THE CHANGING LADIES

I am empowered!

But let me start at the beginning. I came out of my office at the end of the work day and walked to my car in the parking lot. Oh, no! A flat tire! My husband, the car guy, was out of town. Wringing my hands, I didn’t know what to do. So I called my daughter, who came and said, “Let’s just change the tire, Mom. We can do this.”

“OK,” I said hesitantly. We walked over to the car, popped the trunk, removed the jack, wrench and space-saver tire and set to work.

“I think we’re supposed to loosen the lug nuts before we jack the car up,” my daughter told me, straining to loosen the bolts. “Damn, these are tight!”

“Here, let me,” I said, hefting the wrench and getting them free. Smiling, I said, “See, it just takes a little elbow grease.”

We put the jack under the car and began cranking it up. Just before we got it to the right height, the car rolled forward over the jack and fell with a thunk.

“Why don’t we try putting on the parking brake?” my daughter said in what I thought was a decidedly snippy tone.

“I never use the parking brake.”

She looked me straight in the eye. “Humor me.”

We got the car up solidly this time, removed the nuts and took off the sorry-looking flat tire.  Then it was time to put on the spare. Which way did it go? I figured the side with the thingy to air it up must be to the outside. So we hefted it up. It fit. Wow, that was easy.

I began to put the bolts back on. “I’ve got a natural flair for mechanical things,” I said, tightening up the bolts.

“Mom, you’ve got them on backward.”

“I was just checking to see if you were paying attention, “ I snorted.

There! The tire was back on.

“Don’t you feel empowered?” my daughter asked.

“Yes!” I agreed. “And now the mystique is gone. I’ve been driving for 35 years and never changed a tire. I rule.”

We put the stuff back into the trunk, dusted ourselves off.

“Life’s short. Let’s go get some ice cream,” I said.

So we did.

Breaking the Rules

Every morning all the children at Sacred Redeemer went to Mass before school started. If you wanted to go to communion, you couldn’t eat breakfast before church. And if you didn’t want the teachers to think you were a sinner, you went to communion.

This always resulted in a messy free-for-all after the children returned to their classroom, where they either produced a shiny dime from home which furnished them milk and sweet rolls all week, or brought out crumpled paper bags of food.

Lilya longed for those wonderful rolls, huge lumps of sweet dough with a jam center, but her parents couldn’t afford such an extravagance. After church Sister Theodoretta would collect money from the privileged children and then reluctantly give the others permission to take out their egg or peanut butter sandwiches. Even if sweet rolls were unaffordable, a child could wash down a piece of toast with a carton of milk bought for a couple of pennies.

But Lilya’s parents couldn’t afford even the milk. She pulled out her bag of food  and neatly arranged the toast and egg on a piece of wax paper. Her mother had put a spoon in her bag. She removed the spoon and tapped the egg.

Egg yolk went everywhere! It was all over her new blue sweater, all over her face, all over her hands. The boys laughed. The girls nibbling their tidy sweet rolls giggled.

Sister Theodoretta swooped down on the underprivileged child with a napkin and an exasperated sigh. Why couldn’t they all buy rolls and be done with it? She roughly swabbed sweater, face and hands, but the towel was a poor match for country eggs.

Lilya was not allowed to go to the rest room because it was not recess time, so she spent a miserable morning wiping flecks of yolk from her hands and face while the other children continued to snicker behind her back.

The morning dragged while Lilya’s stomach growled. By lunchtime she was very hungry, as Sister had thrown away her egg and toast after the cleanup. She stood in line in the cafeteria and promised herself she would eat everything, even the canned grapefruit sections and pasty lima beans, both of which she hated.

When Lilya got to the front of the line the cafeteria lady asked her for a lunch ticket. Lilya had never had to produce one, as she and her brothers were allowed to eat for free because her father worked for the Monsignor.

“I don’t have a ticket,” was all she could think to say.

“I’m sorry, but if you don’t have a ticket we can’t let you eat lunch,” the cafeteria lady said.

Lilya didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go sit in the cafeteria without a lunch tray and watch everyone else eat. She also couldn’t just walk away from the cafeteria without permission. So she stood there.

“Hey, I’m hungry,” a boy yelled.

“Hurry up and pay, you stupid foreign kid,” said another.

One of the other first grade teachers came up and took Lilya’s hand. She walked her upstairs and out to the first grade building, where she told Lilya to sit quietly in the classroom until everyone came back from lunch. Then the teacher left.

Not only was Lilya going to miss lunch, she would also miss recess. She fought back tears. She didn’t want anyone to see her cry, because then the other children would make fun of her. Even worse, Sister would get angry and punish her.

She went to the back of the room and picked out a book. Reading was always good for taking her away from her unpleasant circumstances. She didn’t hear when Sister came in.

“What are you doing?” Sister Theodoretta asked.

Lilya quickly closed the book. “Nothing,” she said.

“Were you reading that book?” Sister asked, eyes narrowing.

“No,” Lilya lied.

“You’re lying,” Sister said. “Open that book and read to me.”

“I can’t,” Lilya said, which was mostly true. Even though she was able to read, having someone leaning over her was so upsetting the words swam before her eyes. She was terrified she would be punished, but knew she was losing ground.

The class had been reciting the alphabet for weeks, but Lilya—whose mother had taught her to read in Hungarian—found the transition to reading in English easy once she had learned to think in the new language.

Sister grabbed the book and opened it. “Read this page,” she said.

Lilya looked at the words and tried to pretend they were scratch marks. But her curiosity and love for the printed page overtook her stubbornness. “See David and Ann. See David play. See Ann pray.” Even to her six-year-old mind the words were overly simple, but the pictures filled in the gaps.

“You may sit down,” was all Sister said.

Lilya went home and told her mother that she did not get to eat lunch today. She did not tell her about the breakfast incident, nor did she dare mention the disgrace of having been “caught” reading ahead of the class.

That evening Lilya found out Monsignor had decided that with her father’s liberal wage of $1.00 an hour, and with the extra work he had given her parents, they were prospering and could now afford to pay for their children’s lunches themselves. Monsignor had relayed the news to the oldest brother’s teacher, who then passed the information on to the other teachers. Unfortunately, the news had been given the very day the pronouncement was to take effect. Right before lunch.

Lilya’s mother was furious. Her outrage thundered in the small kitchen.

“Why couldn’t Monsignor tell us himself?” She raged. “Why couldn’t he have waited until after lunch so the children could eat? Why did the teacher wait until just before noon to tell our son, when they knew our children would have no money to buy lunch?”

Lilya ate her bread and soup in silence. She wasn’t thinking about lunch. She was thinking about what kind of punishment she would get for reading when she wasn’t supposed to. It would probably be bad.

It was. The next day Sister Theodoretta told her to take everything out of her desk and go to the other first grade class, where they were already reading. She was heart-broken at losing the familiarity of this classroom, these classmates, her best friend. She would even miss Sister Theodoretta, because knowing someone troublesome was still better than having to meet a new teacher she didn’t know.

Lilya sighed inwardly. She had learned something that day. She had learned that it was very bad to break the rules.

The Wonderful Land of Opportunity

Even with the vegetable garden, the pigs, the cow and the chickens, there wasn’t enough food for a family of six, and Mr. Lovas’ job at the church didn’t provide enough to pay the bills. Lilya heard her parents whispering, their faces worn. Her mother added figures on a sheet of paper and shook her head.

Mr. Lovas worked longer and longer hours for the Monsignor, who released paychecks as if they came from his own pocket. Weren’t they terribly privileged to be an ocean away from the refugee camp? From the terrible scourge of Communism? Didn’t they have a roof over their heads? Hmm?

Lilya’s mother begged her husband to ask the Monsignor for a raise. When he approached the cleric, hat in hand, the Monsignor demurred, saying church giving was down. With pursed lips and a wave of his hand he told Mr. Lovas that he would speak to the prominent members of the community.

Several days later the Monsignor approached Mr. Lovas and announced he had a splendid plan.  “The answer to your prayers,” he said piously. “There are several parishioners who need help. You can earn additional income by cleaning houses in the evenings.”

A week later Mr. Lovas came home from work looking worried. He and his wife exchanged meaningful glances. They ate dinner in silence. After supper the children were put in their night clothes and told to mind their oldest brother, who would be in charge. They were not to go outside, and they must be in bed by 7:00. Hurriedly kissing the children, the parents left.

The apartment felt very empty. Lilya was too frightened to disobey her oldest brother. She sat in a corner and hugged her doll. Her baby sister was already asleep. Her other brother wanted her to play, but she said, “Go away. I’m busy waiting for Mommy and Poppy.”

Lilya sat silently and listened to the ticking clock. Maybe the oldest brother would turn on the radio. He was three years older than Lilya and was allowed to do that.

Lilya walked into the living room and looked around for the brother who was supposed to be taking care of them. He wasn’t there. She looked in the kitchen, but he wasn’t there, either. She looked in their bedroom and saw her sister sleeping and the younger brother playing with a toy truck.

She knew she wasn’t supposed to go outside, but she had to find her brother. Who was going to mind them?

She opened the front door and looked out. For a minute she couldn’t see anything, but a moment later she spotted a figure on the sidewalk. There was her older brother, sobbing and running up and down and yelling, “Mommy! Poppy! Come home. Please, please come home.”

He shouldn’t be doing that, Lilya thought with alarm. He’s the oldest and he’s supposed to be taking care of us. She hid in the shadow of the doorway and her lips quivered, but she didn’t cry. She knew she was a big girl, and big girls had to be strong. Her parents reminded her almost daily.

She stood frozen in the doorway, clutching her doll tightly. “If a big six-year-old can’t take care of us,” she thought, “who’s going to make sure we’re in bed when Mommy and Poppy come home?”

Are We Asking the Foxes to Guard the Henhouse?

This proposed amendment to the U.S. Constitution came by email. I’ve seen it before. But I’m going to post it and the accompanying comments here.

The author of this email (and no one ever knows who that is) urges us, the good citizens of the United States, to send the suggestion to 20 others so that just about everybody (everybody with Internet access, that is) will know and support this proposed legislation. The email is accompanied by a picture of a stalwart wounded soldier.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

Proposed 28th Amendment to the United States Constitution: “Congress shall make no law that applies to the citizens of the United States that does not apply equally to the Senators and/or Representatives; and, Congress shall make no law that applies to the Senators and/or Representatives that does not apply equally to the citizens of the United States .”

Please forward, it’s about time we started taking our country back from Washington, Republicans Democrats and Independents alike. 

I challenge you to read this and NOT have the will to pass it on to your 20.

We recently learned that the staffers of Congress’s family members are exempt from having to pay back student loans. This will get national attention if news networks will broadcast it. When you add this to the below, just where will all of it stop?

 This will take less than thirty seconds to read. If you agree, please pass it on. This is an idea that we should address.

We recently learned that the staffers of Congress’s family members are exempt from having to pay back student loans. This will get national attention if news networks will broadcast it. When you add this to the below, just where will all of it stop?

 Many citizens had no idea that members of Congress could retire with the same pay after only one term, that they specifically exempted themselves from many of the laws they have passed (such as being exempt from any fear of prosecution for sexual harassment) while ordinary citizens must live under those laws. The latest is to exempt themselves from the Healthcare Reform… in all of its forms. Somehow, that doesn’t seem logical. We do not have an elite that is above the law. I truly don’t care if they are Democrat, Republican, Independent or whatever. THE SELF-SERVING MUST STOP.

This is one proposal that really should be passed around. If each person that receives this will forward it on to 20 people, in three days, most people in The United States of America will have the message.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Because this has circulated through the Internet several times, I claim that a whole lot of people already HAVE this information! My question is: What now?

I sort of resent the tone of the email, urging all good citizens to pass the information on, especially the statement that reads: “I challenge you to read this and NOT have the will to pass it on to your 20.” And who comprises that magic 20? Sounds like sloganeering to me. And how will passing on the information endlessly help us to take back our country?

I do feel strongly this amendment should be implemented, especially after seeing on 60 Minutes recently how freely the members of Congress trade stocks on insider information. (Which, because they make the laws and have exempted themselves, is not illegal for them. )

But how to get this going? Whom do we contact? It’s all well and good to feel strongly and pass information around on the Internet. But that’s not enough. We’ve passed and passed this information around for a long time, but so far nothing has happened.

There are a lot of angry people out there, but Congress seems to be impervious to all accusations. They continue to live in their own world, in which they don’t have to be accountable to anyone, while (symbolically) shouting: “Let them eat cake.”

The no-trading of stocks based on insider information bill has been introduced every year for years, but nobody shows up. Few have heard of it. I’m afraid this proposed 28th amendment will suffer the same fate, that of being reduced to the back of the back burner.

How can we emphasize that we want Congress to live by the same laws they have instituted for us? Who polices the police? Aren’t we asking the foxes to guard the henhouse?

Wake-Up Call

When the explorers first saw North America, they were struck by the vastness of nature. It was ripe for plunder, and because of its size and because of its relatively small population, they thought it would stay pristine forever.

 

I don’t know about you, but I was taught that you cleaned up after yourself. Even as a young child, I wondered where trash went, and what would happen when we filled all the holes and gullies with the stuff we didn’t want. My parents lived through times of great want, both before and after the war.  They and all those who lived through times of deprivation kept and reused whatever they had. Little was thrown away.

 

Then we had the Industrial Revolution, which brought untold environmental damage. However, if you didn’t live in grimy cities, you could still look out over woods and streams and feel one with nature. You can still do that today, especially in rural areas, like the Lake of the Ozarks, where I live. What you don’t see can’t hurt you, right?

 

Let’s go through a short scenario in daily life. Pay attention to the questions.

 

Okay, it’s morning and you wake up. You hit the annoying alarm clock and lie in bed for a while. Your sheets are in a bunch, so you notice them first. What are they made of? Are they polyester, made from petroleum products? Are they cotton, made from the most heavily sprayed agricultural crop in the U.S.? What color are they? If white, were they bleached with chlorine?

 

The same goes for your sleepwear. Are they made from natural fibers such as cotton, flax, bamboo, hemp or silk? How were they dyed? What impact did the process of dyeing have on the streams close by? Maybe they’re light beige, made from unbleached non-genetically modified organic cotton. If so, good for you!

 

You get out of bed and head to the bathroom. You reach for your toothbrush and toothpaste. Your brush is probably plastic, another petroleum product. The bristles are probably nylon, another plastic. What about your toothpaste? What is it made of? Does it have fluoride, a byproduct of aluminum manufacturing?  You do your business on the toilet and reach for the roll. Is it made from recycled paper?

 

After you get dressed you head to the kitchen for breakfast. You reach for the cereal and pour some into a bowl. You notice that the cereal is almost as brightly colored as the box. Is it whole grain or refined? You may virtuously pass on the sugar bowl, but how much sugar is contained in the box? Does it contain high fructose corn syrup? You smile at the bright colors, but are they natural? Or are they dyed with coal tar derivatives? What about preservatives? And has the flavor been enhanced by artificial methods? If you’re lactose intolerant you smugly reach for the carton of soy milk, probably unaware that it has been extracted with hexane, a neurotoxic substance produced as a byproduct of gasoline refining.

 

Okay, you’re fine with lactose and pour on the cow’s milk. Has it been produced organically? Or have the cows been given a growth hormone to stimulate milk production? Were they grass-fed or given feed that is often laced with antibiotics to reduce disease in cows whose digestion is impaired by being given grain?

 

Whoa, too much information! You decide to pass on the cereal and reach for the bacon. How was it cured? Did they use nitrites, a chemical that reacts with protein that can cause carcinogenic compounds? Or was it naturally cured? While the bacon sizzles you cook up a couple of eggs. Did the eggs come from hens who spent their lives in cages so confining their beaks had to be cut off so they wouldn’t peck each other to death? Or were they allowed to spend their days outdoors? Given their cramped, filthy environment, were they fed antibiotic-laced grains?

 

Next you pop a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. Is the bread white, with the germ and bran removed and a couple of synthetic vitamins added back in? Or is the bread made with whole grains that were raised without artificial fossil fuel fertilizers and toxic pesticides?

 

And on it goes . . . . Whew! I’m going to stop here. Now, this is really such a small vignette in daily life. As you go about your day, there are so many other questions you could ask, and you could go nuts in the process. The bottom line? Be aware.

 

Be aware when you get into the car. Ask yourself: Is this trip necessary, or can I combine it with other errands to reduce my miles on the road?

 

Be aware when you go to the grocery store. Shop the periphery, where they keep the perishables. If it’s too preserved for the bugs, should you be eating it? Make sure your food looks like real food and has been processed as little as possible. Cook from scratch.

 

Be aware when buying clothing or home goods. Instead of buying full retail, snoop around in resale shops, where you can often find top quality at a fraction of the cost. And you get the good feeling that your second-hand garment didn’t add to the toxicity of the manufacturing process. Even better, get free stuff on Freecycle.

 

Be aware when cleaning out the attic. Bypass the landfill and give your stuff away, because your trash could be somebody else’s treasure. Use Freecycle, or take stuff to consignment shops, or sell it on Craigslist or eBay.

 

Be aware when giving gifts on holidays and birthdays. Instead of purchasing wrapping paper, put presents into reusable gift bags, which can often be found at resale shops.

 

Be aware when preparing meals, and take your fruit and vegetable scraps outside to compost them. It doesn’t require a lot of space, and it doesn’t even require a fancy compost barrel. Periodically add some yard waste such as leaves or grass clippings. You can add water and turn it a time or two. You can be compulsive or not. Even if you don’t like to garden, know that your compost is not totally wasted by being wedged into a landfill where it can’t even rot, and is quietly making good soil for the earth.

 

Be aware of what you throw away, and try to reduce your contribution to the trash stream to one bag or less per week.

 

You can’t do everything. But you can do something. Even one thing is a step in the right direction. Realize that “out of sight, out of mind” is a pretty reckless way to go these days. Be aware that the chemical soup in our food and clothing and shelter could be contributing to a vast array of allergies and diseases. Be aware that our small inner environment is a reflection of the big outer environment.

 

Let’s do our best to clean it up and keep it clean.

Coaching for Life

In my continued efforts at establishing a business, I put together an advice column for the local paper, written in response to questions solicited from you, my friends and family.

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I have this crazy dream about quitting my job and going back to school full time. Of course this is a pretty terrifying prospect in this economy. What do you think I should do?   ~Anxious in Ash Grove

Dear Anxious: Ah, crazy dreams. They keep the spark going, don’t they? What you should do depends on several factors you’ll need to take into consideration. First, your job. Do you want out because you just want a change, or is your job unbearable and you’re ready to switch careers? Do you currently have debt, school loans or otherwise? Do you have a specific college or university and/or career in mind? How much will your education cost?  How long will you be in school? Are you an undergraduate or are you seeking a graduate degree? Will you be able to work part time while going to school? What  are the job prospects in your field?

Even with some financial aid I’m assuming you’ll be taking out loans. If you already have debt you’ll be adding to it, and you’ll have to carefully weigh that and the cost of your education against your future earning potential, assuming you’ll get a job immediately after graduating. Even so-called inflation-proof jobs like nursing are flagging in this economy. And don’t assume you’ll get sound financial advice from your school’s financial aid office. They’re in the business of loaning you money. Lots of money.

There’s an awful lot at stake here. If you’re in debt, you need to get out of debt if at all possible, minimize your expenses, live as frugally as you can and have an income stream. Above all, try to avoid incurring further debt. Can you work part time? Alternatively, can you work full time and go to school part time?

I went back to school in the early nineties, which at the time was in the days of easy money. I was able to get a grant and earned my undergraduate degree in two years without incurring any debt. But that’s another story.

So if the school you’ve chosen awards you a full scholarship, I’d wave good-bye to the job and plunge head-first into academia.

 I have a friend who uses “time out” when her child misbehaves. Now time out is a joke to her two-year-old and the mom admits it doesn’t work. As a mom of four and an avid spanker (not beating), how can I convince her that if she doesn’t change this toddler’s behavior now, the consequences of this little lady could be grim in the teen years or beyond?    ~Spanker in Spokane

Dear Spanker:  First, with all due respect, I am not an advocate of spanking, having raised three children with only an occasional swat on the tush in my admittedly weaker moments. And second, I’m wondering why you feel the child will grow into a monster if she isn’t administered physical punishment. And third, I’m curious as to why you feel the need to convince your friend that your disciplinary measures are superior to hers. Although the general rule is that spanking should be done with total objectivity, I’ve never seen a parent spank without emotion. My opinion is that physical punishment teaches the child that the parent is bigger and therefore has more force. The fact that your friend’s child regards time outs as a joke doesn’t mean time outs don’t work, it just means she hasn’t been able to establish good boundaries. I commend you for not beating your children. That said, I would support your friend in her efforts, perhaps suggesting that she seek help from a trusted mentor or reputable therapist about ways to discipline her child without using force.

 How do I tell a friend that her significant other is a bad choice for her? ~Concerned in Chicago

Dear Concerned: Two words. You don’t.  Assuming the significant other has no criminal record and he isn’t prone to violence (in which case you would immediately report the behavior to the proper authorities), you keep your opinions to yourself and hope the relationship improves. If not, you can always hope your friend sees the light and chooses to end the relationship on her own. In the meantime, if you value the friendship, support her in her choices.

Help! How do I deal with clutter?  I can hardly walk through my house without tripping on things.  ~Cluttered in Cleveland

Dear Cluttered: Wow, you sound overwhelmed. First, take a deep breath. The clutter probably didn’t spring up overnight, and it will take some time and effort to get things under control. I grew up in a two-bedroom house with seven family members and vividly recall my mom’s frustrations in trying to keep things ship-shape. If you have young kids, remember the old adage: this too shall pass.

I’m going to assume you’re not a bona fide hoarder, which is beyond my expertise and would require professional help. Now, take a close look around you. Focus on what’s really there and ask yourself: Is there a place for everything but you and/or your family have been too busy to put things away? Or are you an impulse shopper who let things get out of hand? If there’s more stuff than storage, you have to be ruthless about letting go if you really want to declutter. Do you really need three dozen pairs of shoes and five can openers? Has your paperweight collection taken over the living room? If you feel you can’t part with your stuff on your own, ask a trusted friend to help. Of course, you’ll be the one making the decisions, but there will be someone to support you in the process.

Get three giant boxes and label them “throw away,” “give away” and “can’t decide.” Hopefully, you’ll minimize the landfill burden and keep your throwaway pile to a minimum, donating usable clothing and other items to family and friends or to charity. You could take your collectibles to a consignment shop, keeping only a few special pieces. When you can’t make up your mind about an item, put it in the “can’t decide” box. Give yourself 24 hours and revisit the box with the firm resolve to empty it. Keep going until everything has been sorted into give away and throw away.  Then do it.

Depending on how much stuff you have, this process may take several days, even weeks. But don’t let it take too long or you won’t finish.

After the initial shock you may feel lighter as you begin to see more floor space. Make sure there is storage for what you have left, and resolve that once a day you’ll go through the house and put things away. Enlist the help of family members.

Finally, let this be your guide: If you bring something into the house, you must take something out.

 How to deal with friends or family members who don’t discipline their children when in your home? For example, the child creates messes or breaks things, and is completely uncontrolled by the parent? ~Frustrated in Farmington

Dear Frustrated: I presume you don’t have children and your house is not child-proofed. That said, you need to communicate your concerns with the friend or family member. I well remember a young mom who visited my home with her two-year-old, who got into the cat food. Much to my embarrassment, she had consumed several mouthfuls before we discovered her at the cat dish. Suffice it to say that I immediately put the bowl on top of the refrigerator. No harm done.

You might suggest that your visit would be more enjoyable without having the child present. If that’s not possible, suggest they bring some toys for the child to play with. If little Johnnie heads for the porcelain vase, tell him that this is not a toy and direct him back to his playthings. Ask for mom’s help. If that doesn’t work, put everything up high for the duration of the visit. Afterward, you need to consider the value of the visit versus the hassle of keeping the child at bay. You might reiterate that you can’t relax and enjoy your friend’s company when her child is present. You might lose the friendship, but it sounds like your friend’s lack of parenting skills has undermined the enjoyment of her company anyway.

My wife and I attend a little neighborhood wine and cheese session each Friday afternoon hosted by a retired physician and his psychologist wife.  Although the conversation is wide ranging, participants try to stay away from hot-button political topics.  However,  the hostess, who is a bit of a conversation monopolist, always seems to get in a zinger highly critical of people and principles I hold dear. Taking the bait, I usually respond in kind, at which time my wife gives me the “shut up” signal.  Things can get a bit awkward.  Should I boycott these get-togethers, since it seems rude to attack the views of one’s hostess?  Please don’t tell me to continue to attend and politely and shut my mouth.  It’s not going to happen.    ~Outspoken in Omaha

Dear Outspoken: I take it you really don’t want advice here. You’ve laid out the scenario and then said you wouldn’t change, so there’s not much I can add. From what you say, I don’t know if the problem is between you and your hostess or between you and your wife. If things don’t get adversarial, I’d continue to attend and engage in spirited debate with your hostess. If your wife is uncomfortable with the situation and feels you’re attacking the hostess, you might explain to her that differences of opinion make for lively conversation and no harm is intended. If things turn ugly you have two choices. Stop attending or keep doing what you’re doing and expect the outcome to be different. Good luck on that.

 What’s the best way to decline an invitation for a party you don’t want to go to?    ~Reluctant in Rogersville

Dear Reluctant: It’s pretty simple. Thank the person who invited you and say you’re very sorry but you have other commitments that day. If the person insists or gets upset, stick to your guns. You are not responsible for how he or she feels about your decision.

 How do I pursue a second career after 50?           ~Unemployed in Urbana

Dear Unemployed: Your question encompasses huge territory and reflects the sweeping changes that are occurring in today’s economic culture. Gone are the days of working for one company for thirty years and retiring with a comfortable pension.

Regarding your question, whether or not you simply can’t live with your current job  or your choice is based on the possibility of unemployment, you have to forge ahead. That includes a radical change in thinking and attitude, which is definitely daunting. If you’re unemployed or soon to be, the first thing you need to do is minimize your expenses. Get out of debt if you can and cut your spending down to bare bones.

Let’s say you’re looking for a new career by working for someone else. In LifeTwo Walter O’Brien, who left  a long-term career in the music business at the age of 50 to finish his education and pursue a career in journalism, stated, “Never be afraid to jump ship from a job where you’re unhappy or being mistreated . . . But don’t ever think you can’t do better, and never underestimate what you can do if you put your mind to it.” He emphasized that you need to make your own luck, which includes constant networking. I’ve heard it said that when you’re looking for a job your opportunities for landing a job increase if you already have a job. How do you get by that if you’ve been laid off? Let’s assume you want to stay in your field and already have the requisite education. The magic word is volunteer. By volunteering at a library or school or soup kitchen you show initiative and get to meet new people who might be or know potential employers. And you get the added satisfaction of knowing you’ve made a difference in someone’s life.

Let’s say you’re tired of working for someone else and want to try your hand at self-employment. Do you have a hobby you could turn into a business? Do you have an invention that has great sales potential? Do you have a skill you could turn into a consulting business? Regarding start-up, a friend of mine in the real estate business said that the good news is that you can have it all. The bad news is that you have to do it all. With the media explosion of the Internet you can put up a website for relatively little money. You can utilize social networking to advertise your business. Depending on what you have to sell or offer, you can be local or conduct your business nationally or internationally. To help you along the path, you can take classes and/or get a free consultation with a SCORE representative, a nonprofit association that helps small businesses.

You have to be willing to change. You have to be willing to take risks. But know that you’re a pioneer, forging a new path and setting an example for others to follow. Good luck!

Remembering that September Day

I remember it was a beautiful day. Clear and crisp, with a lovely blue sky.  My husband and I and our youngest daughter were living in Columbia, Missouri. It was Tuesday, so my husband was attending class in Kansas City.

My car was in the shop and I was driving my daughter’s little white Toyota. I had just dropped her off and was threading my way through traffic on Broadway, hoping I wouldn’t be late for work. When the traffic slowed I turned on the radio to catch the morning news, drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. I was only half listening when I heard, “a plane is heading straight toward the the World Trade Center.” The announcer’s voice sounded confused. I felt confused.

But that was nothing compared to the announcement that followed: “A large passenger airliner just struck the north tower and burst into flames.”

The world slid to a stop. Everything became surreal. I thought, it surely must have been a mistake. But how could it be a mistake? Commercial pilots couldn’t possibly make such a tragic error, could they? Isn’t there a co-pilot to help in case the pilot can’t fly the plane? What happened to the passengers? Were there any survivors? What happened to the building?

I wanted to talk to someone. I needed to hear reassurance. I tried to call my husband, but he was in class and had turned his cell phone off. I called my other daughter in Kansas City. We spoke briefly. After I told her the news, what else was there to say?

I continued driving to work in daze. I turned the car into the parking lot next to the Heinkel building on 7th Street and found a spot. I got out and locked the door. I entered the building and walked up the stairs to my office.

I saw that everyone there had heard about the crash. Other than good morning, few words were spoken. I worked for Educational Technologies @ Missouri and our offices were next to the MU Fire and Rescue Training Institute, where they had a room with an enormous video monitor that took up half of one wall. Without a word we all trooped into that room and watched as panic erupted in the streets in New York. Shocked news reporters taped people rushing through the thick smoke and debris. People were jumping to certain death below. But they knew staying in the building was also a certain death.

No one yet knew the reason behind the catastrophe. In the absence of facts, speculation was that some tragic pilot error had occurred.

Then the second plane struck. We watched, dumbfounded, as the plane hit the second tower and became a ball of fire, and then we knew: This was no accident.

The enormity of the situation was too much to absorb. The reporters told us a third plane had struck the Pentagon, and that a fourth plane, allegedly heading toward the White House, had been taken over by passengers and crashed in a field in Pennsylvania.

Television reporters told us rescue workers were being mobilized to find and care for the wounded, but the annihilation was so complete there were no bodies. At least not whole ones. We heard that firefighters in heavy equipment had lumbered up the stairs of the second tower, and when they paused to rest the tower collapsed in upon itself. All perished.

We watched as long as we were able, then retreated to our offices. However, nobody could work, and we couldn’t tear ourselves away. I was struck by the silence in the room. Some people stood in stoic silence. Some wept openly. No one spoke.

I remember thinking, I’m dreaming. I’ll wake up. I can’t watch anymore.

But we watched, because the world as we’d known it no longer existed. We watched because we felt that by watching we were somehow helping to hold the world together.

In the winter of 1984 I had taken a trip to New York with my oldest daughter. We’d threaded our way through the streets, my hand firmly gripping hers, awestruck by the endless throngs of people. I remembered thinking it was like the crowd at a rock concert, only it never thinned. My daughter laughed to see a man running down the street, waving a package in his hand and calling out, “Fresh hot batteries here, rock bottom prices,” while a policeman ran after him. On the bus we sat next to a woman who asked, in all sincerity, “Do they celebrate Christmas in Missouri?”

Everywhere you went people were in your face. Hey, this is New York.  This is a world like no other, and no other world existed outside New York City. Get out of the way. Get with the program.

I visited again in 2006, five years after the tragedy. I was immediately struck by the absence of those huge, elbow-to-elbow crowds. On the subway, on the bus, walking along the street, I was met with smiles. I thought I had stepped into yet another world.

Oh, sure, there were places that still reflected that in-your-face attitude, places where people were rude and unpleasant, but it felt like there was a layer of gentleness that softened the atmosphere. People breathed it in spontaneously, consciously or unconsciously, and just as spontaneously breathed it out in courteous gestures.

I realized that the aftermath of tragedy can be a healing force at all levels. After the initial anger dies away it compels us to listen and respond with openness, to be awake to everything. One by one.

Some listen.

I thought about the ensuing wars that followed that fateful day.

Some don’t.

Never Enough

Life in a post-war refugee camp was a constant worry, especially with small children. There was first the language barrier to contend with. Displaced families from all over Europe huddled together in these Austrian barracks that once housed political prisoners. Communication was often hand gestures and single-word sentences.

And the overcrowding.

These ramshackle accommodations were never meant to house families. Without insulation, there was the heat in summer and the cold in the winter. Especially the cold, as the camp was situated in a mountain valley. The buildings had been built on stilts, so the cold came from underneath as well as from all around. There were never enough blankets.

There was no indoor plumbing. Water had to be carried in from a spigot quite a distance from the barracks. Fuel for warmth and cooking consisted of whatever wood could be gathered. However, with the surge of occupants the surrounding area had been picked clean.

After an exhausting day at the local coal mine, Mr. Lovas had to walk quite a distance to find enough twigs and branches for his wife to cook a meal. They had escaped Hungary just as the Russians were swarming in to occupy their small town of Székesfehérvár.

“Go, go,” his father-in-law had said. “You can come back when all this blows over.” But the Russians had taken over the country and they never saw him again.

Above all there was the hunger. It seemed that life consisted of trying to beg, borrow or steal enough food to keep going. Mealtimes were grim.

“Go ahead and finish this last bite, “ Mrs. Lovas would say, pushing the plate towards her husband. “You need it more than I do.”

“No, no, really, I’m full,” he lied, because he knew the children were hungry. It went like that, back and forth, every evening, the parents trying to shore each other up in those few moments before the chores and bedtime rituals consumed what minutes they had together.

There was a family with twin girls who lived a couple of doors down from their apartment. The girls’ mother did not worry so much about food. When her husband brought home a holiday bonus she’d buy a piece of pretty cotton or silk and make elaborate dresses for the children, with matching bows for their hair. They were lovely to behold.

“After all,” she explained, “you can’t see what goes inside their bodies, but everyone can see what’s on the outside.”

That winter the girls became ill, one by one. And one by one they grew weak and cried out, until their cries became silence. Mrs. Lovas couldn’t help but wonder if those pretty dresses gave their mother comfort as they lay in their tiny coffins.

In addition to his job at the mine, Mr. Lovas played in a dance band on weekends. He played the drums and watched the couples waltzing across the floor. When some of the band members invited him to stay for a beer, he always told them he needed to get home to his family.

In the evenings after work he stayed up late making pots and pans and ladles from scrap metal. There were large food tins left behind by the American soldiers, and good quality metal could be had from airplane parts that scattered the area. He would go to the local farmers and exchange the cookware for eggs or milk or vegetables.

But it was never enough. The children often went to bed crying from hunger. The parents would exchange looks, but neither could speak.

Lilya tried to be a good girl because her mother worried so much. She had two older brothers, but she took her role as the eldest daughter very seriously. When her little sister came along she declared proudly that she would be responsible for the baby. After all, Lilya was nearly two years old. She would pat her sister’s tiny head and declare, “Baby, I’m going to take care of you.”

Mrs. Lovas worried. She worried about the lack of food, the overcrowding, and her husband’s nagging cough. But most of all she worried about the chronic illnesses that compromised her children’s health. How were they going to grow up without adequate food?

Lilya and her brothers and sister developed a nagging ear infection and Mrs. Lovas took the children to the doctor daily. Lilya and the baby were especially thin, and the mother tried to stretch every potato, every lump of butter, every drop of milk.

“I’m hungry,” Lilya fussed one afternoon. She was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, watching her mother cook farina for the evening meal. Mrs. Lovas wondered, should she add more water?

“It’ll be ready in a minute,” the mother said. Suddenly she heard a loud wail from the corner. The baby was awake and needed changing. She left the pot to simmer on the stove, warning Lilya not to touch anything.

Lilya knew there was food in the pot. She glanced over to the corner. Her mother was busy with the baby. Maybe she could stir the cereal for a little while and make it cook faster. She dragged a chair from the kitchen and pushed it up against the stove. She climbed up and grabbed the wooden spoon.

There was a wet spot on the chair and her foot slipped. She fell backward, taking the chair and spoon and pot with her. Bubbling hot cereal splashed on her arm.

Mr. Lovas came home to a wailing, half-diapered baby, two crying boys and a hysterical wife scrubbing hot cereal from an equally hysterical toddler’s inflamed arm.

He took the sobbing little girl into his arms and poured cool water on the burn. Then he wrapped her arm in a clean cloth and fed her a meal of bread crusts and milk. Lilya stopped crying, even though her arm hurt terribly. Being in her tired father’s lap was a wonderful treat. She wanted it to last forever.

When they went to the doctor the next day, he gave the mother a reproachful look. “Mrs. Lovas, this is a very bad burn. I’m going to wrap it in a sterile dressing, but you’ll have to change it every day to prevent infection.” He wound gauze while Lilya watched. Dr. Hoffmann was almost as gentle as her father. She wished he would say something to her, because she understood German. But he worked in silence.

Then he examined the other children. In addition to the ear infections, they were suffering from a persistent cough. Peering over his spectacles, he said, “Frau Lovas, these children need more nourishment.”

“And where does he think I am going to get more food?” Mrs. Lovas thought to herself, but all she said was, “I do the best I can, Dr. Hoffmann.”

While the doctor attended one child, his wife would coax the others into her kitchen and offer them fruit or a piece of bread from her own table. Mrs. Lovas, who stayed with the doctor, was unaware of this.

One afternoon, after they had been to the doctor, she noticed her oldest son eating a banana. “Where did you get that?”

He looked up innocently. “I said I was hungry and Frau Hoffmann gave it to me.”

Mrs. Lovas covered her face and wept with shame. Her pride had never let her accept charity, but how could she take away this food that provided essential nourishment for her children?

“Next time you need to tell me so you can share it with your brother and sisters.” But how was she going to divide one banana among four hungry children?

What kind of a world was it when a mother could not feed her own children?

Forgiving

I was reading “The God of Small Things,” by Arundhatti Roy, in which the author described a sexually abusive encounter between a small child and a dissolute man behind a candy counter. About an hour later some distant pre-cognitive memory surfaced, something filthy and frightening, something I’d experienced before but which was entirely elusive. That is, there was no name, no face, no context, no language of words. Only a language of pain and shame.

That afternoon I took my mother to church. Something about that church triggered a memory. I grasped for meaning, but deeply buried feelings have no time reference nor rationality. I stood there, awash with what felt like fresh grief. Tears ran down my face, and for an instant I felt out of control.

Then a new feeling came, a feeling that did not take away the pain but blended with it, weaving among the impressions. It was a feeling of acceptance. My heart felt like it was bowing before the unfathomable and saying, “I accept that this happened, and I accept that I could do nothing about it, and I accept that I created a way of coping that hurt me terribly and undermined my relationships with my family.”

There it was, the grief and the hope, neither overpowering the other, each flowing and receding in turn until my heart felt annealed. I stole a glance over at my mother and I realized that there had been some good times between us, and there could have been more if I had not retreated behind an impenetrable wall of silence that shut her out. I realized that the past was the past and would never come back to hurt me. Neither could I change any of my previous actions. My mother was a fragile and damaged soul, and neither of us had been able to burst through our individual woundedness to find right relationship. She did hurtful things in my childhood I could not understand at the time (nor change now) and I could accept that in retaliating I did the only things I could do to survive. There was no blame anymore.

I could forgive what was done to me and I could seek forgiveness for the things I did, for suddenly I saw that this was the way open to me, a way that took nothing away but held all of me and those around me in a stream of unconditional love. I had the feeling that had I not been held up I would have plunged into a huge wave of despair.

And as a result of this insight, I kept saying “I forgive,” followed by “I seek forgiveness.” The tears kept flowing, but barriers had been broken and I felt light and free.

Later, my mother noticed the change. We did not talk about it. There was a gentleness in our interactions, as if we both knew that there had been a soul mending.

But there was no need to mention it.

Who Abolished Whom?

Has anyone else noticed the elimination of the personal pronouns who and whom? We were taught in elementary school that when you referred to a person you used personal pronouns. But all genres of the media have forgotten to refer to human beings as human beings. The announcer states, “The mayor was referring to the  individual that spoke at the city council meeting,” or “The suspect that allegedly committed the crime was taken into custody.” What happened to “the individual who spoke” or “the suspect who committed the crime?” Is this an unconscious move towards depersonalization? I am appalled at the loss of who and whom, but am even more appalled that no one notices or cares.