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.

Overcast…just a weather thing?

It’s the longest day of the year and it’s overcast here with the promise of rain. Rain is enervating and allows our physical world to replenish. I have many memories of summer rain, both soothing and terrifying and some humorous. Cloudy skies affect my mood, not in a good way. I definitely have a fair weather personality.

Back to all those summers of teaching tennis behind the local middle school with no shelter nearby…except for many large trees. Where do you not go during a storm? Under large trees, right? One had to weigh being soaked to the skin versus being electrocuted. Getting wet is the most desirable outcome for me. What turned into a Keystone Cop episode was the day the heavens opened and it poured rain. We were teaching the younger kids that morning, most of whom arrived by bicycle.

It was 10 a.m. and the air was thick with humidity and gnats. It seemed we could reach up and touch the grey ceiling of clouds. We instructors were twitchy as we knew bad weather was coming. Rain was one thing, lightning was a whole different ballgame. A downpour began in an instant and we knew it was time to “abandon ship.” But we felt responsible for getting the kids safely home. One instructor stayed behind to supervise kids who were waiting for rides. The rest of us set out on our bikes to see the others to their neighborhoods.

Our group looked like an oversized, underaged, bicycle gang. Among tennis rackets, thermoses, bicycles, the pouring rain caused us to have to shout instructions and directions. We made it to the first neighborhood and our group downsized by five kids. That left about twenty kids and three instructors. As we approached the next neighborhood, things got dicey. One side of the group needed to go to the right and one side of the group needed to go to the left. The problem? These factions were flip-flopped within the large group.

The group had slowed considerably due to the intensity of the rain. In slow motion, the two groups within the large group turned toward each other. The left side of the group turned right and the right side turned left. Slow motion bike carnage ensued. I was riding drag so was not knocked down. Ahead of me was a considerable tangle of bikes, bodies all over mostly laughing. It took awhile to untangle bodies, rackets, and bikes. Thankfully there were only minor scrapes and a few disengaged bicycle chains. I still chuckle when I think of it. And never ever have I been that wet since. It was far worse than standing in the shower with one’s clothes on because we were in this driving rain for an extended period of time.

Once home, I stripped off my soaking wet clothes in the back hallway of the house and ran upstairs to the shower. A hot shower was followed by clean and dry clothes. I plunked a can of tomato soup into a pan to heat and carried my rapidly dripping pile of tennis clothes to the washing machine in the basement. After a lunch of a toasted cheese sandwich, along with the tomato soup, the images of what had taken place flashed through my head. I’m still grinning forty five years later.

N.B. This was not at all what I’d intended to write. My fingers seem to have a will of their own. While I laugh about this incident whenever I think of it, at the time it was a bit harrowing. Tennis whites mingled with road rash isn’t a pretty picture. It all worked out, thankfully.

Black and white? Grey?

Grey for me, please. There are times when I marvel at those who think in black and white terms. I’ve just never been one of them. And for any purists out there, grey and gray are somewhat interchangeable. I prefer grey.

I like to believe I’ve always been a person who considers many angles when creating a perception or making a decision. When younger, I made my share of snap decisions, some which weren’t stellar.

One thing I learned through my twenty five years of teaching was to keep an open mind and to be patient while formulating decisions. I learned I could deal fairly with situations, people, subject matter even when my opinion might have been opposite or negative.

I readily admit it’s probably “easy” to be a black and white thinker. Everything’s cut and dry, easy peasy, and clear as a bell. My feeling is it creates a dichotomy of “either/or” thinking and many situations in life are just not able to be measured in that fashion.

For example, as a sibling I did not like to have someone assume I was like my older sibling. We were vastly different individuals. My older sibling loooooved French class and his teacher. I did not particularly enjoy French, though I was a decent student, and when I ended up in that teacher’s class for French IV and she squealed in delight (really, she did) when she made the connection to my sibling. She quickly discovered my lack of enthusiasm and pestered me. It was the only time I ever asked permission to drop a class in high school. Thankfully I was allowed to do so and picked up Spanish. Spanish was fun and I continued it all the way through college.

That incident stuck in my mind as I became a teacher, and I vowed never to have expectations of any sort if I taught siblings. I taught many students over the years who were siblings and I’m happy to say I never had preconceived notions.

Some might argue that living in a grey world makes life more complicated. I’d say it makes my life more informed. I like to reach my own conclusions but am happy to listen to all sorts of viewpoints and opinions. It’s similar to the saying, “Be kind to everyone, you don’t know what they’re going through.” Just because a person is overweight doesn’t mean he or she is lazy. There might be a physical or mental illness, trauma, addiction, or some other reason. Is it possible the person is lazy or slovenly? Yes, it is possible but is not the lone conclusion.

I don’t really know where I’m headed with this, I’ve kind of lost my train of thought. I do grow frustrated with the “just do it” mentality or the “either/or” way of thinking. Grey is a nice blend. It’s not as stark as black and white in my mind. I’d rather a blend of ideas than one or the other. But that’s me and I respect your right to think differently. Just don’t think to impose it on me.

Those golden days…

There was a time in my life when summer was everything to me. As high school morphed into college, summer was the best time. I was lucky to have two great part-time jobs during the summer. One was working at a nursery, the other was teaching tennis. Both were outdoors which was an added benefit.

Those were the days when my bicycle took me everywhere, or my two feet. My mom worked and cared for her elderly mother every afternoon, so if I wanted to go some place I got myself there. It was always understood that it was the way it was.

I only had to ride a few blocks to teach tennis behind the local middle school. In those days we females wore tennis dresses and the guys wore traditional white tennis shorts. We took our job seriously and were excellent instructors. In the afternoons from 1-3, we instructed and coached a community team whose members were mostly high-school aged. During the hot, hot days of summer I returned home a hot, sweaty mess. I could wring my socks and undergarments out. The sweat on my legs would dry as I bicycled home and my dog would lick my legs when I got home. I was a human salt block.

My routine was to clean out my thermos and then to take a shower. What a wonderful feeling it was to wash off the salt and sweat. Donning some clean clothes I would then retire to the screen porch with a good book. I can still smell the faint mildew quality of the chaise lounge when I sat to read. Letting my feet breathe, I always laughed at how startlingly white they were. Feet do not tan when ensconced in wet socks and sneakers all day.

If I close my eyes, it comes back to me all these decades later. Our backyard was lush and populated by shade trees. Birds visited the birdbath with regularity, the small splashes made me smile. On occasion a breeze flitted through. Immersed in a good book, sometimes I dozed off. A day well-spent outdoors indulging in lots of physical activity, late afternoon reading, and the nights were for socializing.

I never made a great deal of money teaching tennis during those summers but between the two jobs, I’d be able to pay for another year of college. I loved those days when I was in shape, tan, and carefree. It’s a shame they couldn’t have lasted longer but those golden memories never fade.

A staged photo
My perennial weapon of choice

Relief or release, call it what you will.

Tomorrow marks two weeks since my best buddy went to Heaven. While I’m cognizant that he is gone, I’m not sure it has truly sunk in. I’ve lost important people in my life, but not one who was so much a part of me. Grief is a process and mine has just begun.

This is coupled with my mom transitioning to assisted living. She’s in her 90s and was able to make the decision for herself. It’s time. I get it. Watching the aging process is hard.

Here’s the real crux of it. Since 1982, I’ve lived with a diagnosis of severe clinical depression and a generalized anxiety disorder. Those two individuals fought through it with me. They were there for the panic attacks, general emotional meltdowns, the mood swings. It’s not easy, I’m not easy, my existence isn’t easy. They overlooked all of that and understood it isn’t who I am because they knew me before it all started.

If you didn’t know me and saw me interact with people, you would have no reason to suspect I had anything wrong. That’s been cultivated over decades and I’ve worked hard to perfect that image. There have been periods of time with dark thoughts. For the most part I know there is no question that I will keep putting one foot in front of the other, even when it feels I’m walking through quicksand.

Mental health issues still carry a stigma. I’m not always comfortable discussing it and people aren’t always comfortable hearing about it. I don’t spend my days consciously thinking that I’m navigating through it. But anxiety is always nibbling at my heels, creating doubt, and exacerbating my atrial fibrillation. My body being in an anxiety-heightened state much of the time is not good for my physical health. I do the best I’m able. I take my meds, I do my counseling. I pray for release.

Don’t I mean relief? No, I mean release. I pray to feel free of this mental health torment. Relief, to me, may be achieved by taking more medicine, taking a nap, or taking a time out. It’s temporary. Release is permanent. Just as a prisoner being released from prison. Or an individual being released from their bonds. Bonds may manifest themselves in a variety of ways.

I’m feeling this is getting to a point of TMI. I’ve said enough for now. I do this on occasion in the hope it may help another person persevere. If I can do just that, my sharing is worth it.

The most effective relief I’ve found is being in the water. I’ve been a swimmer since age 2. The water is such a comforting place for me…except when I was caught in a rip tide in Maine. I float, I feel light, I’m almost at peace. On the other hand I do a lot of vigorous water walking and swim laps. Those activities offer a different type of relief.

In the water, I’m able to slow down, feel less anxious, almost relax. I’m in my element. I’m in control. I’m in my own heaven. The pool in my neighborhood has to work for me for now. I miss my lake rental when I could kayak and glide through the pond lilies and spy on the turtles. It will be in my future again.

For now, one of my favorite tunes will play through my head. “I see my light come shining/From the west down to the east/Any day now, any day now/I shall be released.” This verse has gotten me through many a bad time. It encourages me to keep plodding. This song, “I Shall Be Released,” was written by Bob Dylan and is about prison issues. It has been covered by many musicians but my favorite version is by The Band. Give it a listen. It features Richard Manuel as the lead vocalist and the haunting quality of his voice captures the essence of the song. I have confidence my light will shine.

Loss

A week ago I lost someone very close to me. Not many get into my inner circle. It’s my own protective thing. Over the years I’ve learned that I’m very sensitive, overly so at times. And I’m done apologizing for it. It’s who I am.

Oh yes, loss. I spent many of my formative years without a positive male role model. It was hard. When I started my first part-time job at the beginning of my senior year in high school, that role model emerged. He recognized my intelligence, my rapport with customers, and he accepted me for who I was. I was given increasing amounts of responsibility and though I knew it wasn’t something I wanted to do for the rest of my life, I enjoyed going to work. I learned so much and it fed my curiosity.

This job also enabled me to pay for much of my college education before I had to take any loans. It enabled me to purchase my first junky car. Most of all it taught me responsibility, time management, and that I could believe in myself. My job was kept for me when I was ill with a horrible case of mononucleosis the second half of my freshman year of college. When a full-time worker was out of work for an extended period of time, I slid right into those hours and tailored my full-time class load to accommodate my full-time work hours.

My studies didn’t suffer nor did my work ethic. This individual was there as my sounding board and mentor, answering questions I’d have asked a father if I’d had one in my life. We spent a great deal of time working together and never lacked for conversation though our existences outside of work were very different.

Life changes, and they moved away from the area. It was a sad time for me to lose my friend but I also knew it was part of the life cycle. Time for me to get on with whatever was in store for me. Contact between us grew few and far between for a long period of time. The fact is, I knew there would always be someone at the end of the phone if and when I needed advice or support.

Time passed. One of my other close friends said she’d seen an obituary in her local paper, it was that of my friend’s wife. I felt the sense of loss and wanted to convey my condolences as I was taught to do. Doing some digging, I found a phone number and called. There was no agenda, just a warm conversation.

Eventually we decided to try “dating” or whatever you call it between seasoned adults. We had discussed the significant age difference and the possible reception by his grown kids and their families. I emphasized over and over that he tell them I had my own resources and had no designs on his. By now each of us was lonely in our own ways and it didn’t take much time to reestablish a once-close friendship.

From the start, it was easy to see his family was not going to accept a relationship between the two of us. They were somewhat pleasant to my face but I’m not stupid. I could see what the underlying feelings were. Though he was happy doing things with me, they would never be happy with the situation. It was felt I was treated better than his wife was treated. He was more freely affectionate. Those were his behaviors but I was blamed.

Long story short, I could see it would never work. Many other things factored into this decision but the facts remained I would never be accepted by his family. Only one of them tried to get to know me, as a person. There was never a problem accepting gifts from me, monetary or otherwise. If you don’t like me, why pretend? I’ve always despised that type of phoniness.

I’d spoken to him on the phone the day before he left us. We had a pleasant conversation. And that’s what I will remember. In the time of loss people should treat one another with caring and respect. The final act of adults was to omit me from mention in his obituary. Missing from the friends mentioned was one individual who had shared forty seven years of friendship. It was a blatant act of ill will and jealousy. I will continue to grieve and mourn the loss of my close friend. I will not cherish the memory of much of his family.

Thoughts of baseball…

I’m of an age that baseball could never be a dream for a girl. Girls played softball and they weren’t taken very seriously. Now there are women coaching baseball in the minor leagues. I was very good at throwing and catching but I never played softball in high school because tennis was also played at the same time and it was expected I’d play tennis. And I did.

Tennis treated me well but I was a bit undisciplined and relied on my power. Strength is good but it doesn’t make for a complete skill set. Secretly I wanted to be playing softball. Never fleet of foot, I excelled at catcher or first baseman. There is something fun about the dirt and grass of a baseball field. You’re responsible for your own position but you’re also part of a team.

I could also throw. In high school I could throw a softball 60 yards on the fly. That was never having received any instruction. I’d grab it and let it fly. In tennis, I had a hard, flat serve and hard, flat groundstrokes. I was a part-time tennis instructor for thirty years. I’ve had each shoulder scoped as a result. I’m no longer able to throw a ball with any force. My arms work just well enough to be able to swim.

I digress as usual. Back to baseball. Baseball is a romanticized sport. It has a long history, most towns had teams by the turn of the 20th century. There were innumerable minor league levels of ball from the 1870s on. On the maternal side of my family, one of our relatives from New Haven, CT, played minor league ball from the mid 1890s until roughly 1910. One of his daughters married a major league player named Johnny Cooney.

There are some great baseball films like Eight Men Out, The Sandlot, Field of Dreams, Bang the Drum Slowly, and A League of Their Own. My favorite is The Natural. I had an eccentric college professor when I took some summer classes. He was an interesting man who painted his car with house paint. He lived in the Bennington, VT area. His weekly poker game included the great writer Bernard Malamud. One of the books we read that summer (1980?ish) was The Natural. A wonderful, if not schmaltzy, plot. And it was loosely based on a real life situation.

In the late 1940s there was a good baseball player named Eddie “Ted” Waitkus. He would play for the Cubs, Phillies, and Orioles. His nickname was “the natural” and he was a two-time National League all-star. Waitkus missed three years in the 1940s because of WWII. In the late 40s, he was shot in the chest by a deranged fan. She’d stalked him. Though she was never tried for the crime, she did spend some time in a mental institution.

As for Eddie, he spent three months in Clearwater, FL to get back in shape. While there he met a young woman from Albany, NY, who was vacationing there with her family. They married the next year. I live outside of Albany so I’ve always enjoyed that connection. Eddie returned to play baseball for another five years.

The book was made into a film in 1984. And what a film it is. The cast, featuring Robert Redford, Glenn Close, and Wilford Brimley, is excellent. It presents viewers with a true Romanticized baseball story, complete with mystery, gambling, and a rags to riches story on many levels. I’ve spent many a sunny, sleepy summer afternoon listening to a game on the radio…baseball in its purest form.

If you’ve never read the book or viewed the film, I recommend both. You don’t even have to be a baseball fan!

Michael “Mike” Doherty, my 2nd great-uncle

Memories of decades…

I used to listen to music more than I do now. The other day different songs popped into my head and I realized it was like a mental travelogue through the decades. Some decades are less defined than others. As a young person, my tastes were fairly vanilla…not Vanilla Ice, just drab vanilla.

Let me further qualify my blandness by confessing that I never played a musical instrument, other than the piano half-heartedly for a year or two. But, my brother was a musical whiz and could play the piano by ear. My grandmother was also an accomplished pianist. We had loads of records in the house…Broadway musicals, Big Band, Mitch Miller sing alongs, etc. So, even though I was never moved to play an instrument, I’ve been a consumer of music all of my life.

Playlists in my day consisted of a stack of 45’s that played one after another. And there was always AM radio. People of a certain age still remember scrambling to hit the record button on the tape recorder when a favorite song came on. There was a small shopping center in our town and one of the stores was Woolworth’s. We’d ride our bikes there to buy a new 45 and to pop a balloon at the lunch counter to see what discounted treat we might get.

Major tangent coming up relating to Woolworth’s…the summer of my 14th or 15th year I was in Woolworth’s with a friend. The style that summer was halter tops, a slightly dangerous tiny garment that was sexy in that it hinted at what was covered by the skimpy material. Both my friend and I were good candidates for halter tops. We filled them well. We were standing in an aisle looking at a display. I’ve always been an observant person and I detected some boys skulking about. Something told me to put my hand behind my back and over the string that tied the top shut. My friend didn’t notice. They untied hers at the top behind her neck. The material fell and the girls popped right out. An exciting afternoon for those boys.

Back to tunes. My first album was Honky Chateau by Elton John. I was a dedicated Elton John fan for a few decades. His best album was Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy. Most every song was good. I remained a pop music fan and never entered into the world of FM radio music until I was in college and never listened to college radio stations.

High school years were dominated by a variety of songs. School dances typically featured “China Grove,” “Jumping Jack Flash.” “Color My World” and “Stairway to Heaven” were for slow dances. “Suffragette City” was a required house party song. We always danced the 5-step or 7-step to that song. But I also remember “American Pie” and “Taxi” from those years. “Black Water” was popular during a dating situation and I have particular memories whenever I hear it.

That decade closed for me with the addition of the Eagles; Earth, Wind, and Fire; CCR; Boz Scaggs; Led Zeppelin; Springsteen; Peter Frampton, and some, but very little, disco. As I thought of different songs, I also thought of all of the lyrics we thought we knew but screwed up on a regular basis.

Unless you bought the sheet music, one learned lyrics by listening to a song over and over. Many times we “misheard” lyrics. I’m the first to admit that I thought Jimi Hendrix was singing, “Excuse me while I kiss this guy.” The real lyric is “while I kiss the sky” which makes far less sense than kissing a guy. Whatever. “Bad Moon Rising” was a popular song by CCR. Some fans thought a line in the song was “there’s a bathroom on the right.” Actually it’s “there’s a bad moon on the rise.” Makes sense given the title but the bathroom line works for me, too.

For the car fans, a cover of “Blinded by the Light,” by Springsteen, yielded the line, “wrapped up like a douche (deuce), another rumor in the night.” Doesn’t really make sense but I sang it. I think I just liked the sound of saying douche. The real line (the car guys know), “Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.” I’ll leave you with one more from the decade of the 70s. “Stairway to Heaven” was a bit of a conundrum. It was in English, but it was British English. Vocabulary doesn’t always cross over. “If there’s a bustle in the hedgerow…”. I sang it correctly but had no earthly clue what it meant until years later. The song starts as a good slow dance song but then goes haywire, leading to awkward dance floor moments. One classic misheard line is “There’s a wino down the road.” It’s possible, it could happen. However, the correct line is “and as we wind on down the road.” I rather like the wino line.

I could go on and on. But I won’t. I will tell you I smiled the entire time I wrote this. Happy memories are food for the soul. I apologize in advance for not properly formatting names of album (that’s for you, TGC). They should be in italics. But I’m typing on my iPad and it’s too much of a pain (see also, I don’t really know how). And always remember, “If it ain’t paradise, then put up a parking lot.” Even I know it’s “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.” Don’t be upset if random songs now run through your head. Go with it and smile 😊.

N.B. In making a correction, I accidentally discovered how to do the text formatting. Just pretend stuff is in italics for this one occasion.

Listened to them all!

The miracle of a day

One interesting thing about life is that each day begins anew and gives us the opportunity to learn. I work hard not to dwell on the past. Some of my happiest memories reside there as do many of my darkest hours. The rough draft for the book I’ve written about the history of our school district is mostly complete. I’ve been immersed in research and searched old school yearbooks for a few years now. I often wondered if many of those students achieved their wishes for their futures.

Did you ever talk with your friends when you were young about where you envisioned yourself five years from then? Ten years, etc? It makes me laugh. I never had much of a vision. I don’t know why. I wasn’t one of those girls who always had to have a boyfriend. In fact, dating was always a mystery to me. Despite being attractive, I didn’t get asked out much. It seemed important at the time. It wasn’t and isn’t. I’ve achieved success in life, on my own.

I was also a teenager who detested babysitting but did it to make money. I was never able to envision myself having my own children yet I loved teaching them. Due to female woes in my early 20’s, it’s unknown if I could have had them anyway. Life is funny that way.

On Twitter the other day, one member was talking about sad songs from our past and asked which could still make us cry? Immediately I was skipping down Memory Lane as tears collected. I was stuck on a few songs that can still make me cry in varying degrees. Growing up, I knew when one of my friends was depressed because she would play “The Best of Bread” album. Over.And.Over. I dare you to find a cheerful tune on that one.

I spent a great deal of time alone as a pre-teen and teenager. Yes, I had friends but they had lives. My life back then just presented the reality of my being alone. ‘Nuff said. And there were many times, due to said reality, I found myself crying over stuff that was out of my control. It was those times I’d grab our dachshund and cry my eyes out while listening to “Shannon” by Henry Gross. The song was a one-hit wonder in the early 70s. “Shannon is gone I’ve heard. She’s drifting out to sea.” I was 14 and didn’t know who Shannon was but it was clear she wasn’t coming back.

What makes it worse is the song was about a dog who drowned at the beach. Introduce an animal into the mix and the emotionality increases exponentially. Another lonely anthem of my teen years was “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’Sullivan. “It seems to me that/there are more hearts broken in the world/ that can’t be mended.” It was my first real breakup and I’d been dumped. Didn’t matter that this “relationship,” now that I look back on it, wasn’t a relationship at all. It was a bunch of dates, phone conversations, dances, and the usual making out. Because of my skewed home life reality, it devastated me nonetheless. And it unknowingly set me up for a series of these in the future.

No matter because my inner warrior emerged. I’d get along on my own. Ann and Nancy Wilson from Heart understood me. “Till now I always got by on my own…”. Yes, indeed, I can do this living thing on my own. But I’ve always carried “crushes” since I was a kid, and still do. “You don’t know how long I have waited/And I was going to tell you tonight/But the secret is still my own/And my love for you is still unknown/Alone.” This is a “thumb my nose” song for me. One of those “you don’t know what you’re missing” moments. Mostly it’s a strong female vocal expressing angst. Very therapeutic.

A song from the 80s that spoke to me was “Look What You’ve Done to Me” by Boz Scaggs. “Hope they never end this song/this could take us all night long/I looked at the moon and I felt blue/Then I looked again and I saw you.” Looking back I see the dawning awareness of my love for language and for when I gave myself permission to play with it as I wished.

I’ve unleashed my inner warrior, and child. If I’d ever projected being a poet and writer into my future, I’d have laughed. Now I embrace it. It’s a large part of who I am. And all of the yearning, “crushes,” and despair over failed relationships are just some of what makes me roar. Don’t forget, stories are for eternity. Roar some of your own.