Basic

I can feel that time in my bones still. And in my skin. Running out to the spot where we formed up. Third squad. The faint itch of woolen socks, the pressure of the leather boots on my legs, the dig from the roll of trouser ribbon at my ankle. The field jacket was never warm enough, I shivered in the cold fall air. But the air was sweet, with the wind off the ocean only a mile, or less, away. Not that I really knew where I was. The black leather work gloves weren't warm either, but they protected hands when doing push ups on asphalt. Or in dirt fields. Up close, surfaces took on more reality.

I filled my eyes with unexpected beauty. I watched the geese flying and the colors of dawn. The leaves turned, clouds scudded across steel blue skies.

This was a new kind of emotional connection for me, living in such close proximity to so many people. We watched out for each other. We had to rely on each other. We did not often like each other. We huddled for warmth, we were ordered to stand heel to toe, we had no personal space but our own skins. I would feel for my own own hat position, buttons missed, but we also constantly checked each other for screwy collars, and missed buttons especially at this first morning formation. I had never felt so alone before, I had never before been so much "we".

My confidence grew as I learned what was expected of me. And if I did not know what would happen, the pains in my body wrapped me in a kind of certainty, I was becoming muscular and strong minded. I lived inside my own head, my own skin. I found out quickly that bad thoughts became unbearable, an extra unnecessary weight. So I imagined the earth protecting me, and pushing me on with every step. I imagined my love beside me, not realizing until much later - that wasn't the person I was married to at the time. But it drew me forward.

I'd not have predicted that these few moments of quiet in the morning as we gathered on the ashphalt in front of our barracks would be moments I would remember with utter clarity years away. But I was laying a groundwork for happiness. Learning to be part of other's lives, and accepting care. Suffering together, and succeeding. Becoming cheerful, not because what was outside was making me smile, but because it was coming out of a deep part of me that needed to be cheerful. Deep inside of suffering is a satisfying joy.

Cat

There was a cat named Midnight. He was black, named by my brothers, very intelligent and very very mellow. I would have been about 4 when we found him between our house and the house next door. I would often carry him on my shoulders, with his front paws on my head. He tolerated this with an attitude of a well toked hippy. He never scratched when he realized that it was human skin, only accidentally. Loved paper bags. Could open the back door by jumping up to the door knob. Disappeared one day, and never came back.

There was another cat, named Patches, because she was a calico, who had ear mites, became pregnant, messed behind the couch and bit my mother. She was taken to the vet, and not brought back. Given that she was mostly my mother's cat, I never questioned this. Not a generation, or of a class, that believed in the kind of responsible companion animal ownership that is expected today. Animals were animals. My father's farm childhood was even less sympathetic- extra cats were routinely drowned. Patches woke him up by licking his nose when she wanted to go out. Which brought out a gruff tenderness in him, and he would let her out at any hour. She was not a happy cat, and I never much liked her, although I would pet her.

In college a roommate had two cats, Samson and Delilah, brother and sister cats, the male much larger because he hogged the food. Roommate moved out, failed to pay bills, only took Samson, I kept Delilah. After a few months figured she was mine, took her to the vet & scraped together enough cast to get her shots. One day the old roommate turned up, and took Delilah. I tried, in my young ineptitude to say I'd paid for her shots and wanted her, but she just offered to reimburse me and took the cat. I was shocked and ashamed, but had no way to retrace my steps. I felt worse because she had begun to come out from the edges of rooms, which she had stayed to when her brother cat was around. He was a big abusive bully, and roommate preferred him. But I didn't save her, couldn't save one small cat.

I later found a large feral cat, she took a few ounces of skin off me, and after a week I took her to the shelter, telling them I had just found her. Which is when I found out she was pregnant. I tried, but I did not want a cat who bled me. I didn't blame her, but I didn't like her either. I don't know what they did with her. I never actually named her. A friend, more a mentor, who was devoted to cats, blamed me long for this. I can see her point now, but I did not have it in me then to be better.
The then-future-ex had two cats that he fed, and not much else. I don't know why he had them to be honest. I got Tiger used to me, so I could pick him up. Maynard was a strange little cat, dumber than rocks, that loved me immediately. When we moved in together to another apartment, both ran away, and despite several attempts to return them they never would stay.

The soon-to-be-ex would try to adopt another cat while I was in Army Basic. When I got home, I put my foot down about it, knowing what discord was likely. I am glad I did. Took the wee thing to a no-kill shelter, to the ex's persistent anger and worry that they would put her down. I would find out during that violent and dangerous year that the ex had killed his first wife and son's puppy and kitten in a rage. It would be the last red flag, and the last outburst that got me to get the help I needed to get out. When I mildly say that I escaped, I was not joking. I paid alimony like I would have paid ransom for myself, or a bribe to escape torture. I lived, and I got the cat out before the worst came.

My life improved, but I did not live any place that allowed cats. My dear D and I would rescue one small kitten, and foster her for long enough for a friend to adopt her. We called her Nekko-sama, honored cat. Mike and Rachelle would name her Natasha, as she tried to be sneaky, but not very well. She would be beaten up by neighborhood cats repeatedly, and visit the vet often, move to California with them, put up with other rescued cats, and eventually lose her life to a car. She lived longer than she would have otherwise, and was well loved.

One of M&R's rescued cats wound up with Dave, semi-feral, whom he named Chance, a huge black brute with a fierce loyalty to Dave. Probably because he'd drawn so much blood from him. He liked me when I was the only person he saw in a day, when I fed him with Dave away. Hates stomping feet, loves hot sauce.

I would have two cat tattoos, one on my leg just at toddler height. Wearing shorts in a crowd has gotten me at least one small finger touching my calf, where a black cat sits with it's tail wrapped around my leg. Another cat leaps on my stomach, an outline, my first shy tattoo.

We moved here, and found out we could have a cat. One on the Rescue League's website was a black male short-hair named Midnight. We went to see him, and despite not being happy to be picked up, he did not put out his claws. He was not overjoyed to see us, but didn't seem to mind either. We both thought him wonderful. D brought him home a few days later, a very unhappy cat in a box on the Train. He hid a lot. But gradually he came out, and gradually came to find us interesting and kind. We would name him Moby because it just seemed like the right name. Neither of us has a scratch yet. He listens for the ding of the elevator when we are expected.

D is ridiculously sweet about him. Gentle with him. Plays with him. Moby makes him laugh when even I cannot. Moby sleeps on D when he is ill, though he is not a sitting-on-you kind of cat. More like leans-on-you-if-you-are-still. He is a much bigger cat than we realized after we measured him (to his deep annoyance). He is about 12 pounds, about 20" long nose to base of tail. He loves to drag stuff, like a rope he plays with, to the rug, that is now his. He enlivens our home, and warms us. Distracts us when we are moody. Sits most often equidistant from us. Circles us when we come home. He has claimed us, and we have a larger family because of him. One we can take good care of.

Job

My first job was as an assistant camp counsellor. I was 17, and they asked me not to tell the girls my age because I would be as little as a year older than some of them. And I would be put with the oldest group. This should have been my first clue, but I would have needed experience to have seen it. Of which I had - none.

I arrived, having never myself been to camp. We had a week to get the camp clean and ready, and I threw myself into the work. We swept and cleaned and toured the area. It was beautiful, right on the Lake Huron shore. I would sleep out for the first time in my life. We picnicked on the beach in the evening, dipped into the June frigid water briefly, slept on the beach until the cold woke us early and stiff. We ate bad food, learned first aid, settled in. Saw Deliverance the last night before the girls arrived. Someone had a mean sense of humor. My first job, I thought, I can do this.

Then the girls came. Not quiet, smart little girls who liked me and looked up to me, but tough inner-city girls, about 60-70% black to the all white staff. Teenagers with hostile attitudes, one who I would now probably diagnose as a psychopath- a natural leader with violent tendencies. I had trouble remembering names, a failing I still have to own. But this was read by them as bigotry, and I read it in myself as such then. I had grown up in a mixed neighborhood and school, but not many were black. Mostly Mexican - who had been in Detroit for generations. Lebanese, Armenian, Polish, still recent enough that Grandma did not speak English. My parents had moved from Canada. I had little exposure to black kids, and none to poor black ghetto kids. I went through culture shock and deep homesickness, and handled myself poorly, inadequately. I was determined to keep trying.

They mocked me when I read out loud to them, a scene from Ice Castles of a make-out session- of which I had no experience either. I prided myself on being a good reader, and they popped that bubble. Over the week the harassment got worse, I was disregarded and I panicked to hear of plans for nighttime forays. My older counselor in my cabin tried to reassure me, but she needed me to be an adult, and I wasn't one.

We had an overnight excursion, camp out. Only the girls who were not trouble went with us. The One Girl was not there. Got to put on fireman gear and join in holding a fire hose, local volunteers were in the park where we took the girls. It stormed that night, and I shepherded and comforted our troops, they huddled around me in an ego building fashion. I had my moment of triumph, I was good as a comforter.

The next day back at the camp, lead by the gang leader, I was openly hated, and threatened. I was afraid and unable to stop crying. As I did my laundry, I called my mother from the only phone, and asked her to come pick me up. I quit. I had failed. I found out I was racist- I hated the black girls who had tormented me. My reality, miserable as it was living with my father, had been shattered, and I had no replacement. I was terrified. I had failed.

I eventually figured out that I was set up. I should not have been hired and then expected to lie about my age- looking mature and being mature are very different. At very least, I should have been put with younger children where it wouldn't have been such an issue. I learned not to trust an employer who will take an unqualified employee. I heard later that there were problems at the camp, a rape, thefts, police called. Not surprized, though I never heard the details. I learned that prejudice is very real, and I was not immune. Not an excuse to excuse it in myself, just knowing that I had to fight it even in my own heart. That idealism is no defense against reality. That I have no talent for kids, save to be a comforter. That I have no natural leadership talent. That I was nowhere near grown up. I think of it now as being a baby adult. At 18, I was a newborn into a world of responsibility- and had a lot to learn to be a real, mature, adult. That I could fail, and still keep going.

I would get hired at my local library within the month, and work there for two years through high school and radio broadcast school (another story). My boss was black, and I liked her a great deal. Dear Barbara .... oh dear. I cannot remember her last name. Give me a while, I'm sure it will come back to me.....




Bowen, I finally remembered.

Pooh

I had a hand me down Pooh, just a stuffed bear, old realistically bearish stiff and worn. He was my Pooh, despite not quite looking like the soft golden Disney bear of my favorite, and first read, storybook in the shape of Pooh's head. "Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh are reading a funny story...." is how it started, and I knew it by heart including "Eeyore is in his gloomy place." I was taken to all the Pooh movies, and laughed, and sang "I'm just a little black rain-cloud"- (still do.) I had a View Master with a Pooh disk of slides, my favorite was a 3-D view of Pooh in the honey tree, golden honey all around him, his face in ecstasy, I would stare at that one slide, finding the brightest light to make the glow more golden, to understand it better, to seep myself in that tiny heaven.

For Pooh was as real to me as the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, God, Guardian Angel and the thing that would get me under the bed at night. And more real for his rarity in real life, he was going to be a vital lesson. Sears was introducing their Winnie the Pooh Collection of children's clothes, clothes we could never afford, nor that I wanted. But I needed to see Pooh, and he was coming. My mother promised, and one rainy night, we piled in the car (Could that have been the Studebaker?) and drove to Sears. Within sight of their sign, the car died. I could have walked there (I thought) it was so close (I told my mother) Please, just let me see Pooh, you promised! But a phone had to be found AAA called, the car fixed, and by then Pooh either would have been gone, or they were in no shape to deal with it in the dark and rain. I cried bitterly, despite assurances that I would get another chance, and she would take me. Life was not going to cooperate, my heart was broken, and I would never hope in quite the same way again.

So for the next appearance of Pooh, I refused to believe until I actually saw him. And when he appeared, my heart leapt, I grabbed hold of his paw, stared up at his honey-pot hat with the circling bee, and I did not let go until he shook my hand and patted my head, and gave me a hug at the end of his walk, and went through the doors to the back of the store. I soaked it in, and held this in my heart. My mother would tell the story, that shy little Z had taken her place boldly, that I barely spoke the rest of the day. She wasn't entirely sure I was pleased. I wasn't. I was transformed.

I would read the original Pooh stories myself when I worked at a local branch library in high school. I came to love the Shepard illustrations over the Disney flashiness. Pooh never left me. I would abandon the idea of faith- a gift I would never be given, and study Taoism, Hinduism, and Buddhism- eclectically picking out the gold without succumbing to the ceremony of their original cultures. And then read the Tao Of Pooh. Aha. The light came on.

And I would get the Winnie the Pooh books, read them to D who had not read them. He would find them on tape at the library, and we would listen to them at night, and laugh together.

One Christmas, D gave me a wonderful, bean filled bear, with dark intelligent eyes. I would move his head and paws so he could express himself in eloquent wordlessness. Sebastian became my inner bear, coming with us on trips, he would once placidly observe a cat getting into our car as we fixed a flat, the cat stared at him for a long time, then ran. Well, you never can tell with bears.

For now, the bear is sleeping in my life. As bears do. But I know not to confuse getting with hoping, when to patiently wait and when to reach out and grab, to find moments of perfect peace. And if I have honey AND condensed milk, I can forgo the bread.

Green

Michigan is a green place in summer, a realization that only came to me after once spending three weeks (of my 10th summer) in Phoenix. Returning home, the very air seemed green, trees and grass, weeds and moss, cool and rainy and easy to breathe in. I forgot the mucky fug of the humidity, the moldy pollen choked atmosphere of August, algae smeared waterways. The Detroit River, mostly brownish, appeared deep grey green some days. I would miss that greenness in Salt Lake City, which only has about a month in spring where it goes ovewhelmingly green. The hot summer bakes out the color, and smoky air dulls the vibrance. Boston only looses it's green to snow, so I feel more at home here.

I did not chose green, although it was my mother's favorite color, or at least the color she thought looked best on a redhead. She sewed many of her own clothes, many were pale green. The carpet in their house was green, which sounds bad, but actually was very pleasant. The year they painted the walls Celery was dreadful, however.

I had a velvet jumper when I was nine, with embroidered bodice, lovely deep forest. I have a leotard in an ugly dull green that I got on sale. I own not another stitch of green. I did not glaze my pottery green. Mostly, I only wore green when paid to do so. BDU (battle dress uniform)s were camouflage dirt and leaf, horrid on all but a very tiny minority. I ripped holes in the knees of all my pants due to running with the pack and losing my balance, landing in classic kid skinned knee position on the asphalt. Ow. And, again paid to do so, scrubs at my hospital were green, and I gladly wore them. Both uniforms were replaceable, and intended as work clothes, dirty work. I have gotten blood on both (mine only for the BDUs). Both were made for comfort, not for fashion. Utilitarian utterly. I could ignore the color. Irrelevant.

The first new car I ever bought, or we ever bought, was a dark, shiny green Neon. Wonderful color for a car, I always thought her beautiful. She got me to work for the better part of a decade. A friend is getting her in shape, running her for her gas mileage- rather than his truck. She was always a practical wee vehicle. I would not like to risk her in Boston traffic. Anyway, she is his now, fair trade for getting all our stuff to us, as well as innumerable rescues and acts of generous friendship. I hope she runs well, and greenly, for many years to come.

There is a distinct lack of green in our home. But there are touches, pens, books, D's one sweater, a pot of grass for the cat to eat. But we do have a green chair, bought (yes I know) on sale. OK, it has a blanket over it. I almost forgot about it.
But there is plenty outside, happily photosynthesizing. Practical color, easily overlooked, I wear it daily but forget I do. The ground color. Beyond being liked or disliked, green is just there, doing it's job.

Fair

Altruism is seen as Good, and Selfishness as Bad. But they are two ends of the spectrum, and in the middle is Fair. Altruism also tends to hide errors, in thinking, in foresight, or hiding manipulation behind "Unconditional Love" or "Charity." Selfishness is the derogative to keep others from taking care of their own needs when they interfere with the needs of a manipulator- who is often very selfish. Fair is when both sides of an interaction get what they need, and a bit of what they want. Both walk away feeling a little good, maybe a little cheated, but all in all, probably fairly.

Altruism can go wrong, because it wraps itself in glory and condescension, without clearly looking at the whole picture. First World, wholesale charity, given to African countries in famine, have destroyed the economies. Because there was no trade, no demand for those poor people to work for the aid, the incentive to work has destroyed the livelihoods of native craftspeople. They get free T-shirts, why buy expensive hand woven, locally produced fabric? Why try to grow your own food, when you can get it free and sell it? And the wonderful generous countries get to feel cultural superiority, and without that nagging guilt.

Altruism on a personal level is another lesson in hidden costs. Parents who fly "unconditional love" over the heads of their children, are not always giving real love. Because our parents love does confer an obligation, to honor their religion, their way of life, to visit and attend family gatherings, to give them children, then access to those children. Of course, many good parents do allow a two way flow of giving that makes this all part of a good relationship, and the love really would continue no matter what. Better still that they do extract a fair trade- be your best self, and we will be the best parents we can be. This is fair. Altruism often is a trade with a hidden agenda - not fair.

And selfishness is not bad in itself. I learned it this way. First rule of water safety- make sure you are safe first, or there will be two stiffs in the water. Selfish to the point of taking care of one's own needs is simply sense. Like an adult putting on their own air mask before their child in the event of a loss of cabin pressure. If I am the capable person, I have to preserve myself as a valuable resource.

When selfish is bad is when it is completely for it's own ends, to take and not to give back. Even then, such an extreme position, baldly refusing fairness, leads to it's own destruction. Gross mistreatment of slaves, and later of lynchings, led to wider support of the Civil Rights Movement. I believe the murder of Matthew Shepard caused many folks to consider the injustice of a society that condones discrimination. We, as a species, and perhaps as a genus, do not like to be unfair. At least not grossly, obviously, unfair.

Love, real genuine growing giving love is always a fair trade. A two way flow of generosity and respect, two bottomless debts that overflow into each other. Love that only takes, or that only gives, is not love.

Love is not altruistic, but may look like it when it is given out of a well of deep gratitude. My Aunt Evelyn took care of Uncle Ernie for over a decade, every day, despite a brain injury that left him first changed, even abusive, then helpless and confused. He had brought her a rose every day of their lives together before, adored her, nursed her through miscarriages and pneumonia, treasured her, valued her. She never felt she had paid back enough. I did not understand this as a girl, having seen little of what he had been before.

Love is the smart kind of selfish, because both must know themselves worthy to take the gifts given. I accept that I am beautiful because D tells me so. D knows he is smart because I tell him so. Both of us must accept this view in order to respect the love and opinion of the person most beloved. Learning to take, or be given, is the lesson of love.

And the world? Needs to really learn what a fair trade is. Not cost and debt, but respect and far sighted plans. Not western democracy hidden agendas in trade for charity, but technology in exchange for.... solar power? Who knows, who has really tried to know? Who has thought both sides worthy to have a fair exchange?

Fat

Like every woman in this culture, I have worried about my weight. My mother, round peasant DNA that she has, is a lifelong yoyo dieter, fads and breads were her downfall. And the three pregnancies. She was, unlike many thin obsessed women, actually overweight, even mildly obese. Standing at 4'11 1/2", there was little place for it to go. She didn't really believe in nutrition, fresh vegetables or spices. I expect she probably has some food issues from a childhood growing up in the depression, unacknowledged and purposefully forgotten, but still underneath.

My own worries are in that mindset. I was a slender child, but solid, not willowy at all. After puberty, no bust, slim waisted, wide enough hips, impossible to find dresses that looked passable. Did the usual chunkiness in high school, then slimmed down again taking dance classes in college. Carved myself down to bone and muscle in Basic when I was 26, periods stopped, and I was ill with bronchitis. Not an active choice, just running all the time. I would rebound to gain back about 20 pounds, which the ex thought made me look fat. At about 15 pounds more than that right now, I know this is a lie. I was up more than this, and did not feel healthy or comfortable. I came to Boston, walked my ass off. About 20 pounds of it. Gained back some. I will make no concerted effort to Lose Weight. I eat what I like, and try to improve the balance and reduce the straight sugar and fat, not for weight, but for my teeth and heart. I will not give it all up, because it gives me pleasure. Because resisting food temptation is not a human trait. I can accept that middle age will add some fat, and I'm fine with looking "ok for 50".

And obesity is a huge problem, one I see every day. I have gotten 500+ pound men and women situated on operating room tables. I have seen a 100 pound pannis (that apron-like flap of belly) hooked up to an anesthesia screen by sharp towel hooks (pt was anesthetized, and said flap was infected and dead) just to keep it from pulling her off the table. Just that took several young orderlies to accomplish. Removing that mass of tissue was a huge operation. Left to rot, it would have lead to a massive infection that likely would have killed her.

I have circulated many gastric bypasses. Obese women have more estrogen from the excessive fat, which increases their risk for all kinds of cancers. I have seen anesthesiologists struggle to get an airway in obese patients, where there was no visible neck. The obese do not breathe as well, they have orthopedic issues and difficulty staying clean, all surgeries are vastly more complicated when trying to wade through massive amounts of fat. Most cases of retained sponges and instruments are in morbidly obese patients.

All this is not to blame, since certainly there has to be a powerful genetic component. I could eat my fill whenever, and I would never weigh 300 pounds. My mother never ate very much, and she would never be 120 again. It is to understand why so many medical people hate taking care of the morbidly obese. We hurt our backs and cannot do a good job for our patient, we have to give them bad news way too often, anything we do means more complications and difficulties. We know it is complicated, but we also know that they are much more work, and to less positive effect.

I work with nurses who obsess about weight, diet talk abounds. And all from the thin to normal sized women. I refuse to be drawn, so I exclude myself from the talk, or make ill advised comments on why diets are a bad idea. Eat healthy, I say- you do not need to lose 5 pounds, I say- women who are healthy and a bit overweight are not at risk to their hearts, I tell them- I eat what I want because I do not have a car- which doesn't help at all. They do not hear, it is a habit of speech, like men talk about sports. I will not play "I am so fat...." Because I am not.

I wish my mother was happier about herself, at whatever weight, and more secure in her own body. I wish she'd eaten better, and spent less time dieting, and more time walking with me. Maybe we would have talked more. But not about fat.

Chaos

Some lovely balanced people walk around with a ball of calm in their belly. Wherever they go, whatever they do, they spread intelligence, calm, peace, joy, laughter. We gravitate toward them, when we notice them at all, since they frequently do this without anyone noticing them, without realizing themselves their power, their quiet. But their lives go quietly along, and they roll with the punches and go with the flow, and usually nothing too bad happens to them, because they do not attract stupidity.

And then there are the other kind. Swarming, confused, angry, disturbing folks. They carry with them a ball of chaos in their belly, and no one around them can think straight, despite them reminding everyone what to do. They can be charming, or obnoxious, but they disorder the world around them. Bad outcomes happen to them, because no one can think straight around them, and they make mistakes they would never make usually. It is always the fault of everyone around them, as they rhino their way through other people's lives. Everyone knows them, and everyone warns everyone else.

I had a surgeon with a chaos ball. I called him Dr. Evil. He was a brilliant surgeon, would take over cases no one else would touch, but his patients had the devil of a time getting hold of him for follow up care. He once stopped me consoling his patient who was crying because I had to take care of Him first. He would get tired and sloppy. He treated the staff shabbily enough to be suspended from the hospital for six months -unheard of. I loathed him. He would tell staff "Hurry, hurry, hurry!" and I once told him that it was counterproductive, and he said "I know..."

Last week I got yelled at by a husband who wanted his wife to stay on a gurney, not move to a recliner (they had put her on the wrong way in the OR, so I couldn't put her head up to drink.) Why he thought a gurney was more comfortable I have no idea. She had hives with Fentanyl, which I had picked up and had given benedryl in her iv within 5 minutes. He yelled at me for not getting her the right medication. The resident had written her the wrong prescription, which we were correcting. Thankfully I had the back-up of my fellow nurses immediately, and everything was smoothed over. The patient herself was a bit of a loon which I found out when she woke up enough for me to realize. But I expect all her worry and mis-reported history lead to the errors. Set up a series of errors, and more mistakes will follow as flow gets interrupted. Anxious, chaotic people carry their chaos around with them, and influence others to make mistakes.

I once was a drama queen of small proportions, tended to be fascinated by the charming chaos generators. Married one. Perverse urge to fix it, I guess. My life improved when I decided not to marry discord, not invite it in the house, and eschew stupidity whenever I could. Gradually, like a freighter turning, my life came around, with agonizing slowness to teach me patience on the way. I said "I love..." more than "I hate...", and I found more to give me joy. I became calm, and my friends were kinder, waiters got my order right more often. I learned the worth of flow and a well ordered life. Not regimented, just sorted and easier. Do the prep work and then ease up. I am picky about essentials, and lax when it really doesn't matter. I don't think I am quite a peace generator yet, but I no longer attract chaos.

I did not do any of this alone.

Toys

I had a good number of toys and games as a kid, many my brother's leftovers, many new to me. I was almost the only child in the extended family at the time, I had impressive Christmases. Nothing compared to middle class kids today, but it felt like a lot to me at the time. I received, but never cared for, hard plastic baby dolls- Tiny Tears and Betsy Wetsy. Ugh. Although the never empty baby bottles were kinda cool. I liked soft stuffed animals, good for cuddling and sleeping safely against the monsters. First I had a real rag doll, I remember going with my mother to get yarn to replace her hair, yellow. Too bad she didn't think to make it brown like my hair. My brothers then gave me the popular red headed Raggedy Ann, and she sits on our bookshelf right now, loved to bits, dirty, worn, still smiling with her scratched button eyes. My brothers had a stuffed bear that became my Pooh Bear, more like the original Shepard drawings than the Disney bastardization. Remind me to tell you the Pooh story some time.

I often asked for games. And my mother complained that I never played the games when I had other children to play with. Well, no. They were not the brightest children that I had available to play with. And they always made me go last. I liked to play with adults- on the rare occasions when they were willing to play, including my brothers. Largely I liked playing games with imaginary friends, by myself. There was one with colorful wooden balls and a spinner that could amuse me for hours. Not playing by any rules, but what I temporarily made up as I went. When role gamers talk about "toy value" in the figurines and dice, I understand very well. The feel of the objects in my hands. Meta game. Getting an intuitive grasp of statistics and chance, I like to think it is why I don't gamble.

I was also accused of being rough with toys that even my brothers had kept well, up to my breaking them. Nevermind I had access to them at a much younger age. Of course a three year old is going to break and lose tinker toys. Not to mention they were older toys by the time I got them, more fragile generally. Obviously, it was my fault. I broke things. I liked the tinker toys, and the few remaining Lincoln Logs, blocks and balls, and a foot tall phone box, a leftover that I was fascinated by, and eventually broke. Always wanted toy cars and trucks, never got any of my own. I have some now, including a little wind up robot.

When my mom felt like going to the process of properly supervising me, I liked my EZ bake oven, the little cakes were good., Otherwise, it sat under the sink. I wanted to experiment with it, probably would have wound up burning stuff, including myself, but I'd have learned about... well who knows what? I didn't get the chance. And the toy went mostly unused.
Aunt Evelyn gave me a Bell Hop, ring to fit over foot, rope to ball with a bell that I would swing around in a roundhouse skip, and hop the other foot over the rope. Perfect toy for an only child (solo persuit) with a winter birthday (never got summer toys.) I wore the thing out.

I had a Buddha in a strange green solid jelly material. Never thought of it being offensive at the time, but perhaps Buddha would be amused rather than bothered. I loved handling it, and rubbed his tum. Well, there is no Tao without laughter. Odd toy, but I loved it. And now I like a lot of Buddhist teaching. Is there a connection!?

I usually come up with some kind of conclusion, but I don't have one here. I was just playing with the idea of toys.

Pink

I hated pink, Baby pink, frilly, girlie, wimpy pink. Pastels were insipid and pointless. Give me royal blue, deep grape, forest green, fire engine red, lemon yellow, black. Yes, all my crayons were broken as I tried to get more intensity on the pages of my coloring books. Crayola was not great for this. My mother, born in 1925, and her mother in 1890, had clear ideas about what little girls wore, which is to say, well, not black! I was put in frilly pink bonnets, bald baby that I was, and still was seen as a little boy- which drove my mother up the wall. I would not be best pleased at being called a boy when I was pre-adolescent, with long hair down my back. But I would refuse to wear pink absolutely.

I had to wear a bright pink skirt for a ballet recital when I was about eight, somehow this intense pink was not so bad, flowing without being fussy. Mostly we just enjoyed running around Cobo Hall's Christmas Festival, there was an amazing number of displays that a kid could climb on, slide down, roll around on. A truly magical day, wearing (?) pink.


I would be 27 before I bought anything pink, and it was a dark, intense pink shirt, with an abstract jazz dance image on the back. I was in San Antonio in the Army, and I would be mocked for the extravagance of it. But I felt bold and the color, yeah-I'm-pink-you-got-something-to-say-about-that?-Pink, Screw-you-Pink, fit my attitude, and buoyed me up. It would be lost, I do not know where. But the feeling of it stays with me.

I wear some fuchsia - a few t-shirts. Dark and brooding pink I think of it. But it really is not best for me. I have that color rug under my feet now, though.

Dulan has a friend who loves all things pink. She loves Hello Kitty! She wears pink patterned tights. She is cute. She went to the abortion rights demonstration in D.C., wants to be a civil rights lawyer. She is brilliant, and funny and capable. I do not know how she does it, but she makes cute cool. Even baby, frilly, girlie pink. I admire her, and I am coming to terms with pink.

As long as I never have to wear any frilly, baby pink. Unless perhaps as a small accent to all black. I can adjust. I can be a little pink.

Tea

Red Rose Tea was what my mother bought, little figurines in the box. When I was small, there was little money, so milk with hot tea in it was my winter, coming in from the snow, warm drink. Cocoa was a rare treat, made from cocoa powder and sugar and boiled milk, seemingly taking forever to cook. But tea was for coming home after school on cold days. I believe I remember the first time I had tea, standing by the fridge mom let me have some of hers diluted with lots of milk. It tasted so strange, I wouldn't consider refusing it. As I grew older, the amount of milk decreased, drop by drop, until I preferred it black. Tea was shared with mom after school, as we played Scrabble, until she went to get dad from work. An hour of peace and companionship, and love of words. Likewise my Aunt Evelyn would share tea with me when I visited her, often having different teas, like Russian Caravan, strong and bitter.

On my own, on to college, I made a friend who called herself a tea snob. Anna introduced me to making tea with loose leaves, teaching me about different kinds, oolong and green, Keemun and lychee (fithy taste, as is Jasmine.) I developed a palate, I could tell Jackson's Earl Grey from Twinings easily. Eastern Market's spice and import shops opened up worlds of subtle new flavors. An affordable extravagance even for a poor student. Tea as art and culture.

I would learn more when I was learning physics and chemistry and medicines, that theophylline, a smooth muscle relaxant, is found in tea (along with a host of other interesting chemicals.) Closely related to theobromine, found in chocolate, and in a class of chemicals called xanthines that includes caffeine. That theophylline is highly soluble in water at 212F, 100C, and almost insoluble in cooler water. That living at high altitude meant I was could not make my tea with hot enough water. Tea was science.

Decent tea was not easy, is not easy, to find in Salt Lake. The Mormon church denies it's members tea, among other things. (One of many reasons they have no attraction for me.) And those rebelling against their church go for strong coffee and alcohol, rather than the delicate deferral of tea. As I myself left my church of origin, as a bad fit, not blaming or hating, I respected the ones who left the LDS church as shoes they had out grown rather than as god that had betrayed them. I have gently converted several friends to the love of good tea. Tea as religion.

I used to suffer through holiday visits to my in-laws without the comfort of a hot mug of tea in my hand. At our reception, I happily kept sipping strong Moroccan mint tea at all times as I sat and chatted with all our guests, although I got little food that evening - too distracted, delighted. For years I kept a shard of the lovely blue teapot with white dots that the ex smashed the night I left -as a reminder never to go back- vandal, visigoth. D gave me a square brown chinese teapot one Christmas, oozes charm and authenticity. When I destroyed my expensive electric kettle doing something stupid, he took me out that day to replace it. He does not like tea, but he took the time to learn to make it well for me. Tea as love.

I think I'll get the kettle on. I live in Boston now. But you know that story.

100

My friend did a list of 100 things about her. So I took up the dare and wrote 100 things about me right now. It's a loopy list, as lists often are.


100 things about me right now
1. People at work think I am obsessively neat and organized, which I am -there.
2. A clean tidy house is nice, but I can take it or leave it.
3. I mix reds and purples of all different shades in our furniture and rugs, and it still looks harmonious, which surprizes me.
4. I do not understand people who have to go find just the right color accent piece to fit in their homes. Or who think everything should match.
5. My hands look like I work with them and I am proud of that.
6. I have never had a manicure, and do not ever want one.
7. I am feeling the aches of living long enough.
8. I do not want to complain. But I do.
9. Cheerfulness is my unsuspected energy source. It becomes punchiness when I get tired.
10. Humor is my sword and shield.
11. I like shaving D's head.
12. I do not like being guessed much younger than I am, I prefer the respect over the flattery.
13. My cat may be the reincarnation of my childhood cat, both originally named Midnight. I feel honored that he came back to me. And that we renamed him Moby- which is better.
14. I am comforted by the idea of reincarnation.
15. I worry about having guests as much as I look forward to them. I do not want to be overbearing, nor neglectful.
16. I love having a massage.
17. Chiropractic care is a key element to my current comfort.
18. I still think about old loves fondly, and would like to know they are doing well without actually contacting them.
19. I still check the obits for the ex's name, but less frequently now.
20. I'd rather be too cold than too warm.
21. I have started using facial moisturizer.
22. I have much more grey hair than I let show, but one day I will.
23. I notice other women's grey hair much more.
24. I can still put in a foley under any conditions.
25. I notice other women's breasts more here in Boston, and I wonder why.
26. My spouse still looks familiar and right to me. I am immeasurably comforted by this.
27. I would like a real, purpose built, vibrator. You know.
28. I would like to make more pottery, but my back couldn't take it.
29. I would like to smoke pot once more, and I probably never will.
30. I like bells, and would like to have more of them.
31. I love having long hair, especially having D stroke it.
32. I like wearing D's old sweaters.
33. I can't think of a secret I have that no one knows.
34. I love to bellydance, even just around the house.
35. I want a red umbrella.
36. I do not brush my teeth, or floss, enough.
37. I do clean my ears and bellybutton enough.
38. I cry almost every episode of Joan Of Arcadia.
39. I talk to my Aunt Evelyn often, she died many years ago.
40. I do not talk to my parents. Or my brothers. And this is progress.
41. I like skipping down the street.
42. I am very open minded.
43. I think abortion is better than an abused child.
44. I think the gay rights movement is the best test of democracy.
45. I think marriage should be abolished as a legal state, replaced with only civil unions. Marriage would be purely a religious state, with no legal status. Spouses would be legally Engaged, with all the current legal benefits and responsibilities of marriage.
46. I think one room schoolhouses in storefront buildings, small classes from the neighborhood, each student with a laptop and a national curriculum, two main teachers and circuit teacher and guest speakers, self paced education, would vastly improve our education system. And stop jr. high misery. Desegregate the age groups.
47. I get a lot of crack pot ideas.
48. I like singing new words to songs to comment on what is going on around me.
49. I like playing with puppets.
50. I like guessing what Moby might be thinking.
51. I like Moby leaning on me.
52. I would like to make music videos for They Might Be Giants songs.
53. I like a lot more than I hate, and this is real progress.
54. I rescued a lamp from the trash room, and D fixed it, I am very happy about this.
55. I also rescued a tv cart.
56. I really want to do more yoga, and I don't know why it is so hard for me to keep at it.
57. I love a good pen.
58. I like the state quarters, especially Michigan, because I am relieved that my old home state didn't embarrass me by doing it badly.
59. I am greedy about tea.
60. I sometimes laugh at my patients, not in their face.
61. Sometimes my patients laugh at me, which is fair enough.
62. Best is when we laugh together.
63. I love when my patient makes me laugh.
64. Being made to laugh is glorious.
65. I only wear one pair of earrings these days, as they are non pareil. Pink glass, but wow. A gift. From D.
66. I am very funny when I am very tired.
67. I miss being in the OR.
68. I miss having friends just drop by.
69. I love Boston.
70. I still get occasional bad dreams about the ex.
71. I enjoy Japanese incense.
72. I am a snob about mediocre movies, but really bad ones I can respect, as well as excellent ones
73. I am suspicious of the judgment of people whose favorite movie is manipulative and mediocre.
74. I often pick up stuff with my bare feet at home.
75. I do not have a favorite anything, is depends on how I am feeling, although I can usually come up with a list.
76. Except for D who is my favorite.
77. I enjoy watching Moby drinking water out of a teapot left for the purpose.
78. I love cobalt blue mugs, but my best mug is red.
79. I enjoy working at a big famous hospital. But I am not impressed with the famous people who go there.
80. I enjoy counting and rolling coins.
81. I do not wear rings, my nails are very short, I do not know how other nurses wear rings and keep long nails without hurting themselves or their patients.
82. The new hair clips are wonderfully useful, even in my thin hair.
83. I enjoy traveling on trains.
84. I love sleeping.
85. Being able to afford small luxuries, like good sheets, is very satisfying to me.
86. Weird news is the only kind I follow daily.
87. I read the comics daily.
88. I wish our picture page, and my essay page were more widely read, but I worry that they might be more widely read, and trouble would follow.
89. I am deeply subversive, but only for good, not for evil.
90. I like penguins.
91. I miss Lava Hot Springs.
92. I think I could still field strip an M16, with some practice, I could still do it blindfolded.
93. I can throw accurately, but not powerfully.
94. Fun to me is singing to D's guitar playing.
95. I have developed a powerful voice from Sacred Harp singing.
96. I fantasize about my essays being published, though I know this is foolish.
97. I am slowly learning patience.
98. Walking is a meditative experience.
99. I want to make some real friends here. It is taking longer than I hoped.
100. I want all our friends to come visit, then move here.