corn and plums may seem an obvious choice. As a child I spent lots of time outside swimming during the summer. Lakes, pools, streams, the ocean comprised my swim choices. Almost always they were accompanied by a picnic lunch. Summer picnic lunches always included plums. Portable, small, and easy to eat, these gems were refreshing on a hot summer afternoon. I grin inwardly when I eat them.

Sweet corn may become its own topic among consumers. I was never a fussy corn eater. If it was fresh from the farm stand, it didn’t matter what variety it was. Our next door neighbor always called my mother when there were fresh peas to be shucked or ears of corn to be husked. I enjoyed helping and would skip next door to get to work. There was always plenty for me to take home for our supper.

Sweet summer laughter never gets old. We few neighborhood kids gathered in the twilight, after dinner, to play. Spirited games of kick the can, Simon says, variations of tag, were played with abandon. Of course those were the days when dogs ran loose and weren’t picked up after. One sultry evening found me racing to hide, during hide and seek, when my heel caught the edge of a pile of dog poo. I did a fast sit and was further humiliated when I realized I was wearing my favorite white shorts.

When I was fourteen or fifteen, a nice pool complex opened in our town. It gave us the opportunity to swim outdoors instead of in one of the school pools. There was an Olympic-sized pool, a smaller diving pool, snack bar, locker rooms, etc. Since my mom usually worked summers to supplement her teaching salary, I needed to ride my bike to get there. That wasn’t a big deal as the park was less than two miles away.

Part of that ride necessitated me bicycling on a highway. It was always a little nerve-wracking to do so and seemed like a long stretch. In reality it was a distance of about a half mile. It always seemed a lonely piece of road, the surrounding scenery was stark with crunchy, overgrown summer weeds. Either shoulder of the road was littered with broken glass, discarded sneakers, flattened soda cans, the usual roadside detritus.

In the near distance the promise of fun sparkled amongst the haze of the heat. On the ride home the heat rose in waves from the pavement, the day’s brilliance reduced to exhaustion. The return trip became a chore though I enjoyed whatever sort of breeze was kicked up by the ride.

Summer music tends to employ a happy vibe. The Beach Boys and Chicago come to mind. “Good Vibrations,” “California Girls,” and “Saturday in the Park” often ruled the airwaves. These mixed with “It’s Too Late,” “The Morning After,” “The Letter,” “O-o-h Child,” “Mama Told Me Not to Come,” “Spill the Wine,” “Brandy (you’re a fine girl),” and oodles of others. These are just a few memories of summers past.

“Summer breeze makes me feel fine/Blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind.” Seals & Crofts

The shimmer of heat.

On the cusp…

Exciting and daunting at the same time, but it’s coming soon. In another two weeks I will be adjusting to a new residence, an amalgamation of my stuff and some of my mom’s stuff. She has transitioned to assisted living and I’m headed around the corner to live in her former house. I really like mine but prefer the more private location of hers.

Though it will be a place with many familiar items, it is a new start for me. It’s just finally my time and I need to treat it that way. For decades I’ve focused on others. Now it’s time for my star to shine. I like structure which is why I thrived as a teacher. Labor Day weekend will be my division between former and current.

Waiting for an editor to become available in a few weeks to get working on my non-fiction book. The draft is done, most of the photos chosen, and lots of small details to put into place. But the bulk of it will be done by then and hopefully printing will be underway.

I look forward to a few book signings and to meet and talk with folks. This is a regional book, a history of an impressive school district, so it will have a limited audience. But it will be circulating and selling. It also means it will be time to me to pursue my dream of writing mystery fiction. Two drafts are in progress but I’ve looked at neither in quite a long time. In addition, I’ve jotted other ideas over the past few years.

Between 2005 and 2015, I attended several reputable mystery-writing conferences. The one thing I learned the most is there is no one way to write fiction. Similar to a well-known advertising slogan – “just do it.” And do it I shall. I must be true to myself.

My other goal is to live a healthier lifestyle. This means I must change some very longtime habits. It also means I need to be kind to myself, a concept that is difficult for me. I’ve spent much of my life living to please others. The end result is others may be pleased but it has left me incomplete and not entirely happy or satisfied with my life. I’ve allowed my interactions with others to define me and in ways, I’m stuck in my own past. I’m unique and do not conform to many of society’s standards.

Don’t get all excited for revelations because there aren’t any. I’m just a bit of an adult tomboy who prefers casual clothing. I’m a single woman who has a definite love/hate relationship with men. I’m still grieving a lost love. I’m enduring lost friendships. In short, I’m kind of starting over (at 63).

As one who has spent most of my life of being frightened to rock the boat, I will be paddling a new boat. My core personality remains – intact sense of humor, gracious manners, respect and concern for others, innate curiosity. But the part I’ve kept immersed for decades is so much sharper and more visible. Though I’ve never been one to champion my own causes, I’ve become very plain spoken and no longer afraid to speak my mind. This causes some issues. Some folks who don’t know me well misunderstand my intent and are quick to criticize. People don’t have to agree but they also do not have the right to diminish my thinking. If you become uncomfortable with something I’ve said, maybe you need to look within. I have. It’s not always an easy thing.

I have an undergraduate degree in English and a graduate degree in secondary English education. To stay I enjoy reading is an understatement. I love words. One neat little poem popped into my head as I began writing this piece. It’s called I Know My Soul and it’s written by Claude McKay. Here is an excerpt, “I need not gloom my days with futile dread,/Because I see a part and not the whole./Contemplating the strange, I’m comforted/By this narcotic thought: I know my soul.”

I do know what’s in my soul. I’ve always known. Few get a glimpse, it’s just the way I am. As usual, I find consolation in the lyrics of songs. One that comes to mind is Tom Petty’s You Don’t Know How It Feels. I was fortunate to see him in concert with his Heartbreakers. “There’s somewhere I gotta go/And you don’t know how it feels/You don’t know how it feels to be me.” Though he talks about rolling another joint over and over in the song, I always thought about drinking another beer. No harm, no foul, just was never into weed.

Sometimes I would ask my students for music recommendations as I’m open to listening to all types of stuff. It helped me to discover some really good music that I wouldn’t have known about. Not a huge rap fan, there is plenty I like. Always had respect for Eminem because he succeeded in an industry that was not destined for his success. In his song Lose Yourself, from the film 8-Mile (semi-autobiographical), he talks about not missing a chance to do what’s important to you. “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance…”. The beginning of the song starts with these words, “Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity/To seize everything you ever wanted in one moment/Would you capture it, or just let it slip?” I’m not going to let it slip this time. I’ve given up too much already.

And there are the moments when emotional release is important. If I need a little encouragement to let my emotions go, I listen to Sarah McLachlan’s In the Arms of an Angel even if it’s been somewhat spoiled with its overuse in an ASPCA commercial. The song is bittersweet and lyrical. It’s hopeful and sad. The clarity of her voice brings an outstanding level of beauty to it. “And the storm keeps on twisting/You keep on building the lies/That you make up for all that you lack.” When one isn’t believing in one’s self, it’s easy to invent your own persona, complete with the qualities of where you think you’re falling short. But there’s recompense as we hear her sing, “You’re in the arms of the angel/May you find some comfort there.” Calming.

Lots to say, thanks for taking the ride. The cusp awaits.

Phoniness vs. Hypocrisy

These concepts seem similar and there is definitely some overlap. On a simple level a phony is one who is insincere or one who is not genuine. What does that mean? It’s a person who tries to pass himself or herself off as something they are not. In most simplistic terms, let’s say it could be a person who may appear to be an expert on a subject when in fact he/she has only superficial knowledge.

Hypocrisy is the concept of “do as I say, not as I do.” One example that comes to mind is a scene from the great teenage book The Outsiders. Some of the “greasers” have saved children from a fire. At the hospital one of the greasers lights up a cigarette and is scolded for smoking by an adult……who is smoking. Pretty simple example, but it’s classic.

The two concepts have a great deal of overlap. There are a great number of psychological studies on each subject. This isn’t a discussion on the psychology of these terms. It’s more of an acknowledgment of the existence of each and some of their effects.

People who are phony are often transparent. This means it’s easy to spot their phoniness. While it may be amusing to observe, it’s also very sad. Is our society to blame? Who knows? Many factors would appear to play into being a phony. Some people have perfected the role in order to get ahead and to be successful. Is “playing the game” part of our lives? It would seem so, to some extent. Why some would say they don’t enjoy playing the game, they might also say it’s necessary at times. Have you found yourself in that position? I have at times.

It brings to mind the book The Catcher in the Rye. The main character, teenaged rich-boy Holden Caulfield, spends his existence railing against the phoniness in the world. What Holden fails to see is that he is also a phony. While trying to find his true self, he”plays the game” and is often deceptive about his identity, his background, and is a pro at telling “white lies.” Holden wants to be an integral part of society, yet his fear keeps him from being genuine.

Fear and insecurity may play large parts in people’s lives. Another example of phoniness and hypocrisy is the main character in The Great Gatsby. Jay Gatsby is rejected early on by a woman he feels is ideal. He vows to win her, whatever it takes. He becomes very wealthy, through illegal means, and still can’t win her. He has failed to understand the concept of old money vs. new money. He is nouveau riche and his intended is a blue blood. They don’t mix and are not equal in the mores of society. More the fool is he. But as much as we see his futile intent, it wouldn’t be a stretch for us to admit some of us have fallen prey to the same concept.

So does that mean if one trumpets his or her horn a little too much that it’s due to insecurity? It’s a possibility. If one has been immersed in a certain style of living for decades, then assumes a different style and touts that as the best while disrespecting the previous style of living, does that make it “Gatsbyesque”? Gatsby thought it would work for him, never recognizing what fueled his fire.

Way too heavy for me to ponder further at this moment. I’m a dedicated suburbanite. The suburb in which I’ve lived for decades began its life as an agrarian bastion. Those few farm families left are struggling to survive. Citizens arguing for more “green space” in town are oblivious to the plight of these farmers trying to maintain their farms. Is there hypocrisy and phoniness among the town? Yes, very much so. It’s always existed and will continue. Does that mean I should become Henry David Thoreau and live a peaceful existence in the woods? I could. Mostly I prefer to be myself and do my own thing and try to avoid the drama.

I tend to be real and speak my mind. So if I call you out on your judgements (hypocrisy), don’t go nuclear on me and criticize my lifestyle. Remember the old adage “when you point your finger at someone, there are three fingers pointing back at you.”

Jumped the tracks…

My last post took on a life of its own. Though I started to write about the overcast weather lately and its parallel to the real world, I distracted myself with humor rather than immersing myself on a deeper level. I couldn’t go there the other day. Tonight I’m able to explore those depths.

Humor does a few things for me: 1) it’s a distraction, 2) it’s a defense mechanism, 3) it’s a genuine emotion of joy. Though I have a healthy sense of humor, I’m not feeling funny at the moment.

I was speaking with one of my friends in the neighborhood today. We were talking about how on edge we’ve been feeling the last few weeks. Others have shared this same discussion with each of us lately. We feel crabby and impatient. For me, I have been feeling a sense of rage on a daily basis. It’s not all consuming, it rears its head a few moments each day.

Part of it is grief for a way of life that is gone forever, thanks to politics and a pandemic. Part of it is grief for someone who was a large part of my life and is no longer. Part of it is that I’m postponing the grieving process because I have too much other stuff on my plate right now to let my emotions run roughshod.

I pray for the rage I feel to subside. I pray for the anger within to calm. I pray to accept the changes in my world. I hope for the ability to recognize peace and solace.

I’ve been listening to different types of music lately to try to let my mind decompress and wander. The song Hurt by Johnny Cash has been running through my subconscious. “I hurt myself today/To see if I still feel/I focus on the pain/The only thing that’s real.” Theoretically this is a song about addiction but it doesn’t have to be. Sometimes I think about so many other things in order not to think about emotionally challenging things. But I know eventually I have to feel the raw pain in order for it to recede.

Pertinent to our present societal woes, I find these lyrics to be prescient. “I look at the world/And I notice it’s turning/While my guitar gently weeps/With every mistake/We must surely be learning/Still my guitar gently weeps.” Perhaps you recognize some of the lyrics from while My Guitar Gently Weeps by the Beatles. Though written by George Harrison in 1968, it seems to be equally meaningful for the current unrest in the world.

Some not so humorous thoughts for now. Trying to work out some frustration and writing often helps. Maybe I will have fewer feelings of rage today with the prediction of a sunny day. That also means I will be able to get into the water and swim. Always a balm to my soul.

Find your own oasis in these difficult times. Return to it often.