agingwrinklesandwondersdot.com

This week there was a blip on my medical radar. I didn’t see it coming, seemed like all of a sudden it was just there. I was tested in the ER for this and that and told to follow up with a specialist, because they felt they had ruled out life threatening  causes. But of course I could get hit by a bus, and that would really be a moot point. Now, I’m feeling much better physically, but I haven’t returned to my usual emotional equilibrium. I think being sick or injured uncovers a lot of fears and vulnerabilities, and there is nothing flattering or dignified about hospital gowns.

There is a silly song from Tiny Tim that was popular during my teen years, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”.  It seems the tulips were overrun with thistles when I wasn’t  looking, but I’m looking now! I was scared when I wasn’t feeling well and shared this with my son. Isn’t it funny how women can be so good at giving comfort but not receiving it? It is still my job to be mothering I think. Not smothering-I remind myself. Feeling vulnerability is the most “honest” of feelings, but also the most frightening. What if I share vulnerability and I’m dismissed, laughed at or talked out of it. This wound is so deep and will get infected. Healing comes slowly if at all. It isn’t this bad is it? Yes, yes it is. For those who don’t know about wound care, it can seem counter intuitive at times. Wounds needs to be kept “open” until the infection is gone. A sterile tape is inserted to keep the wound from closing and to let the pus drain.  It is not pretty. Letting the wound close too soon risks the infection getting worse. For me, the real challenge is saying “I’m afraid” and not jumping in to discount myself. “It will be fine I’m sure, I’m just a baby” etc….closing myself up before the compassion can happen. 

Getting older means I need to exercise and build up my vulnerability and humility muscle. It’s likely I will  need more help from others, at least physically.  I hate this: “I can handle it, thank you very much.” I walk much more carefully so I don’t slip on the ice, I don’t attempt to move heavy boxes that I used to throw around, loaded with books no less. How old was he or she ? Often the first question I ask when I hear about someone’s death. When I’m not feeling “little” I’m feeling filled with rage. How could this be happening to me? How dare life treat me like this when I am the exception to the rule? The joke is on me!

I’ve written about resilience and I know this is a time when I need to rustle up some of my strengths and attitudes to stay vulnerable, but also practice good self-care. I can sit for a few minutes and meditate to slow my facing thoughts . This helps  my blood pressure and my emotional pressure too. I can ask my trusted friends and family to listen to me and let me express feelings that may not be so pretty. When someone says to me that they have had the same feelings I am validated, which is such an enemy to shame. It’s  self-compassion that will give me the space to be vulnerable. I can leave the wound open until the infection is gone.

Out there in the world I tend to try and “ Fake it until I make it.” I need to get thru the day so I reply “I’m fine” when people ask “How are you?” Maybe I can take a few more risks to be authentic without unloading or over-sharing. The next time Bob asks me “How are you?” I could answer “It’s been a struggle lately. Thank you for asking.”

When shit happens….

“I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don’t feel so bad”

My apologies to Julie Andrews for cherry-picking her lyrics, but it works for me. It’s the “ favorite things” helping her to feel better that I relate to. I have things that I love and  bring me comfort because they remind me of a positive memory or feeling. Although Inanimate  and non-living they seem human to me. My word-nerd self found that “personification” means attributing human characteristics to inanimate and non-living things. For example,  “ My car died.” and“ The dishes keep staring at me, begging me to wash them.” My Mom told me that when I couldn’t find a sock it “walked off”! Missing socks felt like a conspiracy to me. I was never good at playing hide and seek. One year for Halloween I sent my son out as the sock monster, with a hundred socks pinned all over him and a sign saying “ I have your missing sock.” I’m not sure he really got it, but I did.

The things I love aren’t antiques or valuable, but they are valuable to me and  seem human to me. My Pillsbury Doughboy is over 50 years old ( he’s as old as I am). I love him partly because of the commercial he starred in.  I remember when he was poked in his belly he had this sweet little laugh. When I see him on my windowsill, I also see my Mom kneading bread and smell the bread just out of the oven. I couldn’t wait to cut a thick slice, slather butter on it and watch it melt in. I could see,smell and taste the bread. I got a large wicker basket with a lid on it for my first dorm room, in 1970. It’s been a lot of places and seen a lot of things through the years. I still use it as a night stand and “home” is what it holds, no matter the geography. When I see it I know “I’m home. I don’t even know what’s in it now, but it doesn’t matter. I have a small figure sculpted  of nuts and bolts and he is holding a heavy metal heart. I like to think he’s offering his heart to me in case mine gets broken. He’s been with me for I don’t even know how long. He’s in a place where I see him a lot through out the day. I notice that I use the pronoun “he” when I talk about him and I guess it’s the nuts and bolt thing. I don’t know his gender at birth. My son came home from daycare 37 years ago with mama bear and Tyler-bear paper figures stapled together.  Now they are very faded but the staple still holds.  It’s the staple I love…it connects me to my son.

A penny for your thoughts? In my life it’s a dime for your thoughts. My late husband Roger had this weird thing about finding dimes. No other coins around it…just a single dime. When we were out walking he’d almost shove me out of the way to get to a dime he saw. We laughed about it and it became his thing. He made quite a pile of dimes. When he was dying I asked him to keep sending me dimes to let me know he was taking care of me. He hasn’t let me down yet. I get dimes from heaven. He leaves dimes for me everywhere. I remember one particular day I was anxious and grieving , and I parked in a big lot and opened my car door- and there on the concrete was a single dime. I thank him for each dime I find. Sometimes I joke with him and tell him inflation means he should leave me twenties. Not everyone believes that our loved ones communicate with us after death, but I believe.

I was really hoping that my date with BadBoy was going to be a lot of fun. I had dressed to impress.

hope\ˈhōp\

• : to want something to happen or be true and think that it could happen or be true

I was dressed early, so there was nothing to do but wait for him to come pick me up.

wait\ˈwāt\

• : to stay in a place until an expected event happens, until someone arrives, until it is your turn to do something, etc.
• : to remain in a state in which you expect or hope 

He was late, but he was BadBoy so I figured he was always late. I was patient and was escaping the heat of the day and sitting outside in the cooler night air. 

patient: able to remain calm and not become annoyed when waiting for a long time 

I waited and waited and began to get impatient, and irritated. He was probably drinking with his friends and decided to blow me off. My self-esteem took a nose dive.

im·pa·tient\(ˌ)im-ˈpā-shənt

• : not willing to wait for something or someone : not patient
• : showing that you do not want to wait : showing a lack of patience

I wanted to give up on the evening completely, but instead called a friend to vent and asked her to come pick me up. We’d  go to the dance sans BadBoy and have fun. I may have drank more than I should have.

give up: to cease doing or attempting something especially as an admission of defeat 

And through all that waiting here I am. I’m no longer that young woman with a shaky sense of self-worth who thinks waiting is what it’s all about.  I’m not waiting to do what I want to do. I sure as hell am not waiting at the pearly gates of heaven.  I’ll know when it’s my turn.

re·sil·ience\ri-ˈzil-yən(t)s\ noun:

• : the ability to become strong, healthy, or successful again after something bad happens

“We think that Roger has dementia.” This diagnosis  broke my life into pieces. Grief, fear and powerlessness became my daily companions. Roger, my husband, had recently fallen and been knocked unconscious.  His affect, memory and behavior had changed, and the working hypothesis was that he had a brain injury. But even with rehab and therapy he did not get better.. He was diagnosed with Lewy Body dementia. Imagine Parkinsons and Azheimers together. My care giving journey began in earnest. I was tired. I cried. I raged. I felt numb. I was afraid of breaking into pieces and never being whole again.

I was like Humpty Dumpty! He fell off the wall and could not be put together again.He was not resilient, he shattered and there was no recovery. In 1871, Alice,in Lewis Carroll’s “Through  a Looking Glass” reached for an egg in a shop and saw human features on it. She declared that it was Humpty Dumpty, who as an egg was very fragile and easily cracked and broke open. Was Humpty Dumpty pushed off the wall he was sitting on, or did he jump or was it a horrible accident? Life can certainly knock us out of our secret and secure hiding places. I was pushed into caregiving by a disease that was relentless and had no remorse. I did fall apart many times but I got up one more time then I fell down. I attended a support group for caregivers and the group members kept me going when I didn’t see how I could. When I stumbled, the arms of the group members were there to help me right myself.

My sister worked in an egg packing plant checking to see if eggs were fertilized. A light was shined on the eggs and they became translucent. Inside the egg, developing embryos could be seen and then those eggs were placed in incubators. It is the yolk that provides sustenance to the growing  embryo.  There is no way to scan humans for resilience and no way to know for sure if we are growing through the pain. What sustains us? Grief takes and takes from us, but are there things that grief gives to us?

When my caregiving journey ended I didn’t know who I was if I wasn’t a caregiver any longer. My shell certainly had some big cracks in it, but I held together.  With no caregiving to do I was lost, but I had this newly freed time to finally rest and grieve without guilt. Hard boiled eggs don’t crack or break as easily, but resilience is not about becoming “hard”. Learning and changing required that I remain open to pain, but not hardened by it. My caring for Roger transformed me, I was stronger, more flexible and more compassionate. My perspective on what was truly important had changed. Caregiving stripped a lot of “important” things from my life. I couldn’t “will” things to turn out the way I wanted them to. Running away and denial were tempting options of course, but I made a conscious decision to stay and care for the man I loved. 

I accepted the gifts of grief which enabled me to use my caregiving experience to facilitate support groups for caregivers of people with dementia. What a gift it was for me to be a resource for other caregivers!

I’m sitting in a coffee shop and watching  a young adult with Down Syndrome. playing with a rubber frog. He is holding it upside down and shaking it so it’s legs move making the frog look alive.He hasn’t set it down for the last hour. It soothes him and calms him, but it makes me nervous as hell! I think he’s lucky that he’s found a way to soothe himself,  but most of us have a much harder time figuring out what can relax and comfort us. I’ve tried those things we call “self-medicating”, like booze, drugs, food, and sex.  They  seemed to work for awhile, but soon  the solution became part of the problem. If  you’re numb, even destructive behaviors that bring pain can be more appealing than feeling numb. I watch him leave with his frog and I’m shocked to realize that I’ve been concentrating on the frog for quite awhile. I’m surprised at how it got my attention. 

I move and fidget when I’m anxious. The frog is pretty fidgety too!  I pace, drum my fingers and tap my foot. Sitting still is so hard for me. I always feel better after I take a walk, or run. This seems to clear my head or help me see solutions. If I work hard physically the kind of tired I feel makes it harder for me to get deep into my anxiety. It’s amazing what I can do to distract myself. I’ve even been known to clean house to ward off anxiety. I love to read and a good novel can suck me right in. My meditation practice can be pretty inconsistent, but when I do it I do feel better. This requires sitting still, so I have to slow down enough and be motivated enough to sit still and clear my mind. I am so fortunate to have a dear friend who has a black belt in listening and punching holes in my crazy thinking.

Dealing with the symptoms of anxiety is important, but still reactive.  I need to be proactive in my understanding the causes and origins of my anxiety. Why do I feel the way I feel? What am I thinking? What stories am I telling myself? In 12 step programs they talk about  “rigorous honesty”. Recognizing, facing and dealing with trauma requires a deeper commitment to get up close and personal with my pain, but my first instinct is to avoid pain. I think looking forward is positive, but I can’t move forward if the past is putting the brakes on and still in control. How do I understand and change the stories I tell myself?  First I have to hear what my stories are.  When I can do it, sitting quietly and meditating in the “sound of silence” can help me hear my own stories of victim hood,  aggrievement and self-hate. I can then challenge myself to see how these “truths” are really lies I tell myself. I think myself into a feeling and then the feeling changes my thinking, what a closed system of dysfunction! Breaking this cycle is critical to lowering my anxiety level. Writing is an important way I discover what I am thinking. If I write quickly without sensoring myself, and not paying attention to punctuation or grammar, I can write without time to edit and  correct myself. The truth is more likely to come out of this unstructured writing.

One thing I know for sure is that worry does not add anything positive to my life and takes my attention away from today . Worrying is not taking action against my anxiety, though I may feel if I worry enough I will be prepared for the bad things that will inevitability happen. I don’t want to be surprised so I worry proactively. There is no guarantee, as we all know, and so much is out of my control. What if I decided to stop worrying so much? That makes me nervous and I could even start to worry about worry. Right now I don’t know how to stop practicing worry.

So where can I find that frog for myself?

Angst:  feelings of anxiety, apprehension, or insecurity about the future. Teens and angst fit together. Teenage angst, it’s real and we all felt it even if we didn’t name it.  Still I might tell my teenage self that it’s a bit of drama and over indulgence when you’ve likely got  50 years of  future to figure it out!  I think my angst is multiplied by the limited number of years I have left to begin to make sense of this thing called life and my humanity. Urgency and angst are not good for each other. Each magnifies the other.. 

I don’t court angst, but sometimes it does sneak up on me. How much time do I have left? What do I want? What if I can’t accomplish my dreams. So there it is—urgency and angst. How do I cool this anxiety and fear? There really is  some positive awareness or even wisdom that often comes with age.  I think I have some glimmers of this wisdom.  I believe life is meant to be lived joyfully. Are we having fun yet? If at 70, my answer is “ No” then I’m not doing it right. Curiosity is a virtue and a blessing to me. “I wonder if I would like that. Let’s check that out”  I might like it or hate it, or be not interested. Sure I’ll go to the Dog Hawaii print shirt contest,  with or without my dogs, who probably would think getting dressed up was  animal abuse. I’ll checkout that poetry workshop and open mic poetry reading and get inspired. Time to restart my guitar lessons. It’s a challenge and I know it will bring me joy to be able to play some of my favorite songs. I don’t want to die “with the music in me!”. Who would have thought storytelling would bring me such joy?  My writing, storytelling and poetry might bring enjoyment to others besides me, and that’s an “angst buster” for sure .

I’ve learned that I can be self-aware, but not self-absorbed. The more I think about what I want to create and share, the less time I have to obsess about my mortality. When I have an idea I imagine what the end result might be and how I would do it. At that moment I’m not ruminating on the “meaning” of life.  I’m curious and my imagination is in overdrive which is  another “angst buster”!  Enthusiasm that comes from genuine interest and commitment is energizing. It turns out that some of the things I thought I would like, I don’t, and I may even suck at some things, even those things I like. Skill is not always a requirement for fun, sometimes the fun is in my total ineptitude. Doing something badly can be so liberating. 

Where is my focus? I’m not cross-eyed anymore. What about my neighbor—next door and the other side of the world. I’ve lived long enough to truly comprehend what the poet John Dunne wrote, “Never ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.”  I am “of” this world, not apart from it. I’m not a missionary in a foreign country, but I can choose to act for the greater good.  I try not to pollute the world with my own onerous and angry verbal emissions.  I can recycle, buy used, and contribute to causes I believe in. I can stand and hold a sign in protest of lies and cruelty. It matters. I matter. Knowing I matter is another “angst buster.”

I think I am much better equipped to deal with angst than a teenager. Maybe urgency and angst together is exactly the catalyst that I need. Meanwhile I’m having fun. Are you?

I have learned that writing  a poem is a whole different game than writing essays or stories. Each word in a poem has a lot of responsibility, it  needs to be just the right word to convey a feeling or paint a picture. I did a poetry reading this week and  I struggled to convey my feelings with a few powerful words. The other poets demonstrated their superior abilities and I was just a small fish in a big sea. Weak words don’t cut it, for example, in a poem you almost never see the word “nice”: It was a “nice” sunset, the morning was “nice”. Why?  Because there is not one ounce of feeling or imagination in “nice”. Poetry tells me to get to the point. Find the just right word that says it best.

As I have gotten older, I am more motivated and determined  to do the things I want to do and cut the onerous bonds of doing the things I think I should do. I want to get to the point of curious contentment.  A whole lot of “almost”, “not quite” and “kinda” miss the point for me. I can eat a whole lot of salad, but it may not be as satisfying as one small piece of good dark chocolate. There’s that “It’s quality, not quantity.” truism.  I don’t always buy the lowest price item, now I’m willing to spend more if another item is what I really want.  Living is simpler the more I am learning to listen to myself.  “Good enough  is a great concept, but I want at least some of my days to be more than good enough, I want some excellent days. After all Goldilocks  didn’t  settle until she found the bed that was “just right”.

When I say stop the “bullshit” I mean stop piling on words to make something that is nonsensical make sense. I love words and the verb obfuscate” says it well: to confuse, bewilder, or stupefy. To make obscure or unclear, offering extraneous information. We think we are evolving, but maybe we are just getting better at obfuscating! I’m worried that the end result of all the social media we live with is to “confuse, bewilder, or stupefy.” Artificial intelligence increases this risk exponentially. AI is consistent and not subject to distraction, moods and other human maladies. We could be in big trouble with all the extraneous information we are subjected to. We even have an expression for this “I fell into the rabbit hole.”  Imagine if Bugs Bunny asked ,“What’s up doc?”, and got some malignant Trump word salad in response. His rabbit hole would not save him.

I don’t have much clarity, and I doubt I can wrap this post up in a way that satisfies me and my readers. Here again a poem could be a good vehicle if I could find the perfect, powerful words to express myself. My internal thesaurus is a little rusty and I am confused, bewildered and stupefied.  That’s perfect!

When I was a child, at every family holiday celebration there was a grown-up table and a kid’s table. It was a big deal when I graduated to the grown-up’s table. I’m now 70 years old and I’m ready to go back to the kid’s table. My son who is 37 is a grown – up, but at 70 I am not really sure if I am a grown-up. I could just be old. Grown-ups seem like they are in control of their lives, it’s an illusion, but they look good! 

Adulting is an informal term often used to describe behavior that is seen as responsible and grown-up. This involves meeting the mundane demands of independent and professional living, such as paying bills and running errands, not to mention raising children. I don’t know  if I am adulting now, but I’m pretty sure I was a grown up most of the time when I was raising my son.

My son has a good job, owns his home, is responsible and seems sure of his beliefs and faith. He seems to have more answers than he has questions. I have one answer for every ten questions.My beliefs and faith are not melded together in a consistent and meaningful way. I don’t have a mission statement. Aren’t I supposed to have a mission statement? After I asked him for some advice, my son commented that it’s parents who give advice to their children, not the other way around. I said I’ll listen to advice wherever it comes from, especially from someone who knows me well. He shared an observation of me that although painful to hear I knew was true. I wanted to spew out “ You have a lot to learn yet and I’m old and wise you know.”  Good thing I kept my mouth shut because I didn’t want to sound like a teenager who is always right. Grownups know “ I could be wrong” is the mature thing to say. I’m in trouble  because I have a mountain of resistance to admitting I may be wrong. My son makes sure I am aware of this fact.

I don’t want to grow up if adulting means I become conforming, in-tolerant and a rule follower.   I don’t want to stop playing, having fun or being silly. Psychologists have put forth theories of life stages, all seem to agree  that elders have often gained wisdom that can be passed down to younger generations. The missing piece in all of these theories about aging and saging is that age does not always bring an audience willing to listen. Besides, no one really learns from other’s experiences, it is only their own experiences. If you are busy adulting and raising a family,  who has time to listen anyway?  Jr. has to get to his soccer game and marriages need to be saved.

Meanwhile I’m busy living and loving, trying new things, feeling new feelings and doing what I love. I don’t need a label to put me in my place in the human life cycle. 

You are in a dark smoky bar and you see a dude in a fantastic white suit. He says to his friend “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.” Casablanca, Humphrey Bogart as Rick.  I think this is the ultimate coincidence in a movie. The topic “What a coincidence!”,was the topic this week for my storytelling event.  With revisions I’d like to share it with you in this blog post. 

35 years ago …I was very upset that day, my marriage was in trouble. My husband had told me he  was willing to stay and work on our marriage he had feelings for another woman. I doubted him. Since I wanted to smoke, rant and cry my girlfriend and I decided to go to Rolland Moore Park so I could smoke outside. I looked up and I was shocked and devastated  to see my husband drive by with the other woman. A million fucks! Wrong place at the wrong time.

30 years ago: I went to my hair stylist who knew I had recently got divorced and we were talking about  my current  state of datelessness. The stylist next to us overheard us and said “Hey my neighbor is single and a really nice guy. He got divorced a few years ago. He’s cute too! Can I give him your number? ”We got married 2 years later. Right place, right time. 

Coincidences…I’d rather talk about sex or confess my sins then write and talk about this topic! It befuddles me and makes me very confused. Even in my dorm circle of earnest college girls passing Boones Farm around, there was no resolution or solace in talking about coincidences and fate. Maybe we needed better wine, or more of it, to get the courage to face the real issues: self-determination,and acceptance. My aging self still  struggles with these issues.

I’m a rule follower, so in spite of my resistance, I started to write about coincidence, but screeched to a stop just before I ran into the brick wall of randomness and chaos.  Wait a minute, do  I even believe in coincidences? My itty bitty brain wants definitions cause I’m likely to misunderstand what a word really means.  I trust Daniel Webster: 2 : coincidence…the occurrence of events that happen at the same time by accident but seem to be connected. So events are accidental but we create the connection? What a coincidence! We name  it and create the meaning. I make a judgement call about how events or facts are related. 

We humans are funny creatures, we tend to think things happen for a reason. Randomness and chaos are uncomfortable paradigms. We control our lives right? We are social creatures and search for connections. For example you tell me you are from Iowa , and I say “what a coincidence I am too.” We want to create a “we”.; we share a similar background, we have something in common. We are then socially connected, more alike than different, not total strangers anymore. If we find out our new acquaintance is on the same political  side as us that’s a good coincidence, but if we are on opposite sides politically the fact that we are in the same place at the same time may not be a pleasant coincidence, it could be an unpleasant accident. Like the “match” who thought I should wear my ballot for Biden around my neck! A coffee date with a “Match” is really all about finding out how alike we are, how do we connect. We are hoping for “coincidences” or facts  that make us more likable to each other.

I’m not a true believer in fate: Fate is a power that is believed to control what will happen in the future  What power? Is this power on my side? I’m very uncomfortable with “chaos” which is defined as “a state of things in which chance is supreme”: If chance is supreme then coincidences and fate should just slink off into the corner. Let’s kick superstition to the corner too. We don’t earn good or bad karma, we don’t really deserve anything. Bad things do happen to good people. My  husband got early onset Lewy Body Dementia and died at 64. It wasn’t” fair”, but  then I’m not owed fairness.There are things that have happened in my life and I demanded an answer to“why”, but so far I have no answers and life just laughs at me.

Sounds a bit like word salad to me. Can we prove any of this stuff? Do things have meaning? Does anybody really have a plan?  Do I  believe in magical thinking? I know I have a heap of good questions but no answers really. Does any of this really matter? I think sometimes I need to know answers  to protect myself….from fear and insecurity.

I’m not waiting for the stars to align for me. I put myself out there and expect no guarantees and my fingers are not crossed. I do know 2 things for sure: good things happen and shit happens!! I can live with this. I have to.

Linus, Danita, Neal, Maury, Aileen, Mary Jo, Ann, Leonice,Zita, Ruth, Lisa, Artie, Lee…

I grew up with 12 siblings. When I tell people this they usually are amazed and ask how  it growing up, was it lots of fun and were we close? I always tell them that we were not the Von Trapp family singing our way to freedom. No one attempted to murder another sibling, but I  can’t vouch that no one  never thought about it.  We had an an operating system to put order to the chaos. I’ll call it the Holthaus operating system. Bill Gates would have wise to buy us out. For example, if you decided to leave your position during a commercial  “ Saved” was the word that guaranteed that no one would take your seat or spot on the floor. Yes, we had positions on the floor that were quite valuable. Without this agreement we would have came to fisticuffs and hair- pulling. If you forgot to say “saved” you were sol. I still catch myself saying “saved”when I get up. 15 people, one bathroom, justifiable homicide. And one frypan for our Sunday eggs. Lots of I’m first , I’m second for the bathroom, etc.  We even had to claim the window seat in the car. Mom set  up a system with the daily tasks like washing and drying dishes, and sweeping the floor. It was a simple set rotation so arguing about it was pretty futile. It was “fair” and this was the ultimate test. Your turn was your turn.  Did you know that slicing a half gallon of ice cream is the only way to really be fair? If it wasn’t “fair” we squawked.

To keep mealtimes orderly we had assigned seats at the table,  Dad on one end and Mom on the other, and long benches on both sides with assigned seating. When Mom yelled dinner we hurried to the table because those who were late might find some dishes were empty. We said grace before every meal, but we were still likely to act out at the table by banging our glasses on the table or attempting to shove someone off the bench. Meal time was  strictly for eating.  10 minutes at the table was pretty much the norm. My parents lingered, but we didn’t. And the amount of dishes to be washed…

As soon as we were old enough we were given a chore to do. I gathered eggs, and packed them in the egg cartons. The chicken coop also housed rats and the hens pecked and squawked when I  grabbed their eggs. It was a quick in and out. I liked to sing badly at my egg table as I sorted the eggs. It was quiet in the basement and I was usually alone. Privacy was a valuable commodity to me.

 We had our roles….the funny one, the quiet one, the trouble maker, the leader, the follower, the smart one, the dumb one. The youngest in the family was born the year I graduated from high school, so we had the older ones and the younger ones and different “realities”for each. It is almost like 2 different families. Our parents certainly changed thru the years and had time to pay attention, go to more school events, and games. I just came back from a visit with family and was surprised how family tales and secrets were understood so differently depending on birth order. Alternative facts….

So did we have fun?  We had fun, but mostly outside and away from parental scrutiny. We did report in if so and so hit us or was not playing fair. Tattletale! We played together and cooperated to create situations where “fun”was the goal. We rode a toboggan packed with 5 or 6 kids and picked the driver carefully. Snowball fights,  playing basketball, HORSE, softball—- we had enough players for lots of activities. We had some conflicts on rules of course. King of the mountain on top of a big pile of snow was a favorite, and we had to wrestle or shove someone off the top. No warm and fuzzy there! We also had some boxing gloves around from someone and boxed each other. Ouch….

No privacy! Always shared a bedroom and bed. Had to hide to have a good cry! Private Phone calls required stretching the cord outside to the front porch. We went thru a lot of cords.

We could all drink from the river of denial and refuse to acknowledge the truth. Who was depressed, who was drinking too much and fell asleep driving? All for one and one for all?Ask for help? Not so much. We were fed and clothed and had a tidy house. We got the giggles with each other and teased each other without mercy.  There was always a rug rat in our family. I babied lots of babies, and for god sakes keep door closed to the basement stairs! There was total panic when baby Lee could not be found. Retracing … he had crawled into the corner lazy Susan for pots and pans and fallen asleep. True story!  I’ve always had the ability to read my surroundings. Paying  attention to the needs of others with a  wide lens. I am vigilant, and I am responsible. I grew up with those values.

We are family, all my sisters and me…we had a storytelling and poetry reading from our sister books when we were all together in Iowa last week. All of us read and told stories inspite of earlier decisions to not actively participate. We had a great  crowd of friends and family and we all had fun. My sisters are my lifeline, my shelter. Our love is elastic across the miles and across our differences. We are each unique and deserve equal treatment. Life is not fair…but we try to level the playing field. We live affirmative action. Watch out for others, they are all family, brothers and sisters.