To See If I Can

Five little words.  Just five.  I uttered them last week when I felt the need to photograph the full moon out back that was so incredibly beautiful. 

The words?  To see if I can. 

It was nine o’clock at night.  I sat out back with my camera hoisted on my tripod and tried different shutter speeds, iso settings and apertures.  It was incredibly frustrating.  But I kept on.  I would stop and head into the house every once in awhile to take a break and re-group.  I studied my owner’s manual; I went online to see if there was any information that might lead me in the right direction to capture that one perfect shot. 

One site suggested I buy a telescope and adapter to get the best picture.  I googled.  $1500 and up.   I made the practical decision to try to get the picture with the equipment I already possessed. 

Back outside and tried a few suggestions I had found online.  Manual focus, ISO 100, Aperture F11, Shutter speed 125 and lens set to infinity.  (I shouted, “To infinity and beyond” to see if that would help.) With these settings in place at 11:53 pm I got the shots I wanted.  250 shots of the moon over 3 1/2 hours and I kept 7.  But they were a good 7.

I had experienced an  “to see if I can” moment.  And even though it was sitting in my backyard shooting picture after picture of the beautiful full moon, I thought of something; when I was younger I had so many of those wonderful moments where I stepped outside my comfort zone and stretched the boundaries of my somewhat safe existence. 

“Sure I can jump off that cliff into the water below.”

“Let’s climb up the steel trusses of the ranger tower.”

I won’t go into some of the other “to see if I can” moments of my life as some were just too stupid and I would prefer you all think of me as that “grown up” you all know and love. 

These moments might change as we age, maybe they’re not as  physically demanding.  But that wonderful moment when you see that you can learn something new, conquer some fear or just step outside your comfort zone and try, well these moments are priceless.

I Love It!!!

Something has been bothering me for some time now.  It has to do with words.  Not the overuse of the word “literally.”  Not the overuse of the words “whatever” or “awesome.”  Not people who say “irregardless.”  Actually, those things really annoy me.  But what really drives me crazy is the overuse of the words “love” and “hate.” 

I was talking to a friend about a new movie and she said, “Oh, I won’t see it. I hate Tom Cruise.”  You HATE Tom Cruise?  I may dislike an actor’s acting style, or their role choices, but hate?  No.  I save that emotion for more serious matters.

Let me give you an idea of what I mean. 

I hate that my Father died so young.

I hate Cheetos.

Do you see the difference?  Can the feelings in these two sentences even compare?

I dislike Cheetos.  I can’t stand Cheetos.   Cheetos are not my thing.

I think maybe this all boils down to my love of words and their true meanings.  We throw love and hate around so casually that they lose their meaning. 

I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.

I love spaghetti. 

I love my children.

I love lattes.

Overuse of the words tends to make the sentiment less.  Less meaningful, less important. 

We need to respect the words.  We need to allow them to express their true meaning.  Because if you stop to think about it there are no two words as powerful as Love and Hate.

I Cry

I just finished a book called The Weird Sisters.  At the end, I cried.  It was a happy ending, but still…I have always been a crier.  Happy, sad, anything moving can bring tears to my eyes.  I have to admit that as I have gotten older I cry easier but it’s always been there.  I used to cry at commercials.  The Kodak one with the little kid being licked by golden retriever puppies or the Folgers one where the young man comes home and his sister says, “You’re the only gift I need.”

It used to bother me.  When a movie I was watching with the kids hit the happy/sad moment, I would casually wipe the tears before the kids could say, “Are you crying?”  It was a Sesame Street movie, but Big Bird was just so sad.  Don’t get me started on Old Yeller.

As I’ve gotten older I have embraced my tears of joy or sadness.  I rejoice when a book or movie moves me to tears.  In this day and age it is so easy to become hardened to emotions.    

Yesterday, I was curled up on the couch with a good book and my husband was watching golf... (no surprise there!)  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a short commercial with a returning soldier surprising his son at school.  The tears started.   Three Kleenexes and several minutes of a perplexed husband’s quizzical look later I returned to my reading. 

I noted several things:

1.  My eyes and nose get a good cleaning.

2.  I somehow feel as if I have had a therapeutic moment, very Zen, cleansing if you will.

3. The smile after can bring about a momentary change in an otherwise tedious day.

So, bring on that new baby, emotional homecomings, heart tugging commercials and poignant family moments.  My Kleenex and I embrace you!!!!

Cudda

There she sat.  I called her “she” because I considered her to be an extension of myself.

She was a 1972 Plymouth Barracuda, Moss Green with a black leather top.  It was my dad’s dream car that he had bought to drive when he gave my sister and me his old 1968 Chevy II after we had successfully obtained our drivers licenses.  The Chevy II was a tank.  A tan, squared up, four door piece of machinery whose only job was to protect us in our early days behind the wheel. 

But I wanted the power.  I wanted the speed.  And I was the bad one.

I would wait until my sister would ask to use the car on a Friday night before stating that I too had plans and needed wheels. 

“Okay you can have the Barracuda, just be careful.”

“Careful, sure.  You know me, always careful.”

Friday night, Headly Road.  We would all meet and race; the guy with the GTO, the guy with the Pontiac 2x2 and even the guy with the souped up Volkswagen.

Looking back I can’t get over the chances I took on the dangerous winding roads.  I just knew I loved the speed.  I lived for the exhilarating feel of the force that threw you left to right as you took the corners, perilously close to the deep ditches that ran alongside the narrow country roads. 

There were a few minor collisions between some of the other vehicles, but I was lucky enough to come away unscathed.  The worst that happened to me was one winter’s night when I was running against my friend in his Pontiac 2x2.  I knew I didn’t stand a chance, he was fast and a little crazy.  When I pulled his name, I knew I would sit back and race just for the fun of it.  No expectations. 

The road had been salted and was nice and dry.  I sat revving my motor beside the Pontiac, waiting until we got the all clear from the guys that stood along the road at half mile intervals.  The flag flew and we were off.  Tires screeching, the smell of rubber burning mixed with the stench of exhaust fumes. 

It was all going well.  He was ahead by two car lengths at the first bend.  As I came out of the turn my wheels skidded on the salt that had accumulated by the edge of the road.  As abruptly as my tires had slid they just as suddenly caught in the gravel throwing the car into the ditch.  Slushy snow and mud flew over the front of the sleek car.  The exact moment of the loss of control remains a blur to this day but my seat belt held me securely in place.  I sat stunned for a few moments.   Friends ran to my car. 

“Are you okay?”

“Holy shit!”

I heard the mumbling s of my friends but still wasn't piecing it together.

I got out of the car and sat on the ground.  My friend Scott walked around the car.  “No damage.  Just a bunch of mud and grass smashed up in the front fender.

Did I think about the possible outcome of being injured?  Did I worry about my own safety? 

No. I was worried that I had wrecked my Dad’s car and I was going to get killed when I got home.

I pulled myself together, helped pull the car out of the ditch with my friend’s truck and went to his house to hose down the car, wiping off any remnants of the dirt and debris.  There was only a small scratch in the chrome on the front bumper. 

For years after it wasn’t the danger or the wreck that would bother me.   I would see that little scratch and it was a constant reminder that I had let my father down.   

Time Keeps on Slipping...

           My husband and I just took a 17 day vacation to my childhood home in Ohio. While there, Kirk played in a three day member guest golf tournament with his brother Scott, brother-in-law Doug and friend Brian.  

          The first week was a whirlwind of family gatherings, shopping and relaxing by the pool. 

          The second week, my Mom and I attended the Ohio State Fair, went to a concert on the river and watched Fire on the Water.  We went to the small town of Utica for peaches, had dinner and lunch at several new restaurants, visited with every family member in town and attended Sunday church services. 

         It was a lovely, typical vacation spent at the home of my youth.

         Halfway through, things changed.  I was reading the paper and saw that a classmate had died.  I’d met up with her recently at a reunion of sorts and she was smiling and laughing with the rest of us.  Her demise had been quick and heartbreaking. 

         Once again, I was hit with the reality that the time we have on earth is fleeting.  I was happy I had seen her in May, but wondered how someone could be there one minute and gone the next.  As I was dealing with this unexpected loss the news came that we had lost a family member in a very tragic way. 

          Both were around my same age.  Both enjoyed life and were loved by their families.

          So, I question.  Sitting in the chair at the service for my family member, I kept looking around, wondering what we were doing here.  How could we lose someone so young?

          I didn’t question when my 99 year old Grandmother passed.  She’d survived breast cancer and lived with diabetes.  Her last months were spent in a nursing home and she hated lying in a bed hooked up to machines.  I understand that.

          But the shock of these two losses still haunts me. 

          It makes me want to spend a little more time with family.  Doing things I love.  Write a little more.  Garden a little more.  Buy that Jeep I want, no matter how impractical.  Take those trips, walk the dog, hug everyone.  Stop spending my time worrying about things I can’t change and putting time into things I can.  Say yes instead of no.  Yes, I will go to that concert, even though I hate crowds.  Yes, I will meet you for lunch or dinner even though I don’t feel like going out. 

         If I see someone that needs help and think I should step up and help them, instead of waiting for someone else to step up, I will move.  I will be a better me.  Patient with my family and friends and letting all the insignificant disputes fall by the wayside. 

         I want to celebrate this life and hope that someday, someone will say, “She lived a splendid life and had no regrets.”

Carnival

A short story I wrote recently...................

The clanging of the gears sliding through the complex contraption screech as they rub metal on metal.  I glance up at the mammoth amusement ride they call The Monster. 

The man running the machine nods in my direction.  “You’re next.  Just stand on the platform and sit back when the seat swings forward.”

My five-year-old daughter stands next to me on her tiptoes, arms reaching towards the sky.  “Momma, I want to go this high.”

We step on the platform as the scoop like chair sweeps us off our feet.  As we sail past, the man reaches over and locks the bar in place as we make the turn heading upward.  My daughter keeps her hands in the air.  I grip tightly to the bar and close my eyes.

The large wheel starts and stops as he locks other riders firmly in place.  Finally, we begin our trip.  Up and up, round and round.  I look out over the festive scene below.  Bright lights, a myriad of brilliant colors dot the scenery.  The aroma of popcorn, mixed with the burnt sugar smell of cotton candy wafts through the air. 

Below us, a man shouts at carnival goers as they walk passed. “Guess your age, guess your weight.”

In the background bells ring, horns blare.

The seat we are riding in stops abruptly at the top.  It swings in the air, finally settling in position high above the chaos below.  My daughter leans forward, causing the bucket to sway.  She wants to experience the view by looking straight down.  I grab the back of her pants as she leans farther forward, the bar digging into her tiny stomach below the Hello Kitty tee. 

“Sit back,” I yell above the machine and the chorus of noise from the carnival below.

My daughter looks back at me over her shoulder, “I’m not scared.”

“It’s dangerous,” I plead. “Please sit back.”

She sits back, smiles up at me and then pats my hand.  “I’m okay, Momma. Don’t be afraid.”

Thirteen years later. 

Two weeks ago, my daughter graduated from high school.  Due to an early admission to college she is packed and ready to drive with her best friend the four hours to her dormitory.

We stand in the drive.  My husband is snapping pictures for her memory book I started when she was born.

I hug her close.

“It’s okay, Mom.  I’m not scared.”

“It’s just dangerous out there.”  I hold her close, imagining that if I don’t let go, she can’t move on.

“I’m not five.”

As I let her go, I want to tell her that to me she will always be that five-year-old, staring down from the top of the Ferris wheel, unafraid.  I want to tell her that her independence and fearlessness scares the hell out of me.  I want her to know that no matter where she goes or what she does, she will always be that small child reaching for the sky and my love and my fears will always be with her.

You Clean, I Clean

I call it the Bum clean effect and it goes like this. You are walking by a side table and notice there is some dust on the picture frame. You pick up said frame and give it a quick polish on your back side. You know you’ve done it. It’s one of those cleaning secrets no one talks about.

There are other variations of this cleaning process.

One I call the I already have on an old flannel shirt, why not use the sleeve to wipe down the dresser as I walk by.

Another I call the I’m on my way to the laundry room and have an old sock, why not stick it on your hand and wipe down that mirror in the hallway.

These are not things I have always done. They are the little shortcuts I have come up with over the years to allow me those few extra moments of down time I so deserve.

If I had to walk all the way up to the closet where I keep my cleaning products, then to the laundry room for my cleaning towels, I would waste around ten minutes I could be writing, gardening or reading.

I figure if I add up my bum cleaning, flannel shirt wiping, old sock shinning minutes, I have probably saved almost a week of extra free time.

Again I say…it’s the little things.