My mom and dad met while acting in a small town little theater production. In fact mom was the director/producer. Graduating from college with an education degree in the 30s, she wasn’t able to find a teaching job as the country was slowly recovering from the Great Depression. But she did find a job with a producing company out of New York City. Organizations such as Rotary or Kawanis would employ her to travel to their town and help their members put on a play to raise funds for projects in their community. It was one of those win/win situations for everyone. She made a paycheck, the group loved putting on the play, and the town benefited from the proceeds. And, of course, she was the big winner for she met and married my dad, both settling down in the small town where she had put on the show. But as much as she loved acting and directing, she really loved doing the makeup. I can still remember, in my early years, watching her in the production dressing room. She would meticulously choose the right colors of lipstick and eye shadow and then apply them to each actress. When she added fake eyelashes I held my breath. The transformation was unbelievable!

But she never wore makeup at home – not even for a special party. Maybe my dad didn’t like it for one day he told me, her daughter, to remove the bright polish on my fingernails that I thought looked beautiful. So I didn’t wear makeup either. I didn’t feel plain or unadorned; I just never thought about it one way or the other.

Fast forward to being married and having a party for friends. One gal that we invited was a real beauty. I think all the wives were a little jealous of how she always appeared as if she had just stepped out of a Revlon commercial. The morning after our gathering, I realized she had left her purse at our house. I decided I would drop by her home to return it to her on my way to a doctor’s appointment. When she answered the door, she looked terrible. I said, “Are you okay?” She answered that she was fine. “Were you up all night or are you sick?” Again, she said more firmly that she was definitely fine.

I left puzzled but as I got in the car it hit me that she was fine, she just didn’t have any make up on. I wondered if she knew why I had drilled her like I did. Sheepishly, I felt as bad as the day I asked a distant friend when she was going to have her baby only to hear the reply that she’d already had it! Then I had another thought. Could I…could all of us…look better wearing make up? Could we all look that beautiful?

I started being more aware of my friends and how they appeared. They definitely had a scrubbed clean look at exercise class or running a marathon. But at night they were all dolled up for neighborhood parties. The makeup was off again while playing golf, but I noticed the sunglasses remained on at lunch to disguise a face void of embellishments. And how ‘bout those few friends who had face lifts, noting that if you had one early enough you never appeared to age.

So, I started wearing a little make up…some mascara here, a little eye shadow there. But what a mess I looked like in the morning. Even if I’d taken off those additions the night before, I still had black raccoon eyes in the am. And now, when I didn’t wear makeup, the mirror reflected someone who looked tired and old.

That’s when I heard about tattooing…not roses or butterflies on your ankles, but as permanent eye liner. I couldn’t drive fast enough to the nearest skin care clinician. And now having under gone this relatively painless procedure I wake up in the mornings to someone who looks halfway decent. And there are now more beauty procedures available. Tattoos for eyebrows, tinted eyelashes and laser treatments that can eliminate patches of dark skin, spider veins and even wrinkles.

But that raises more questions. If I’d initially never started wearing makeup, would I still have felt drab in the mornings? Would someone coming to my front door have thought I was sick or been up all night? And am I still the same person or have I become vain and more interested in my looks than in who I really am? I guess it’s a personal choice. I think my mom would agree that makeup can transform how a person looks on the outside as well as how they feel on the inside. And when one feels completely good about themselves they can truly wake up beautiful.

I was ten years old when my mother asked me if I wanted to take a dance class. “Ballet?” I said. “Oh, no,” she replied. “That’s not good for your toes.” Instead, she entered me in a modern dance class. I was to learn much later that my teacher had trained under Martha Graham, the famous dance choreographer who Wikipedia describes as “the pioneer of modern dance – a new language of movement used to reveal the passion, the rage and the ecstasy common to human experience.” I could have cared less at that time that I was learning from such an expert, but without realizing it, I was being instilled with a passion and a lifelong love of body movement.

Wearing leotards which revealed every bone and every muscle of the human body, we learned by sight and action how to transform our thoughts into graceful movement. And through balancing those body parts we began to appreciate what the human form can do.

Control the muscles of the upper arm and let the hand relax and flow outward. Reach to the heavens and bow to the earth, It’s all about understanding the self in space.

This preteen experience set me on a path to experience movement in all its forms. Playing high school basketball, biking and cheering for the boys’ teams was a continuance of this love of movement. And, in college I joined Orchesis, a modern dance group where I learned how to choreograph dances which I did each spring for the Senior Musical. That was an exciting experience to put movement into preset words and music and to take a singular love and share it with the cast of the play. Little Abner and Guys and Dolls – what fun it was – amateur college students working together to present a production of story, song and dance.

Next, movement’s gravitational pull had me teaching aerobics – Jane Fonda and Jackie Sorenson to be exact. That form of exercise was based on dance, but we sure did a lot of stretching. And, in the summer, we moved our class to the pool for some water aerobics. Movement in water is more sustained but a little slower than on land because of H20 resistance. But, one beautiful sunny day my gals really moved fast. That was the day a snake decided to join us. We went flying out of that pool in no time flat!

Tennis has many of the same ingredients as dance. You reach high for a demanding overhead, and you bend low for a sneaky drop shot. Your timing must be as exact as a pirouette. And, although running to the baseline for a lob might not be as graceful as a modern dance production, it’s still knowledge of the body in space, and how to make required actions.

Then there is golf. How could I not play this activity when my husband is a golf pro? It’s a very demanding sport. It’s stop and go – not so reactive as tennis. There is more concentrated thought put into every movement. But balance and awareness of the body in space is important. How can you hit that perfect shot to the green if you are not settled with quiet moving parts? And having lyrical rhythm is a bonus. Each shot is like one complete dance step.

Now as I look back on my life and realize what that long ago class produced, I am aware of a fantastic side product of dance and sports. I have never had to worry about my weight and my heart and lungs are in good shape. Had I not stayed active all my life, my health might be deteriorating now that I am close to my seventh decade.

Yes, there’s some arthritis here and there and my feet aren’t what they used to be, but I’m not going to let that stop me. I was blessed to have started out on the right track, and I owe that to one person. Thank you, Mom.

I love to write. I love taking a subject, examining it from all angles and finding the words to express my thoughts.

But, that hasn’t always been the case. When I was in high school I hated to write. When it came time for term papers I looked for every possible reason to avoid that exercise. My thoughts turned from plagiarism to injuring my writing hand to running away from home.

The same conclusions crossed my mind when my mother demanded that I write thank you notes to relatives for Christmas presents. Must I really thank my aging grandmother, who knew I lived in the snowy north, for the silk night gown she sent me every year?

I considered myself an average student, getting mostly Bs and Cs, although I did get straight As in one subject the year a new handsome football coach arrived to teach history.

Soon it was time for college, and I was accepted into a good liberal arts school. But sitting in freshmen orientation, I wondered why as I heard my SAT scores were among the lowest of the entering class. The presiding administrator related the percentage of those before him who would not be around by their sophomore year. I lowered my head hoping he was not looking at me. But I decided my application must have looked fairly good because of all the extracurricular activities in which I participated. I definitely made As in classes that pertained to sports and somehow I was elected into National Honor Society. But, upon graduation from college I was ecstatic that I would never have to write another paper.

Marriage and family soon followed, and in my free hours I began playing tennis. My playing partners and I became involved in team tennis and traveled around the county playing increasingly important matches. One morning I picked up the newspaper and realized that golf was being covered on a grand scale in our town, but there was literally no information written about tennis.

That evening, I was at a cocktail party where the sports editor of the local paper happened to be. I asked him why the paper had a golf columnist but no tennis columnist. He hesitated, looked at me and said, “How ‘bout you do it.” “Me?” I replied, “Write a column?” I thought to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding. You don’t know how I struggle with words on paper!” However, I went home, thought about how it could impact the tennis community and called him the next day and accepted his offer.

Thank goodness the job entailed mostly reporting facts and scores, so putting exact nouns, verbs and adjectives together was not a priority. In fact it was fun going to tournaments, talking to the players, watching the action and reporting the scores.

But my job excitement waned the Sunday I left my husband and two small children for the entire day to report on a tournament in a nearby town. Late in the afternoon I came home to type up the tournament results and drive to the newspaper to submit my column. In those days there was no Internet by which one could miraculously push a button and send your words through the air to their destination. On the way home, I was stopped by the police for running a stop sign and issued a $20 ticket. I had spent the whole day away from my loved ones to complete a column which earned me $15 that ended up costing me $5.

My years as a columnist ended at a good time as my husband’s job experiences were taking him to sites across the country and around the world. We would be traveling extensively and not able to keep up with local activities. Although we visited magnificent locations and were treated to unbelievable experiences, my old nemesis of having to write thank you notes reappeared. But I forced myself to pick up pen and paper as I felt it extremely important to acknowledge our thanks for transportation provided, accommodations reserved and gifts received.

One day, as I was writing about my 10th thank you note, I stopped and reread my prose. Then I read it again. I thought to myself, “Did I write that? Where did those words come from?” I sat back and thought about the combination of words and what writing can do. Words can warm someone’s heart because they helped another along the way. They can send hope to a friend who is dealing with sickness or pain. They can convey love that might be buried deep within. They can inspire. They can share a faith.

And then I wondered about this child who hated to write, who thought she was an average student and didn’t have the confidence to put her thoughts down on paper. Was her aversion to writing due to the fact that the subject matter was not her choice or had she not found what she truly cared to write.

How many of us, for one reason or another, have a talent that has never been exposed. Grandma Moses did not begin to paint her masterpieces until she was 76. If we all were to examine our lives and what we love, would we find we could develop that simple love into something that would make our lives more meaningful. And possibly the enriching of our lives would touch others and change theirs as well. Look deep within you. Find what you love to do, develop it and give your life more meaning.

The Yin and Yang. In Chinese philosophy the two are used to describe how polar opposites or seemingly contrary forces are interconnected and interdependent in the natural world.

It was a cold dark blustery night. The rain began to fall heavily as a friend and I pulled out of my driveway. We were headed to a major basketball tournament; one we had looked forward to for weeks and weeks. We arrived at the coliseum and parked a good distance from the nearest lighted entrance. “Let’s make a run for it,” she said, as she quickly left the car and darted through the rain, her thin coat flapping in the wind behind her. On the other hand, I gingerly opened my door and stepped out, right into the middle of a big cold puddle. I looked up, and she was gone. Having no other choice, I planted my second foot next to my first and sloshed my way to the building.

Wet, cold and irritable, I joined her inside, and soon we were settled in our seats. I was looking for my stadium blanket to wrap around my frigid body when I turned to speak to her. She was fanning herself with the night’s program while beads of sweat were running down the sides of her face. “Boy is it hot in here,” she said. I was still bundled in my winter coat with toes feeling like icicles crammed into my thin wet boots. Unbelievable, I thought, how on earth could she possibly be hot? What kind of an individual can weather a storm like the one outside and be roasting inside?

My husband and I had spent a lovely day shopping. We had been returning unwanted Christmas gifts and checking out the January sales. It had felt good walking through the Mall getting some exercise after eating way too many holiday appetizers and calorie-loaded desserts. When we had finished our shopping, we picked up a movie from Blockbuster and headed home. We put away our packages, had a light supper, and settled down on the sofa to watch the spy thriller we had rented.

The action in the movie began from the very first scene. The hero was being chased in his car down a dark winding road with a passenger screaming by his side. I cuddled closer to my husband. Having eluded his chaser by pulling into a parking garage, they both were trapped there as the ground began to tremble from an earthquake. I looked over at my husband. His eyes were beginning to close. I elbowed him a little. “Hmm,” he said. The couple from the car had escaped the crumbling concrete around them by jumping from a second story level. I heard a faint rumbling beside me. It was the exciting man I married, snoring. However, wide awake, adrenaline raging, I was pulling for the two heroes to overcome their adversity and ensnare the villains. “Think I’ll go to bed,”’ he said.

“Go to bed?” I retorted, “You’ll miss the ending!”

“You can tell me about it in the morning.”

What was the matter with this man? How could he be sleepy while our heroes were fighting for their lives? In fact, after I finished watching the movie, I even read half a book. How could he be so tired when I was so awake?

I’m on the board of our neighborhood’s home owners association. We meet once a month and must resolve a great many problems that arise in the preceding days. The streets need paving, security must be addressed, flowers have to be selected, contracts gone over, legal issues, barking dogs and the list goes on and on. It’s a hard working concerned group of volunteers, and all have done their homework on issues that pertain to them before each meeting. We convene at 9 am and sometimes meet for four or five hours.

At a recent meeting we had a huge agenda, made more complicated by the fact we were interviewing individuals for a contract that needed to be filled. We stopped at noon for a brief lunch, and then continued on until 5 o’clock in the afternoon. That was eight hours of sitting, talking and listening. I looked around. Everyone seemed to be intently focused on the subject at hand. I kept looking at my watch. The minutes slowly ticked by. I crossed my legs. I uncrossed them. I sat on my right hip. I sat on my left. I slouched in the chair. I sat up straight. Would this meeting never end? How could everyone concentrate so fully when my mind was drifting in and out of the conversations? Were these people crazy…or was it I who needed a correction?

The Yin and Yang. She’s hot, and I’m cold. He’s sleepy, and I’m wide awake. They are focused and I’m fidgety. How different we all are and yet I cherish my sports loving friend. I couldn’t live without my wonderful husband. And the meetings I attend are worth all the time we spend. I realize I need to work on my patience with those who are different from me. The world is full of opposites, and yet we are all interconnected…like a chain a child makes from different colored paper rings. And if we break that chain, say harsh words, how hard it is to reconnect.

In this new year, this new decade of 2011, my New Year’s Resolution is to take time to understand those who do not fit my pattern. To have more patience, more understanding and more love for my fellow man.

I am not a culinary expert. I wouldn’t know a fig from a filbert or escarole from espresso. Give me a pill to replace a meal, and I would be happy. And the time it takes to produce a meal is absurd. I would rather be out playing tennis or golf or, for that matter, washing windows. At least clean windows last a little longer than a fully prepared meal.

But a few months ago food became a big priority in my life. My husband and I had planned an event and invited several couples from out of town. I thought maybe I could fulfill my hostess culinary duties by ordering in pizza or KFC. Or, at the very most, we could grill a few steaks accompanied by baked potatoes and salad. With that in mind, I became a lot less stressed about the impending avalanche of friends. However, those plans were dashed when I found out that one of the couples was vegetarian, and the wife of another was consuming only gluten free products. Do you know what that means? She could not have anything that contained wheat, rye or barley. What would she eat for breakfast? No pancakes, waffles, cereal or sweet rolls. Considering all these food restrictions, I figured fruit would be in, eggs out, juice in, bacon out. My head was starting to spin. What was left…tofu? Not even a semblance of that as I bought soy milk for one and later found out he had converted to almond milk. Almond milk? How on earth do you get milk out of nuts?

Okay, back to basics. I decided fish and chicken would satisfy some with lots of vegetables, rice and salad for the others. My next problem was that we had planned a host of outdoor activities including biking, kayaking and boating. That meant I would not want to return in the evening to do a whole lot of cooking. My solution was to assemble the meals ahead of time, freeze them, and then there they would be, magically, at the end of the day.

So out came the cookbook…notice that was singular! I selected Mushroom Chicken, Curried Flounder, Three Bean Casserole and Rice with Squash and Slivered Almonds. What I failed to realize was everything I’d chosen had chopped ingredients, and I didn’t have one of those fancy appliances that chop things for you. So I spent what seemed like hours hand chopping mushrooms, onions, garlic, yellow squash, zucchini and shallots. When I finished my fingers were bleeding, my eyes were tearing, and my hands felt as if they would fall off my arms. And people enjoy cooking? But after this week of my life in the kitchen I was beginning to feel as professional as Paula Deen. Why I even added a lasagna dish, apple crisp, a cheese ball and two kinds of cookies! Maybe that Savannah Chef might want me to show her a thing or two.

However, I still was unsure whether I had everything covered. So, I went to the local health food store to check on gluten free foods. Luckily they had a whole aisle of such products. I was about to fill my shopping cart with all these delights when I looked at the price tags. Wow! I realized you need to be a millionaire to afford such foods. No wonder my anticipated guest is thin. With limited inexpensive foods to eat how can she gain weight? I’m sure no diet challenged individual could be saddled with this malady. In the end, I decided the extent of my purchase would be flax seed bread and sea salt rice chips.

Now having filled the kitchen with all the appropriate food, I started to work on the house. I threw out old plants and replaced them with new, shampooed the carpets, sent out comforters, cleaned the bathrooms ‘til they sparkled…even washed a few of those windows. Had I forgotten anything? Hmm…the ceiling fans are a little dusty on top, and it’s a bit dirty behind the refrigerator…. But, no, that was going a little too far! Okay, house guests, bring on your food specific bodies.

It had been a long time since we had seen some of these friends and we spent many hours getting caught up on family matters and reliving old memories. The stories that were told set off gales of laughter and made us all feel young again. There’s nothing like sharing old tales with good friends and then making new memories to bring you close together. We enjoyed every minute.

We went out to dinner those first few evenings and each individual was able to order his or her favorite entree from the menu. And I was actually getting excited about the evening I would serve all of them dinner. I had taken the chicken and vegetable casseroles out of the freezer and put them in the refrigerator the day before. And on the afternoon of our dinner, as I prepared to put them in the oven for warming, I felt pretty proud of myself and my prior preparations. But the container felt way too cold. When I took the lid off I found the chicken was still frozen – solid! Oh dear! How was I going to see that this chicken dish was cooked through without becoming too tough? And would it be done at the same time as the vegetables and flounder? Thanks to the mighty microwave, it was. But, I forgot about the rice, and no matter how I encouraged it, the pan continued to look like a soupy mess. I’ve heard you’re not supposed to take the lid off of rice when it’s cooking, but when everything else is ready, how are you not going to peek? Finally the wait was over. The food was on the table. And after a week of preparation the meal was devoured in fifteen minutes.

You know, a lizard is not an alligator, a dogwood is not a live oak and I am not a cook. I gave it a whirl. I spent the time and effort, but an apron just doesn’t look good on me. Next time? Next time I’ll buy the food, put it out on the counter, heat up the grill and we can all cook together. Or, maybe I’ll just call Paula Deen!

The trip wasn’t supposed to be challenging. It was. It wasn’t supposed to be educational. We learned a lot. It wasn’t supposed to be friendship bonding. I’m so glad it was.

In 1992, I was part of three couples who planned to go to the British Open at Muirfield. Our husbands decided it would be amazing to go over a week early and play golf in the highlands of Scotland. That sounded great to me, except I was the only wife who played golf. But my excitement paled when I viewed the number of challenging courses on the men’s list. They included Dornoch, Nairn, Aberdeen, Carnoustie, St. Andrews, Lady Bank, North Berwick, Dunbar, Gullane and Dalmahoy. And I could just imagine the aching joints and burning muscles that would accompany that much golf. Plus, I realized I would never have been able to match their reported 300 yard drives through swirling incoming winds of 50 mph or their magnificent chips onto greens rolling 100 feet into barely seen cups. But, I am sure, if I had been there, I could have softened the embellishments that we heard repeatedly each night at the dinner table – when it comes to stories, golfers can out do fishermen to a tee.

So what would we wives do while our mates were triumphing over all these famous links? “How ’bout touring some castles?” ventured one wife. Sounded like a good idea to me. The men could play golf, the women could tour castles, and then we all could meet in the evening at the next scheduled Bed and Breakfast. That decided, each morning the three men would strike out in one of our cars for the designated course of the day. Hmm. That left the wives in the other car with all the luggage. My back still aches when I think of all the steep stairs and long winding hallways we traversed out one B&B in the morning and into another at night. Scottish inns do not have luggage trolleys or doormen to aide frail, helpless golf widows. One night, as we dragged in all those heavy trunks, we began to giggle at the absurdity of our plight. The halls were dimly lit, and we could barely see each other. Exhausted, we slumped down to the carpet, tired but radiant with our assumed accomplishment – until we realized we were not near our rooms. We were on the wrong floor.

The first morning I was designated as the driver while another wife sat to my right as the map reading copilot. The third wife became the back seat driver (in the future to be known as BSD) and she took her job seriously. But I soon wondered if I had been crazy to accept the position as driver. I realized I would be motoring down “wrong way” roads in a stick shift car. Consequently, we proceeded out of Dornoch at a fully determined snail’s pace. But as I gained confidence and speed, I began to feel elated that I was not even coming close to the cars heading toward me from the opposite direction. That’s when our BSD screamed, “Watch out you’re about to hit a pedestrian on the right!” So much for confidence!

But we all relaxed as we found the open road and were greeted by the splashing surf along the banks of the North Sea. The soft breeze and the bright sun lifted our spirits and gave us a feeling of emancipation. Here we were, three women in a foreign country, making our own decisions along paths of varying detours. We rolled down the windows and let the wind blow through the car, tossing our hair in a million different directions.

We loved our decision to tour castles. Each one was different. Each one had an interesting history. Cawdor Castle in Nairn had a secret dungeon that was only discovered in 1979. At Crathers Castle we learned that the inhabitants used a potty for their bathroom duties, and then disposed of the remains through a hole in the wall of an alcove. Their lucky servants got to clean it up outside. We toured the Falkland Palace which was the hunting lodge of the Scottish royalty. It remained so until so many trees were cut down that the animals disappeared. One of the very first tennis courts in the world was built there in the 1500s. Mary Queen of Scots wore kickers when she played and “had tongues wagging.”

Every day was filled with unbelievable experiences. Some of which made our BSD’s duties very demanding. One of the scariest was when I made a wrong turn in a crowded town and headed down a one way street – the wrong way. “Oh, my God,” she cried, “We’re going to be killed!” Then she saw a Scottish bobby coming toward us and screamed, “No, we’re not going to be killed, we’re going to jail!” Thankfully the bobby was nice, showed us where to turn around and then gave us directions to our next destination. I don’t know whether it was his accent or her hearing, but my copilot quickly directed me to pull over while she further examined the map. It was then that the bobby appeared once more. This time he was not so friendly and impatiently quipped, “Follow me.” He then quickly ushered us straight out of town. I’m sure he shook his head the rest of the day wondering why helpless American ladies were let out on their own.

The following day we had driving problems as well. We had successfully toured three castles and it was getting late. We checked to see where our lodging would be for that night and realized we had strayed far from our planned route. Our map reader couldn’t figure out where we were, so BSD tried. She had no luck, so I looked. Bottom line – we were lost! It sure would have been nice to have had a cell phone, but this was 1992! After driving around aimlessly for awhile, we found a little pub that had a public phone. Between the inn keeper and the pub owner (sometimes at odds) we finally received good directions and proceeded to our B&B. When we arrived it was after eight pm. No husbands! We weren’t too worried because this was one of their 36-holes-of-golf days (and probably a good many lagers downed afterwards) so we had dinner and waited. At 1:30 am, we heard them knocking on the front door. We learned later that they, too, had been lost. The knocking continued until we realized the proprietor must have gone to bed. No problem. We slipped on our robes and went to meet our glorious golf warriors. What a day!

Somehow we all made it safely to Muirfield, except for a few back aches among the men and leg cramps among the women – there are no elevators in Scottish castles! We settled into our lodgings, unpacked and then took a shuttle out to the golf course. It was an unusually warm day and the walkways along the fairways were packed with spectators hoping to get a glimpse of their favorite professional golfers. Little did we know that this major golf tournament would be won by an up and coming exciting pro by the name of John Daly. But – that is another story.

The other day I was meandering down the Personal Growth aisle in one of those huge, all encompassing book stores. I was searching for a book that would help a friend of mine deal with the passing of a loved one. After gazing at title after title, on shelf after shelf, I realized that there are a multitude of authors writing books encouraging all of us to change our lives for the better. Three titles that jumped out at me were Five Good Minutes, Ten Days To Self Esteem, and Change Your Life In Thirty Days. Five minutes, ten or thirty days? These writers must be good! My flaws didn’t appear over night, so I’m not sure I could eliminate them in a month.

However, as much as I enjoyed thumbing through all the self-help books, they were not what I was searching for. In contrast, the publications which gave comfort to those dealing with the aftermath of a loved one’s death were few and far between. I selected one, but, then I wondered if there was a book that would help an individual deal with her own mortality. The only one I found was, What Dying People Want. However, it dealt mostly with how to alleviate pain, deliver truth and deal with memories.

It seemed very peculiar to me that no one had written a book addressing how the healthy person should consider meeting their Maker. Instead, we seem to avoid that topic like the plague (no pun intended). Not one of us gets out of this world alive, so maybe we should think more about preparing for our trip into the next world.

A friend of ours left the banking business to enter the occupation of selling funeral plots. I wasn’t sure if this was an upward move or a descent, but decided on the latter as shovels most often dig downward. He approached my husband and me about making a purchase. I flippantly informed him that I didn’t need a plot as I planned to be cremated. His response was that maybe we should ask our children what they preferred as they would be the ones left behind.

Gingerly I broached the subject with our daughter. There was a long silence. Finally, without looking at me, she said, “Plot…and don’t talk to me about this again.” End of conversation.

But instead of “laying this topic to rest,” I decided it was time to make some preparations for the end. First, my husband and I bought some long term health care insurance. This, we decided, would “insure” we would not be a burden to those “left behind.” I have a friend who now resides in a health care facility that would rival a five star hotel. Elegant decor, gourmet prepared meals, personal trainers, chauffeured trips to enlightening activities, etc. etc. That lifestyle sounds better and better to me as each day goes by.

Picturing myself in those attractive surroundings, I decided that as my health failed, I’d like to remain looking good. So, it was off to a skin care center. I decided a face lift was not for me, but permanent makeup might be the answer. The tattooing of my eyes was quick and almost painless, and now I’m assured that I will look awake and perky as I’m being spoon fed in my wheel chair. I can hear the other residents conferring, “Why she just doesn’t look old enough to be over a hundred!”

Thinking about looking good made me realize that I have never seen someone in their 80s or 90s who is overweight. Maybe I’ll step up my exercise and step down my eating!

I was about to call and make reservations for our eventual stay in a retirement home, when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, that my home had dishes in the sink, newspapers on the floor and shoes kicked off by the sofa. All of a sudden, I heard my mother’s voice in my ear, “Don’t forget to wear clean underwear when you go out…you may end up in a hospital.” Does that preparedness now apply to me in this stage of my life? If I never make it home, do I want others to see the mess in which I live? I think I’ll stick to the clean underwear.

Next, my thoughts turned to my obituary. Should it ramble on, naming every one of my forty-seven brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, parents, in-laws, outlaws, employers, neighbors, pets, and the many many significant others? Should it include a picture? With my new permanent make-up, that might not be so bad. How ‘bout including that the deceased has no fear of hell as hot flashes have prepared her for that possibility? No, that might be going too far.

My funeral must be planned. Should I make a list of every detail as a relative of mine once did? No, it should be a free wheeling party with laughter, dancing and high fives. But what if none of those forty-seven acquaintances come? I can hear the minister’s voice now as it echoes off the vacant pews. “She was a pillar of preparedness who looked good to her dying day.” Maybe I should include the name of my tattoo artist in my obituary.

I once had a friend who had a cantankerous grandmother who lived in the same house with her family. My friend loved her grandmother because she appreciated her frankness. But most of the family was pleasant to her only because they knew she had invested wisely and was wealthy beyond belief. As she grew older and began to lose her hearing, the family members were not so careful to keep their negative comments to themselves. Unknown to them she bought a tiny hearing aid which she inserted and, each day, as she rocked in her rocking chair, she listened and, one by one, methodically eliminated them from her will. I think I might get a hearing aid.

So, on that fateful day, when I am finally lowered into my casket, I hope some of those forty-seven friends and relatives will be around to party after the funeral and to know that I was prepared…maybe I had improved the look of my eyes, but I did nothing to eliminate the deep, deep smile lines around my mouth.

There are worse things than spending a weekend with in-laws – like spending the weekend with all the in-laws. Especially since I chose the reunion location, and it turned out to be only a little higher-classed than the Bates Motel from Psycho. In our cabin we found holes in the wooden floor big enough for critters to crawl through and a toilet wobblier than the town drunk.

I knew better than to trust an advertisement in the newspaper, but good judgment is not necessarily my strong suit. Rustic charm, it turns out, means “this place is falling down.” Family-style dining means “you get what we fix, whether you like it or not, because the closest restaurant is twenty miles away.” Homey atmosphere is code for “we treat you like family, so shut up and quit complaining.”

The first night at dinner, my ears perked up when I heard rumblings about a float trip. What float trip? I certainly didn’t plan an outing that involved canoes and bathing suits. Leave it to my husband’s sisters – those wicked girls with slender thighs – to pounce on the idea of doing something athletic. What happened to lazing around the resort playing croquet, lounging in a chaise reading a good book, or heaven forbid, catching up on family gossip?

The next morning, on the bus ride to the put-in point, I concentrated on chewing my nails. Maybe I should have updated my will before the trip.

My daughter – bless her family-loving heart –said, “Don’t worry, Mom. It’ll be okay.”

I made my mind up right then that when I got home, if I got home, the sisters-in-law were out of the will. No way would they inherit my belongings – especially if they were responsible for getting me drowned.

The bus jolted to a stop and everyone clambered out – everyone except the smart sister-in-law. She stayed at the resort with a good book and a bottle of SPF45. Now why couldn’t I be like her? No, I have to take the challenge, any challenge, even if I’m out of my league. It’s not that I can’t swim. I’m a great swimmer in a pool, if I can see the bottom and there aren’t “things” that can slither past my legs.

To my right, my brother-in-law settled a cooler in his canoe and topped it with his two young children. They were nestled snug in their life vests, grinning. They were actually excited about our adventure. Hey, they weren’t scared, so why was I? The river looked safe. The stream was narrow, clear, and barely a foot deep. I could see the bottom, so all was well.

My daughter and I had previously had a bad experience in a canoe with my husband, so suffice it to say, we chose to paddle together and left him to single-handedly pilot his canoe. Let’s just say we weren’t impressed with his boating skills. She assured me she was up to the task. Since I had shelled out money every year for summer camp, I put my fate in her hands.

We slathered on the sunscreen and rolled up our shorts. So far, so good. Our oars sliced through the water with the precision of an egg beater chopping rocks. Less than twenty feet from our embarkation point, the river made a little turn, and so did we – upside down. The water was barely a foot deep, and I could still see the bottom. No problem. We righted the canoe, climbed back in, and pushed off for our second attempt.

“Mom, I’m in the back. I’ll steer. You just paddle straight and keep an eye out for obstacles.”

“Right.”

The rest of the family meandered down the river, in front of us. We paddled like hell to catch up. Ahead, a large sycamore had fallen across the river blocking all but a small section of water. Everyone maneuvered by the tree with ease – except us. Our canoe headed straight for it.

“You’re supposed to be steering,” I shouted.

“You’re supposed to be on lookout duty.”

“Okay, big tree ahead.” I paddled like a lunatic.

The tree had apparently died of old age, rotted at the base, and fallen across the river. Fortunately, there were no leaves or limbs to deal with. The main section of the trunk was about six inches above the water. Both ends were slightly submerged. We got caught in a whirlpool, and our canoe spun sideways and slammed into the tree. We fell out and the force of the water tipped us upside down. My shirt caught on the bow, and I was sucked under.

I don’t remember if my whole life flashed before my eyes because I was too busy trying to get untangled. I finally pulled free, but the current was so strong I couldn’t get my bearings. By this time, the others in our group had come to our rescue.

My daughter was on her feet barking orders. “Mom, stand up. The water’s only two feet deep.”

Easier said than done, but I finally managed. The rest of the group worked to free our canoe. It took half an hour of pushing and pulling before we resumed our journey. The canoe suffered a dent to its underside. My pride was only slightly more damaged. We tipped a few more times before we reached the bridge, which marked the end of our float.

At dinner, I was the talk of the table. Sure, everyone showed their concern, but there were snickers hidden behind cleverly placed napkins. The conversation turned to the next day’s activities and the possibility of another float trip. No way!

I sought out my “smart” sister-in-law. “How do you feel about antiquing tomorrow?”

She grinned.

She gets to stay in my will.

It started innocently enough. Grandchild asks grandmother for toy. What grandmother wouldn’t go to the ends of the earth to satisfy the whims of her grandchild? In this case, however, the end of the earth was Vietnam, and the toy was a gun.

My good friend, Sue Rielly, has a daughter, Maggi, who moved with her husband to Vietnam in 1996. Jeff was to become pro/manager at a golf course in Dalat, a beautiful mountainous area northwest of Ho Chi Minh City (formerly Saigon). Their supposedly brief assignment to this Asian country had been extended by six years, and the family nucleus had been increased by two delightful children, Rielly and Jack.

In the fall of 2002, Sue and I, along with another friend, planned to take a trip to Vietnam to see Sue’s daughter and family and to tour the country. A few weeks before our departure, I received a phone call from Sue. “Judie,” she said, “The airlines allow us each two suitcases to bring aboard the plane. Would you mind packing all your belongings in one suitcase, so that I can use the other one to fulfill all the requests my daughter has for items she can’t find in Vietnam.” I readily agreed, but after I hung up, I began to wonder if it was me Sue wanted on the trip or just my suitcase.

Excited with the anticipation of traveling to a strange foreign country, I boarded a plane on the East coast and flew to Los Angeles, where my friend lived. We would spend a few days there and a few days in Tokyo before heading to Vietnam.

Sue’s husband joined us in preparing for the trip by finding us nifty new suitcase locks which used combinations instead of keys – one less thing to worry about he surmised.

And then Sue hit us with the bomb shell. “By the way, I almost forgot to tell you that little Jack wants a Toy Story Woody gun and holster set for Christmas. I stuck it in one of the suitcases.”

Toy guns. Hmm! 9/11 was just a year before. Hmm! They’re just toys. I guess it’s okay. Hmm!

Off we went to the LA Airport with our scandalous luggage in hand. But, unbelievably, all went well. We checked in, processed our luggage and headed for the Japanese Airlines Business Class Lounge. Not so fast! We were only there a short while when a JAL representative came looking for us. We knew what he wanted. He wanted me. All six baggage tickets had been put under my name. Sue looked at me. I looked at her. “Thanks, Friend,” I said, “I hope you will come visit me in jail.”

We retraced our steps to the JAL check-in desk where we found three ominous looking attendants and one tagged suitcase. Our predicament might have been solved easily except that the “nifty” lock that Sue’s husband had bought for us would not open. As shifty eyes watched us, we sat on the floor of the airport trying every combination we could think of. No luck! When we finally asked for help, a nearby JAL employee simply poked a screwdriver between the teeth of the zipper and the suitcase opened easily. With two-way zippers, one can easily zip either way to close it again. We thought we had secured our luggage.

The Woody guns passed inspection. One down, two to go!

We spent several days touring Tokyo with Sue’s son, Mike, who was living there working for International Management Group. Then we were off to the Narita Airport for our trip to Vietnam. This time Sue showed the guns to the airline personnel who okayed them before she put them back in the suitcase.

The flight to Communist Vietnam was uneventful. When the plane landed, we gathered our things together and proceeded to the terminal. We were met by stern looking men in olive green uniforms with red shoulder boards. I became very uncomfortable as these no nonsense officials scanned the crowd with dark beady eyes. We all sighed our relief when they finished checking our passports and directed us to Baggage Claim.

However, my apprehension increased dramatically as we neared security. Those guns were still in the suitcase. I became more nervous when I remembered that I had signed an entry form which included two sentences that could definitely apply to our “contraband.” Line #2…“Important prohibitions…a. Children’s toys having negative effects on personality development and Line #5…Passengers bringing in goods that are banned from import and export will be handled according to Vietnamese laws!”

I could see the three of us being detained indefinitely in a cold sparsely furnished room with one of those beady-eyed policemen grilling us under a bare light bulb.

To make my apprehension worse, the day before I left home for this trip I read in our local paper an article about Don Duong, one of Vietnam’s top actors who was labeled a traitor and put under house arrest the previous month by the Ministry of Culture and Information. Authorities seized Duong’s passport after viewing the Vietnamese War film, We Were Soldiers in which he acted along with Mel Gibson. The Cultural Ministry had recommended that Duong be prohibited from leaving the country and banned from acting for five years.

Now I’m thinking, no sparsely furnished room, but instead big iron bars!

The six suitcases started moving down the conveyor belt toward the scanning machine in what seemed like infinitely slow motion. I tried not to look at the others as I was sure my expression would betray my mounting terror.

However, to our amazement, all six suitcases made it through security…with no bells, no gongs and no whistles going off. Unbelievable! We hurriedly grabbed our bags and walked as fast as we could to the exit, hoping none of those beady-eyed policemen would grab us.

I knew one day we would laugh about this situation, but at that moment all I wanted to do was deliver the toy to Jack and disappear to the ends of the earth.

It was Friday. I awoke to the spring rain splashing against my window. The clouds were dark, and the sky gave no hint that the inclement weather outside would clear any time soon. My husband was out of town on business, and I knew the rain would prevent me from completing the outside tasks I had planned for the day.

I turned over. I really didn’t want to go back to sleep, but I didn’t want to get up either. Those old feelings of insecurity and unloveliness seemed to be trying to creep back into my brain. I had banished them once, gone through therapy and learned how to be more positive and gentler with myself, but, now, this morning, the rain and the howling wind seemed to be overriding all the hard work I had done. Was there significance to my days? Was I doing enough with my life? Was I worthy? The harder the rain fell, the deeper into uncertainty I began to descend. I must get up. I must think of something that would make me feel better.

I have friends who say shopping always lightens their spirits and gladdens their hearts. I wasn’t much of a shopper, but I decided to give it a try. Maybe a new dress would be in order – one full of bright colors or a cheery print. And, possibly more colorful surroundings in the house would help. I’d find a jazzy tablecloth for the kitchen table and place a candle in the center. Yes, shopping sounded like a good idea. I ate some breakfast, got dressed and headed out to the car.

The gas gauge was close to zero, so I stopped at the corner station to fill up. I went inside to purchase a bottle of water and bumped into an acquaintance of mine. We chatted for a while. Then she told me she was on her way to work. She had been with the same company for more than thirty years and had risen to a very responsible position. She seemed to be in a hurry. I was sure she had much to accomplish that day. But, as she turned to go she hesitated a moment, put her hand on my arm and said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I wanted to say how much the article you wrote about your depression moved me. I felt you were talking to me, and it was comforting to know that others can have the same feelings.”

I looked at my feet. I didn’t know what to say. At times I had regretted writing the article she mentioned about that terrible period in my life. Finally I just said, “Thank you.”

Back in the car, stunned by her announcement, I headed for the mall. As I was pulling into a parking space my cell phone rang. I’d almost forgotten I was “on call” as a volunteer for the Rape Crisis Center. On the other end of the line was a woman who had been raped two years ago. She’d had a bad night reliving the horrible experience of physical violation and mental intimidation. She just needed to talk. I sat there in the car for fifteen or twenty minutes letting her ventilate and responding occasionally with a suggestion or two. With a final sigh she said, “Thank you so very much, you have been a great help.” I replied, “You’re welcome,” and then wished her better days.

I sat there a while longer thinking about her, then decided to check my messages. There was only one. It was from my four year-old grandson. I had baby-sat for him the previous day, and we’d had such fun, riding bikes, hitting golf balls, reading books and laughing at the mess we’d made on counters and floors while mixing up a batch of chocolate chip cookies. His message sounded a little garbled, but then I heard him say, “Hi Juju. What are you doing? Can I come spend the night? Call me. I wove you.” It was always special fun for him to find his mom’s cell phone and push that one button that connected him straight to my cell phone. However, he had no idea how his actions could generate a deep warm feeling in my heart, especially this morning.

I had forgotten to turn off the car’s motor, and, as I snapped my phone shut, an old Whitney Houston song came on the radio. As I listened to it, a tear ran down my cheek…not of sadness, but of joy.

We all want to make a place in this world; we all want our voices to be heard.
Everyone wants a chance to be someone. We all have dreams we need to dream,
Sweeter than any star you can reach, yet when you reach, you’ve found…
You’ve found someone.
You hold this world a priceless thing, the greatest gift that life can bring…
Is when you look back and say…You were loved.
You were loved by someone, touched by someone, held by someone,
Meant something to someone.
Loved somebody, touched somebody’s heart along the way.
You can look back and say…you were loved.
You can have diamonds in your hand, have all the riches in the land,
But without love you don’t really have a thing.
When somebody cares that you’re alive, when somebody trusts you with their life,
That’s the way you know, that you have all you really need.
You can look back and say, you were loved.

Whether it be friend, stranger or family, sometimes we don’t realize the effect we have on someone. I wiped the tear away, turned on my phone and called my husband to say I loved him. Then I put the car in reverse and headed back home. I really didn’t need to do any shopping.