The Holidays Are Upon Us

Greetings to all this holiday season. I have been absent from my blog these last weeks. Holiday doings have been going on and especially at this time of year, I do my best to partake in the good spirit and cheer with friends and family.

I have been making notes, fast and furious and have much to tell you. But that will wait until the new year arrives. I wish you and your families the happiest and holiest of holidays; which ever holiday you observe.

Let us all pray for peace, tolerance and goodness for the year to come.

All my best wishes. . .

Thoughts from Christmases Past

The last few days my mind has been so scattered - things to do, places to go, people to see. I've been planning my travel itinerary to head South to visit family and friends for Christmas. The "sleigh" will be relatively empty this year, but I know it will come back full of memories.

The thoughts of the Christmases past sent me searching through a drawer of photographs. In the drawer was one of my "holiday journals." A journal in which I wrote of holiday events, traditions and kept assorted pictures and drawings. With my mind so scattered, I thought I would share some of those writings from days gone by.


Christmas, 1993

He said, 'I am always with you.' I truly believe I am part of Him, hence, I am always with you as well.

As our lives change and we move about, we all share the memories of 'home.' Even while the vision of home changes, there is still always one place we tend to come back to. . .this house.

It's not a big house. It's not the house that is described and memorialized in works of literature. It stores the memories we share. If the walls in the kitchen could talk; if the chips and the stains on the coffee table could tell; if the dining table could raise it's voice; if the hallway, which chronicles our lives, could repeat the stories it's heard. . .all would rise in unison and say, "this is our home"; "our meeting place"; this is where our family is one.

December 25, 1994

It is Christmas morning and Mama and I are sitting here admiring or new "museum piece". Last evening Bob presented Mama with the restoration of the clipper ship originally built by her father, Wilhelm Lange.

It is an impressive piece of work; art; love; continuity; TRADITION. The concept of restoration began three years ago. At Daddy's last Christmas in 1991, Bob showed Daddy the "remains" of the boat and told him he would restore it for Mama. Daddy and Papa Lange, and the rest of our angels, smiled at yet another part of our family, our traditions being preserved.

We are all very lucky, that each of us, in our own special way, have the talents to preserve, communicate and maintain tradition. Traditions that hold and bind us as family and friends. Christmas Eve at Mama's house is a tradition that I will always cherish.

The house took it's old form last evening; like a grand lady emerging for her annual debut. The tree that Mama labored over and fussed about slowly became the "perfect" tree, glittering and sparkling with its holiday adornment.

The music of the season soothed the holiday melancholy. Those not present are still in our hearts. The tables were set for all here, and afar. . .and gone. . .

. . .Bob, Bea, Veronica, Brian, Mama and I exchanged gifts. The presentation of the ship was quite dramatic. Bob orchestrated it with music by Wagner. Mama was very emotional. Veronica commented that she had never seen "Nanny" so moved by anything; she was grateful to have been witness.

This sharing of traditions helps us grow in our relationships with each other. This is the blessing of God; and He has so blessed this house; this family.

December 26, 1995

. . .Christmas Eve was at "home". . .a tradition I'll not part with. Mama and I prepared a small buffet. . .Bob and Bea joined us along with Diane and Ron, Annie, Lenny and Ethyl and Bob.


On Christmas Day we went out to Bob and Bea's for dinner. Joanie drove out with us. At Bob's house, I got my "house". Bob built me this most exquisite doll house. It is carefully crafted and full of love. It's so beautiful and I find myself silenced by this gift of love, time and talent. The words have not yet surfaced to thank him.

Bob is indeed a "giant". I find it no coincidence that he finds fascination with the "smaller things" in life. . .the doll houses; the model cars; The Village he has created in that huge, old tree in his backyard.

The Village is a magical place. Bob has created a series of winding stairs out of the trunk of the tree and climbing the branches up and up to an occassional platform. On the platforms are small huts, lit, and with small wisps of smoke rising from its chimneys. There are barrels and campfires and entryways into the tree itself. Some of the stairs led to a bridge crossing from one branch to another. He says that every year he needs to re-build the stairs and the bridges; you see the tree is growing, and so is the Village.

The Village. . .I am so glad that I was there to share Alexis' first viewing of the Village. She wanted so much to see "them". . .the little people. She could "smell" them cooking and she felt certain that she was small enough to fit through their entry way. She is such a precious child.

This particular journal ends abruptly. My brother Bob, died suddenly in 1998. Mama's house was sold in 1999 and Bea sold her and Bob's home that same year. There would be no more Village. Mama died in 2003.

I am not saddened by these memories of Christmases past. I am ever so thankful that I have those memories and that these people have been part of my life.

Please don't burst my bubbles

Perhaps everything is not how it is (or was), but how it is remembered.

If you have visited my blog before, you may find that I comment on "perception" quite often. I am fascinated (perhaps obsessed) with how differently we all view the world, our situation and the situations of others. I become distressed over political differences, frustrated over the division of business risk assessments, and often hurt by the wide schism of artistic interpretation.

I use the word "hurt" to describe artistic differences because I believe art is a reflection of soul. And I use the concept of "art" quite broadly - not just painting and literature and performance - but any creative endeavor. I am hurt by intolerance and the lack of acceptance that people view things differently.

How we perceive, how we remember, an event, a person, a thing, a vision, shapes our very being. I am a collection of memories: some are the learned doctrines to live in our society; some are the feelings that have been shared with me; some are the feelings I felt; some are the feelings and memories that I have repressed.

All of these experiences and memories sometimes gives us a skewed reality. Think of the frustration of police detectives as they try to gather accounts from numerous witnesses to a crime. Everyone sees something different. All are correct; and all are wrong. The collective descriptions produce a puzzle for the solving.

Now, consider a family gathering of many years ago. If you round up the usual suspects to recollect the event you will find yourself wondering if anyone was at the same place at the same time. The memory is personal. The memory is a function of your learned perception and likes or dislikes - optimist? pessimist? realist?

I remember the beautiful Christmas tree. I remember that Uncle Harry got incredibly drunk. I remember that I got a cashmere sweater. I remember that we had sauerbraten. I remember that I had a migraine headache. I remember that Susie had on the most beautiful red shoes. I remember that it was the night that Dad got ill and died a month later. All true. Some "trite" memories; some "profound" - all subjective.

There are so many seemingly insignificant events in our lives that stay with us; sometimes haunting us. I remember one time being ever so rude to a woman at a social agency. I was there for a job interview; she was there for help. I made it clear to her that I was not seeking social assistance. I was twenty. I still see her face. I wish I could go back and apologize. She probably doesn't remember. I hope not.

I have a painting in my home that has become "a joke" among some of my "friends". They find some humor in teasing me about the abstract. They don't seem to understand that it is not as much as what I see in the painting that gives me joy, it is also what I remember about the evening I purchased it. I was at one of my favorite galleries in town. I was sipping on a great cabernet savingnon. I was with the man I loved (at the time). I knew the artist. It was raining out. I was in a melancholy mood. The mist in the painting spoke to me. It took me out of the melancholy and helped me to see the joy of the evening. I bought the painting. Whenever I look at the painting I remember coming out of the mist. Perhaps that is not how it was, but it is how I remember it.

We all create our little bubbles of joy; in some cases depression. But, these bubbles are ours. These bubbles are our memories, feelings, thoughts. The bubbles launch into our surroundings and float about our heads. They eventually dissipate on their own. That is how it is meant to be.

Please don't burst my bubbles; let them soar as they were meant to be.

'Twas the Weeks Before Christmas 2009

'Twas the weeks before Christmas in 2009,
All the people were stirring,
in search of a dime;

A dime, a nickel, even a dollar;
'cause it was time to partake in Christmas delights;
Yes, it was time to buy presents,
buy trees and buy lights!

Into the stores and on to the web,
they search frantically for coupons and discounts and mark downs galore;
Where can I spend less?
And get so much more?


The year had not be pleasant you know;
There had been the reduction of jobs and bills piling up;
But December had come, and their heads were held high;
And with eyes all aglow,
Off to the mall they went, still praying for snow;
They must have Christmas;
They must have the Christmas they know.

The department store Santa has lost lots of weight,
The little ones are perplexed by this trait.
I spy him texting and tweeting and hear his phone jingle;
It’s not something we normally see from “the Kringle”


And then I hear him tell a young boy on his knee,
“I’ll get you your toy, yes I will my young lad,
but you must do something for me;
Yes, yes, you must give to your dad my latest CV."


The Santa, you see, had once been a boss,
A Senior VP at Gardner and Ross.
The business had fallen way behind plan,
And now he needed to find new employment;
He must do something to improve his family’s enjoyment.

The year of ’09 has not been plentiful;
Jobs disappeared and the stocks tumbled.
Princes and paupers alike, found themselves dining in candlelight.
No money to pay the energy bills, they found other ways to enjoy and delight.

More time to spend with family and friends,
Getting back to nature and making amends.
Finding repose in the strangest of places.
Why, some even found it on their children's faces.

The meal may be lighter;
The glass less full;
The presents may be less,
But, we will all still gather and bless:

Bless the time we have,
Bless the people we love,
Bless the faith we foster and
The strength we command. ..

And share a very Merry Christmas across the land.

'Tis the season. . .to reconnect

'Tis the season - Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa. Here in the U.S., we've begun filling the stores, visiting the websites and draining our bank accounts. If we're not buying gifts for others and the occasional gift for ourselves (one for you and two for me), we're decking the halls and painting the walls. Yes, it's time for forced merriment.

Please, I am not a Scrooge nor a Grinch or any other smile-robbing bandit. I love the holidays. And part of me is glad that some people are pushed into celebrating and entertaining and reconnecting. Some people just need "a little Christmas" to get them out of the shell and into the "bowl of cherries".

I just wish we would spend more time during the year, appreciating each other, reaching out to each other and taking stock of our faith and fortunes. Even if it's just a Facebook howdy or a quick Tweet; why do we wait until December to see what's up with the people that parade in and out of our memories? And, why do we close the door come January 2?

I will tell you why - because it's hard! Our days are long and filled with job worries, financial woes, health issues and other obligations. The kids need to be schlepped to soccer and their science project is due on Monday. Your mother needs a ride to the doctor appointment and Aunt Betty needs someone to go to the grocery store for her. If we find some precious time with nothing planned, we collapse into the chair and stare at the television.

My nails need a manicure desperately and that closet of mine has exploded again. I can't find a damn thing on my desk, let alone a pen, and you want me to write Christmas cards? It's not going to happen. It's just too hard!

So I've been giving this reconnecting thing some thought and was reminded of something one of my old CEOs would do. Each week I would send him a list of five names of our sales people. And each morning of every week, during his 10 AM coffee, he would call one of these people. Just one person a day and when we had gone through the list, he would start over again. It wasn't hard at all.

I bet I could make one extra phone call a day and maybe send one extra email or write a short note. I'm not going to send out 300 Christmas cards in a mad rush during the next week, but I can take that list and make it my mission for the entire year.

The holidays are upon us: there are parties planned, concerts and performances scheduled, places to travel. I will see many of you over the course of the next month. But if I don't and if you don't get that Christmas card (again), just know that you are on my list and in my memories. And when you least expect it, I will be at the other end of the phone.

Peace out.

Sanctuary

In a church, a temple or a mosque; on the mountain, by the river, in the forest, along the shore; we each find our sanctuary in different places. Sometimes we find sanctuary in each other. In the bright eyes of a child; the warm gesture of a friend; the intimate touch of our lover.

I often find myself contemplating my ideal sanctuary. I seek that special place where I can feel safe, secure and protected from my own negative self-talk. Those of us who spend our days plotting, planning, intellectualizing and rationalizing can too frequently get lost in the maze; the maze of earthly concerns and material wants. Our spirit is best fed by the poetry of nature: the crispness of the morning air; the scent of the blossoming flower; the song of the meandering river; and the strength of the giant oak. In nature, I remember my purpose. I must learn to see not only with my eyes, but with my spirit as well.


In nature, we learn the cycle of life. There is a clarity that we can not find in man-made doctrine. We tend to seek stability in our lives; stability means stagnation. The "answers" we seek come to us in abstraction; unsettling and mysterious. This mystery is the source of all true art and science; or so said Albert Einstein. This mystery is the source of our faith that feeds our spirit.

In those moments of clarity, among the splendor of nature we are inspired; we are forgiven; we are renewed. We can accept that success and failure are man-made measures. We believe that there is little difference between your faith and mine, but the man-made trappings of religion. We find the unity we seek in sanctuary.

To sit and watch an animal, a flower, the tree, we can recognize the dignity, the innocence, the holiness of nature. All working in unison, at different paces, to create this sanctuary and abide by the cycle of life.

The lesson we should take from this is that all of mankind is a mix of "people becoming"; all at different paces. We are all at different stages of our spiritual evolution. Those at the "same stage" choose to practice similar beliefs. We are all on different paths; not one right or one wrong. It is the search for sanctuary and enlightenment.

At My Thanksgiving Table

On the fourth Thursday of November, each year, Americans sit down at a table with family and friends to celebrate Thanksgiving. The feast is endless and the drink flows freely.

At my table, among the friends and family, among the memories of those who have gone before us, I embrace some special guests.

At my table, Faith takes a seat. Faith reminds us that we should not require proof or evidence to believe in the goodness of humanity. Faith maintains that our trust, confidence and reliance in our spiritual beliefs will be rewarded with the promise.

At my table, Respect joins with arms open. Respect teaches us to consider each other and each other's beliefs with deference, courtesy and regard. Respect tells us that this regard is not to be offered just to others, but to ourselves as well.

At my table, Peace brings harmony and tranquility. Peace is so very fragile and is often not seen. But on this day of Thanksgiving, we pray for a day with peace; the absence of war and the presence of an undisturbed state of mind.

At my table, Friendship surrounds us. In Friendship we can see each other's face; warmly supportive; deeply loved; and, forever forgiving. Friendship helps us to remember that we are not alone in our endeavors and we can not achieve greatness without each other.

At my table, Hope cautions us on our expectations. Hope, in its purest form has no expectations. Hope offers us solutions. Hope inspires us. Hope brings the future to our table.

At my table, Patience steadies us. The stresses and tediousness of our lives often leads us to forget patience. Patience gives us strength, fortitude and stoicism to endure.

At my table, Charity prevails. Charity lights our love for humankind. With charity we can lighten our hearts with benevolence, affection and goodwill. Charity does not judge others.

At my table, Forgiveness asks us to forgo our anger. In forgiveness we can give up our resentment and eliminate our desire to punish. And like Respect, Forgiveness reminds us that it not just for others; we must learn to use forgiveness for ourselves.

At this season of Thanksgiving, I pray that these guests come to my table each and every day. I pray that they can find a seat at yours as well.

World AIDS Day 2009 and Christopher James Harris

December 1st is World AIDS Day 2009. Tonight I am going to attend our local AIDS Benefit Foundation fundraiser. I will wear a pretty dress, pin on the ceramic red ribbon my nephew gave me many years ago and I will see some old friends of Christopher James Harris.

We lost Christopher, at the age of 32, in the spring of 1996. During those first six months of that year there were over 22,000 deaths from AIDS related illnesses. At that time, the worldwide death count was more than 1.5 million since HIV/AIDS was first identified in 1981. Chris' death was the first of many AIDS deaths that I witnessed up close and personal.

I can still remember wheeling Chris into the emergency room for the first hospitalization of many to come. It was 1992. Chris was my nephew and godson. He was tall, blond, tanned and beautiful. He was one of my closest friends. Chris lived with me during the four years he battled the AIDS virus. It was a brutal fight. And fought we did.

Chris quietly came "out of the closet" in the late '80s. I say "quietly" because he and many of his friends, while "out" had yet to turn the light on. The masses of the uninformed still believed that you could contract AIDS from just being around a gay man. Actually, Chris often cringed and cautioned me to wear gloves when I was helping him cope with an episode. I never even thought of "catching" AIDS; I just wanted to comfort him, make him better and help him laugh.

The day he was diagnosed I ran to the bookstore and bought every book there was on AIDS. There were only five in the store and the clerk gave me a frightened look as he rang up my purchase. In the hospital, Chris was hiding the books in the drawer when people came to visit. "We can't tell them", he would say. I said, "we have to tell them." We had to turn the lights on!

During the next four years, Chris and I went back and forth to Providence Hospital. Providence was the only hospital in the area at that time that would take AIDS patients. I would bring picnic baskets of his favorite foods to help him gain some weight. I would hold the pan in front of him as he got sick from the mega drugs being pumped into him. We would fight over what we would and would not tell the rest of the family. He didn't want them to know how much he was suffering. He was a wonderful actor; he hid his pain and fear well.

We talked openly about the disease, his life and his impending death. For in those days, AIDS was indeed a death sentence; a short duration from diagnoses to the end. I was told, by his doctor, at his funeral, that Chris had four years more than he would have had without me. I hold on to those words to this day. I wanted so to save that wonderful young man; that sweet young boy who once told me he wanted to be a pilot so he could travel with me around the world.

A day does not go by that I don't think of him. He made the best cup of coffee and there are days that I wish he was still here to do so. We laughed in the face of adversity. We laughed privately as we recounted the reaction some people had when they learned that he was gay and ill.

I think of him everyday. On December 1st, would you think of him too; and say a prayer. Say a prayer for Chris and all of the 33.2 million men, women and children who live with HIV/AIDS worldwide.

I miss him. His family and friends miss him; and there are his nieces and cousins who have "missed" knowing him.

I'm going to get "a round tuit"

My "to do" list keeps growing. I stay busy and the days seem to zip by me. There are some things on that list that have been there for almost a month. I keep telling myself that I will get to it on Monday; and then Friday arrives and I say again, "I'll get to it on Monday."

While getting my dose of news this morning and listening half-hardily to a feature piece, I heard, "you have to be uncomfortable to get better at what you do." While I agree that discomfort can be a motivator, I question whether any great achievement truly comes from "negative" motivation. It's like those "to do's" on my list; they will get done because they have to get done, but how well they get done is the question.

A former business colleague of mine used to, repeatedly, tell me that the only two, true, motivators of human nature are fear and greed. I didn't manage my business that way and I don't manage my life that way either. Perhaps you can deduce fear and greed as the common denominators for any motivator. You can turn a pig's ear into a silk purse with deduction, logic and reason.

I prefer to think my best results have been motivated by the desire for self-fulfillment. The end result is what motivates me; whether it is perfectly accessorising that new dress or raising $100,000 for my favorite charity or making it to Mass on Sunday morning or recycling my trash.

We are motivated by our basic needs of food, shelter and clothing. We seek recognition, love and affection and aspire to contribute to the greater good. We want to be remembered and leave a legacy for those that follow us. The question of motivation is really "what are your priorities" and what incents you to achieve and obtain those priorities and accomplishments.

The root of the word "motive" is "motion": causing or tending to cause motion. What "moves" you is your incentive to "move".

I am "moved" by other's creativity. I read; I see; I listen; and then I want to be a better person. People incent me; not the desire for things. The "things" are the trappings of achievement; and the "things" are sometimes not things at all. It is the love, respect, security and recognition that motivated me in the first place.

There are steps I must complete to put me in the position of moving my life in a positive direction. Some of those steps include the necessary and laborious tasks to meet our obligations. It is those tasks that remain on my "to do" list. Maybe I'll get "a round tuit" on Monday.

Sarah Palin scares the crap out of me!

This is not a political statement; it is a feminist statement. I will say it again: Sarah Palin scares the crap out of me. I believe that she has one of those personas, that you either love her or hate her. I repeat - she just scares me. She scares me because she is put upon us as a role model for women.

Let's move the politics aside for a moment; although, I admit, it is very difficult for me to do. Palin is a strong, beautiful woman; now she needs to be quiet. When I point to role models for young women she is no where to be found on my list.

She claims to be promoting women; promoting the power of women; telling her story of making choices and being "maverick-y". Why does she then frequently portray herself as a victim? Listen to her accounts of the 2008 campaign. She takes no responsibility for contributing to adverse public opinion or mistakes she made. It is always someone else who put her in the position. Palin "let" the Republicans treat her like a puppet and promote an agenda of pseudo-equality. She is forever the "beauty queen" who fails the questioning category.

Palin blames "bad campaign management" for her interview with Katie Coric. Excuse me, was it such a stretch for her to actually name a newspaper she read; not even the Wasilla Gazette came out of her mouth. Actually, based on that hemming and hawing I am even surprised that she knew who Katie Coric was. If you listen to her, Palin believes her only mistake was to let others manage her. A truly strong woman isn't "managed".

She is a master manipulator. The media has promoted her to celebrity status; she blasts the media and how "they treat her" and there she is - on a media blitz. Smiling and winking her way to front page coverage.

Palin criticizes everything (except "huntin' and fishin' and hockey moms") but offers no suggestions for solutions. "Drill baby drill" is not a solution.

She was put on the Republican ticket in 2008 because she was a woman. I feel, as a woman, that she threw us under the bus. In this era, women need leadership to support issues pertaining to our bodies, our livelihood and our children. Pseudo-equality just isn't good enough anymore.

Palin quit her job as governor; not to find other outlets to serve her community, state or country, but to write (ghost) a book to serve her bank account. That's fine Sarah, but just admit it. Don't pretend that your book will have any earth shattering impact on the world as we know it.

I want women leaders who are accountable and take responsibility and admit to their mistakes. I want women leaders who won't buckle in the face of adversity. I want women leaders who don't whine and point fingers at others. I want women leaders who embrace their children and at the same time hold the hand of the rape victim during her abortion. I want women leaders who can be regarded beautiful because of their intelligence and creativity. You betcha, I want a lot.

Palin scares me because she is being lauded as a female role model. Not on my list.

If you don't get older, you die young

There are many family members and friends celebrating birthdays this month. Some are excited about the "milestone", some are apathetic and some are down right annoyed that they have to add another year to their age. My father always said, "if you don't get older, you die young." Is that why we celebrate? The fact they we have survived another year?

Some birthdays are recognized as a right of passage. Turning 18 or 21 welcomes one into adulthood. Depending upon your jurisdiction, you can now vote, possibly buy alcohol, drive, purchase lottery tickets and enlist in the military. You can also be sued and tried as an adult in criminal court.

Reaching 50, 55 or 65, welcomes you into "old age". When I was in my twenties, we feared 30; the age which we could "no longer be trusted." Catholics and Anglicans confirm twelve and thirteen year olds in religious adulthood. The Jewish faith taps their twelve and thirteen year olds with a bar mitzvah or bat mitzvah. In Islam, the legal age for girls is 9 and 15 for boys. In the U.S., sweet sixteen is a coming out party for many young girls; while the Hispanics celebrate quinceanera marking the girls' 15th birthday.

We make holidays out the birthday of presidents, explorers and civil rights leaders. Elvis's birthday is marked by a huge pilgrimage of fans to Memphis, Tennessee. We bow our heads in memory of departed family members on their birthdays and pray on our "Saint's Day."

According to public record, birthdays are generally, evenly distributed throughout the year. However, according to Anybirthday.com there are more birthdays in October and September, respectively. The most frequent birthday is October 5th; and, the least frequent birthday is May 22nd (I actually know two people who were born on May 22nd). The September and October births are attributed to the nine month period following the holidays of Christmas and New Year's. I guess the November babies are the result of those cold, northern winters.

Origins of the birthday celebration are rooted in superstition. In the early centuries of Western civilization, it was believed that evil spirits were particularly attracted to people on their birthdays. In ancient times, people prayed over an open fire, believing the smoke would carry their thoughts and wishes to the gods. So it seems, to protect the birthday girl or boy from harm, friends would gather to bring good thoughts and brought gifts to provide even more cheer to ward off the evil spirits. Eventually the "open fire" was replaced by the candles. Up until the fourth century, Christianity viewed the birthday celebration as a pagan ritual. I guess that changed after they threw the Pope and birthday party.

We gather at the birthday celebration for food, drink and cake. We stack candles on the cake and the birthday person makes and wish and blows the candles out. We bring presents, cards and decorate with balloons. We chronicle the day with photographs and sentiments. The birthday person is the center of attention. We spend years perpetuating that special attention and then after I while we hope it gets overlooked. Remember what Daddy said, "if you don't get older, you die young:" so put on your Sunday best and smile for us. . .we love a good party.

Deviance is in the eye of the beholder. . .

The news cycle, this morning, covered a little boy who refuses to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance in his Arkansas grade school class. The 10 year-old, fifth-grader, Will Phillips said that after a week-end of "analyzing" the pledge he found it "not to be true." Sitting with his father, in a CNN interview, and wearing a tee-shirt with the the slogan "Nerds 2[squared](4) Ever" he further explained that while the pledge cites "liberty and justice for all", ". . .it is simply not true." "Gay and lesbians are discriminated against and there is still lots of racism in this country." "Liberty and justice does not apply to all."

Solid reasoning for a ten-year-old; solid reasoning for anyone of any age. What disturbed me about the interview was not young Will's behavior, but Will's father calling his son's action "acceptable delinquency". Delinquency? The Constitution gives Will the right to remain seated during the Pledge; so what's with the reference to "delinquency"? Outspoken, yes; precocious, maybe; delinquent? I don't think so. I am continually amazed at the negative reaction that a word will evoke. Such a label will stigmatized and is likely to promote negative attention.

I am reminded of an essay I wrote in middle school - "My Deviant Family'. I wrote about the eccentric and sometimes outlandish behavior and opinions of family members; artists; protesters of social injustice; a few hippies. I brought my "A" paper home to show my parents. My mother was appalled; my father chuckled. Mom began ranting and raving at me, "what was I thinking; didn't I know that the word deviant meant bad things?"

It didn't. I used the word deviant in the purest form of the definition: departing from the usual or accepted social standards and norms; violation of social norms. I tried to reason with her that deviant behavior was a perception of something different from what was generally practiced. Perhaps I was, too, precocious.

People define different things in different ways. Deviance, like delinquency, is not necessarily "criminal" or bad behavior. Your view of deviance is just something that does not follow your point of view. There are admirable forms of deviation; in fact some behaviors are publicly evaluated in a superior sense.

I am in no way condoning bad or criminal behavior. I am pointing out how we can do great injustices by labeling a person with a word of negative connotation. We also must be cognizant that word connotation differs among us. Deviance is in the eye of the beholder.

"Back" to the Future

The other day I watched one of the kids in the neighborhood walking slowly toward his house. On his back was one of the biggest back packs I have ever seen. He wore it low and looked as though he was in deep concentration to make his way up the hill. One foot in front of the other; keeping himself balanced. God Bless Him! I wonder if there were any books in the bag?

As of late, my lower back has been aching. My back ache and his back pack got me thinking - the phrase "back breaking work" was completely literal. We may not put "our shoulders to the grindstone and our nose to the wheel (and try to get anything accomplished in that position)", but our lifestyles push our spines to the limit.

As a youngster, had I know what back aches I would have in the future, I would have protested loudly about the amount of homework I was given. I remember walking home from school carrying textbook upon textbook; barely able to keep my arms around them. I would try carrying them on my hip and switch sides every so often; the switch usually ended up with the books falling to the ground.

We didn't have laptops or the Internet to do our research for term papers. So, it was off to the library and more books to schlep home. Each class had it's own notebook full of notes and handouts. Only the "nerds" were smart enough to carry briefcases or book bags in the day. I don't even remember using a book bag until graduate school.

In high school, one of my dear friends, a studious person, had to have hernia surgery. I remember the jocks taunted him about how he ended up with a hernia; "carrying too many books were ya." Actually, that is probably what caused it.

I have always complained that my days as a business traveler (read: pack mule) wrecked my back. Garment bags, purse, briefcase, presentation portfolio - all tucked and lugged across the country. In retrospect, I realize the damage began long, long ago.

Get your kids the back packs on wheels; and make sure the handles are long enough for them to pull them standing straight. I'm on a new mission to save the "backs" of the future.

Please Mr. Postman

I got a letter in the mail the other day. Not a card, not a thank you note, not a request for donations, not an email, not an invitation; but, an honest to God, letter. A letter with a greeting and all sorts of newsy updates from a friend I haven't seen in quite a while. Snail mail - what a concept.

While reading the letter, I could hear her speaking; just like in the movies. I could tell from the handwriting that she was taking her time penning her thoughts; and, instead of the electronic shorthand "lol", she wrote "ha ha". I really do miss getting letters. But as my mother would tell me, "you need to write one to get one back."

As a child I wrote lots of letters; and have to admit that I did so to get one back. As the youngest child in my family, my grandparents were all gone before I came along. I felt ever so slighted by not having grandparents; all my friends did. My mother had an uncle and an aunt who were still around. My father had an older sister. So I began my letter writing campaign to Uncle Ferdie, Tanta Annie and Aunt Alma.

It started as "thank you" notes for a Christmas or birthday present and became a chronicle of my youth. I wish I still had those letters. I remember sitting at my little white desk in my bedroom, with some pretty stationary and a fresh, new pen. I would tell them about my report card and what school activities I was involved in. I would tell them about outings to the beach or zoo. At Christmastime, I would laboriously list every little stocking stuffer and gift I received. Sometimes I would enclose essay's or stories that I had written (I was editor of my elementary school newspaper).

I could always count on them to find time to send me a return letter. Uncle Ferdie was a scientist and a collector of all sorts of unusual things - he would suggest books for me to read. Tanta Annie would tell me stories about the family and her weekly tennis match. Aunt Alma would tell me about the weather in Alabama and describe the changes in season.

As I grew older, I found others to write to. In college, I would set aside time every Sunday to write to the parents and friends at other schools. I had one friend in college who actually kept carbon copies of the letters she wrote. I wish I had some of the letters I wrote.

My first love was a letter writer. While away at school, he would write every week; beautiful love letters; letters that made my heart beat faster. I wish I had saved those letters. They were burned in the ritual break-up ceremony.

Often, when cleaning out a drawer or an old box I find stuffed away in the closet I'll find a letter I have saved. When I read them, I realize how full of "history" they are. My friends Polly and Donna were particularly good at writing letters (and still are). I have let my letter writing by the wayside.

I believe my generation was the last to embrace the art of letter writing. I can still hear Dean Martin ending his variety show saying, "keep those cards and letters coming in." I can recall pleading with my nieces and nephews to write to me. As much as their parents chided them to write thank you notes, I usually only got a phone call. One time in desperation I bought a book "The Art of Writing Thank You Notes" and sent it to one niece. It didn't make an impact.

Much of history as we know it has been collected from the letters of those who were there. Perhaps it is the voyeur in me, but I love to read the letters of artists and writers; presidents and kings; soldiers and lovers. They saved those letters.

I wish I had saved more of mine.

Parakevidekatriaphobia Reversed

"Friday 13th is unlucky for some. The risk of hospital admission as a result of a transport accident may be increased by as much as 52 percent. Staying at home is recommended." Excerpt from a 1993 study published in the British Medical Journal.

Yes, indeed, it is Friday, the 13th; the high holy day of the superstitious. Voltaire said that, "superstition is to religion what astrology is to astronomy, the mad daughter of a wise mother." In which case, I believe I am the "wise daughter or a mad mother."

I grew up on West 13th Avenue. My "lucky numbers", 5 and 8, total 13. There are thirteen letters to my name. I worked for thirteen years at my first (1) and third (3) jobs. And, as for Fridays, I have always received money (read: paid) on Fridays which was followed by two days off. Hey, I think Friday, the 13th, is my lucky day.

According to folklorists, written evidence of the superstition did not appear until the 19th century. However, the origins appear to be passed on from early Christianity; the Friday crucifixion of Christ and the thirteen diners at the Last Supper.

There is also the ancient myth rooted in Norse mythology. Author, Charles Panati explained:

". . .a tale in Norse mythology. Friday is named for Frigga, the free-spirited goddess of love and fertility. When Norse and Germanic tribes converted to Christianity, Frigga was banished in shame to a mountaintop and labeled a witch. It was believed that every Friday, the spiteful goddess convened a meeting with eleven other witches, plus the devil - a gathering of thirteen - and plotted ill turns of fate for the coming week. For many centuries in Scandinavia, Friday was knows as the "witches" sabbath."

The Stress Management Center and Phobia Institute in Asheville, North Carolina, has estimated that 17 to 21 million people in the United States suffer from fear of Friday the 13th. Many people are so paralyzed by their fear that they remain in bed throughout the day. It is believed that $800-$900 million is lost in business on this day.

This is the third of three Friday the 13th's we have had this year. There is only one on next year's calendar. Just to play it safe, I think I'll stay at home tonight and avoid the craziness. Perhaps I'll watch a movie - or maybe I will go out; the film 2012, about the end of the world, opens tonight. Hmmm, coincidence?

Are you being served?

As I stumbled around making my coffee this morning, and cursed at the coffee maker to "perk damnit, perk," I was reminded of a restaurant experience many years ago.

There was a group of us, about ten, staying at the St. Moritz in New York. We were all there for a holiday party. It was the morning after the long and eventful night and I must say there was some "suffering" among us from our evening of frivolity. We had all gathered in Rumplemeyer's for breakfast. I was there for mass quantities of java. There was a table of six and a table of four. The restaurant was bustling, but not necessarily packed. We waited. We waited. We weren't being "waited" upon.

I am not particularly "pleasant" before that morning cup of coffee. Pleasant isn't really the word; the word is probably "patient". Having no patience, and having a headache and having sat unattended at the table for more than the reasonable wait, I decided to take the situation to hand. I stood up, went to the wait station and picked up a pot of coffee and began serving my friends and myself. The wait staff finally noticed us. The matre 'd ran to me to take the coffee pot. "Madame", he said, "let me do that for you." "Now, you want to serve me?" The apologies ensued. I told him I would help them out if they needed it, but I needed my coffee first. I had in fact collected everyone's order and called them out in a clipped, distinct voice. The wait staff scurried off, and returned, rather quickly, with Mimosas, pancakes, eggs, toast, bagels and the rest of a ravenous breakfast. The bill was $0; but we still tipped the wait staff.

I have been incredibly spoiled over the years by some wonderful people in the service industry. In return, my tips have funded a lot of food, shelter and clothing for the men and women who serve up drinks and cuisine. I have developed some long lasting friendships and have gone to weddings, baby showers and children's birthday parties. I also believe I have offered some mentoring for their "real" career choices.

Providing good service is a real skill. Schlepping food and drink, to sometimes ungrateful guests, takes real skill and a forgiving personality. Being a good customer also takes some skill, respect and a forgiving personality. As I watch "others" in restaurants and bars, I often thought that that restaurant etiquette should be given more attention. The servers go through training, why not the customers?

I thought of a few key rules of etiquette that just might improve your service the next time you dine out.

First, the server tells you their name for a reason; they don't want to be called "hey you." Remember their name, call them by their name, and ask them to tell you their name if they "forget" to tell you. And, introduce yourself.

Let the server know up front if you have special needs or issues. Do you have food allergies? Have tickets for the theater and need to be out at a certain time? Don't be afraid to tell them you want your "vegetables on the side and not touching your steak." Your server is your mediator with the kitchen staff.

If something is wrong with your order, tell them politely and clearly what is wrong. And remember, it is not necessarily their error that produced your "unhappiness". Don't sit there getting angry, and then stiff them on the tip. It can't be fixed if you don't tell them.

Remember that you are not their only customer. And more often than not, the number of customers they have was not their choice to begin with. You do have the option of going to Burger King or McDonald's.

If you got bad service, tell them. That is how we all learn.

I'm out and about alot. There are a number of places I go, not necessarily for the food, but for the service people. I have to give a shout out to the staff at Bonefish Grill in Harbison - Susan, Jesse, Emily, Erin, and the bartenders who always give me the "big girl glass." There is Jerry at Nonnah's and Stephen and Will at Copper River, Linh and Julia at Motor Supply, Leslie at the Koger, English at Ale House, Stephanie at White Mule and Alicia, Heather, Courtney, Chris, Angelo and many others who are scattered throughout town. I appreciate what you do.

"I saw the angel. . .[and] set him free."

"I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free." Michelangelo

Sometimes we see the angel in marble. Sometimes we see the angel on canvass or on a blank sheet of paper. If we are lucky, sometimes we see the angel in ourselves.

Creativity and imagination know no bounds. It is all around us; every day; in the ordinary and in the extraordinary. It results from joy, sadness, pain and glory. We find it in our memories,remembrances and in the times that have yet to be.

Imagination helps us rewrite our lives; it helps us cope; it gives us strength and it takes our energy.

Henry David Thoreau said, "it is not what you look at that matters, it is what you see."

What we see defines us; not what we know. Is the glass half empty or half full? What do you see? And what is in that glass? Water that sustains us? A cocktail that tickles us? Is the evening over or have we just begun to laugh?

Seeing the emptiness does not mean the imagination is void. Seeing emptiness can find "conclusion" or a new beginning; it can create accomplishment or challenge. There is no right or no wrong. Yet, without imagination, without creativity, we are destined to be imprisoned by black or white.

We owe it to ourselves to charm the imagination from within; to bring it into the light; to free it from the confines of the marble slab. Our world, our reality was created from some one's dreams. My wish for you is to live in your dream.

"Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night." Edgar Allen Poe

Image courtesy of Mike Flaherty

"Look Him Up"

Dreams are not something that I like writing about. Every time I have put a dream to paper it turns into something other than the dream itself. Perhaps the subconscious at work. I have been dream deficient for the last several years; at least that I can recall. Recently my sleep habits have improved and the dreams have reappeared. I use the word "reappeared" literally; there is one dream that has been reoccurring. I first dreamt this scenario about five years ago. And now, several times in the last two months.

The first time this particular dream crept into my slumber I assumed I had been watching too much Law & Order and CSI. Now, it might be too much Ghost Whisperer or Medium. There is a belief that if you talk about and analyze a recurring dream, you will resolve the sub-conscious thoughts that produce the dream; and hence, the dream ceases. Therefore, I am going to share.

I am invited into a cozy kitchen. It is warm and colorful, but ever so small. Seated at the table are Mother, Father and brother Bob; all of whom died within a ten year period. My first reaction is that I have been called there because it is my "time." They are quick to dispose of that belief. "No", my Father says, "but there is someone very close to us that is presumed dead and is not." I am never actually told the name of the person "close to us."

"They haven't crossed over," I ask? "No, they haven't died. They are in the witness protection program and living in Georgia." Really? Georgia? "But, he will die soon."

I wasn't at the funeral. Perhaps that is why I dream that this relative (actually there are two possibilities) is still alive. My brother continues in the dream, "we have been looking for him since we got here and no one could tell us where he was; we thought perhaps he didn't make it here." Mother chimes in, "I finally went to the front desk and demanded to know where he was and they told me he wasn't due to check in yet."

Leave it to my mother to seek out someone "in charge" and "demand" answers. My father smiles with that familiar grin that always resulted from mother's aggressiveness. Bob rolls his eyes. "It's probably safe to seek him out now. The 'mobsters' are mostly dead now." If it was safe, wouldn't he seek us, the living relatives, out?

We all shrug our shoulders. "Look him up" my brother says. And they hug me and leave me sitting at that kitchen table.

Look him up? Which "him" am I looking up? Georgia? Really? Don't you think "they" need to give me a little more information? Perhaps this evening.

"Point of View"

Blogger's Note: Bonnie Goldberg's 'point of view" acrylic ink and watercolor crayon on canvas; 30 X 30; can be seen at Paul Sloan Interiors on Gervais Street, Columbia, South Carolina


Sometimes I see her in the park; walking with her iPod plugged into her ears. She always has a dreamy smile on her face. I wonder what she is listening to? She walks briskly, but gracefully. I wonder if she is a dancer? She walks up to a huge oak tree, reaches out to it with both hands and looks up. An apparent greeting to an old and dear friend? She gracefully bends and runs her hands through the fallen autumn leaves. She catches one in her fingers and carries it off with her.

More often than not, you can find her in the coffee shop, curled up in the over-stuffed chair in the back corner. Last week she had a copy of Emily Dickinson's collected poetry. Today she is turning the pages of Vanity Fair. Ever so often, she stops on a page and you can see her eyes dart up and down. She sips cautiously from her coffee cup. I suspect she is admiring, or disapproving, of the fashion statement of one or another celebrity. She is always smartly dressed with just enough edge that makes you think she may be a little quirky. Quirky is good. Quirky helps you survive in this often black and white world. Quirky keeps them guessing.

Last night friends and I stopped in that new pub on Main Street. It's darkly lit and hosting an up and coming local band. The music is rather loud, but out of the noise I hear a hearty, controlled laugh. When I turn, I realize it is her. She is sitting at the bar with several people; all seem so beautiful. A tall, blond, mustached man rests his hand on her shoulder. She holds a champagne flute in one hand and gestures widely with the other. They are all laughing now; sparked by her wit?

I notice that she always carries a tote and peeking from the top you can see a leather-bound journal. I think it is a journal; it could be a sketch book. And, she always as a camera; but I have never seen her take a photograph. I wonder, have I been caught in her lens at one time or another? Has she ever noticed that I show up in the same places? I wonder.

I wonder "what is her point of view"?

Addictive Thinking

Blogger's Note: This is strictly commentary and threads of thought. It's me, thinking out loud.

Additive thinking can be very logical, superficially, seductive and misleading.

I learned this week of a friend's son who is facing legal consequences from his addictive behavior resulting from his drug use. I do believe addiction is a mental illness, but I start questioning the validity of the premise that an individual can be genetically predisposed to addiction.

Is it nurture or nature that produces addiction? Is it the chicken or the egg? Does our genetic predisposition produce low self-esteem? And, that low self-esteem permeates one's thinking and then the parenting skills (or lack of skills) perpetuate the legacy of poor self-esteem? After being told over and over again that you are "wrong" or "need" to do things differently. . .you believe it. Self fulfilling prophecies.

Addiction comes in so many forms: alcohol, drugs (legal and illegal), smoking, caffeine, sexual behavior, people, gambling; just the short list.

The behaviors are a defense to thinking and feeling pain. The pain manifests itself in the guise of self-destructive actions; passive suicide if you will. And misery, loves company. Peer pressure is nothing more than "misery recruitment".

Think about how young (and old) people fall to peer pressure. They are made to think that they are "less" if they don't join the crowd. The "crowd" uses the same negative reinforcement that has been used on them to "keep them in line"; the aim is to destruct the self-esteem; question worthiness; control; withhold love and attention. The same is true for physical abusers; the act of violence is their addiction. Peer pressure works best on an already damaged self image.

Guilt and shame lie at the core of addictive thinking. While they are akin, they are ever so different and require much different healing methods. Guilt results from action; shame results from what we are. Guilt can lead to corrective action; shame leads to resignation and despair.

Socially, we create addicts. We set expectations of achievement as a requirement instead of an aspiration. We judge those who do not "fit in" and often ostracize them. We tell them they should be "ashamed" for not marching to the same beat.

Intolerance. Judgement. Gossip. Blame. Perhaps if we could do away with this "addictive thinking," we could help "cure" addiction.

Lunch and Learn - The History of Tuna

For lunch today I made a tuna salad sandwich; to feed the craving I have been having for the last several days. Tuna fish sandwich on toast; made with chopped celery, onion, pepper and salt and mayonnaise. I am reminded of Lent and the Friday night meal of tomato soup and tuna sandwiches that my mother made. In addition to the tuna sandwich, her "tuna talents" included macaroni and tuna salad. That's it. No Salad Niciois; no tuna casseroles; no tuna melt or tuna bake; and I didn't have Ahi Tuna until many years later.

This sandwich got me thinking. . .who decided to make tuna a salad?

Canned tuna is a staple. An April 2009, survey commissioned by the National Fisheries Institute found that "four out of five. . .U.S. adults usually keep cans or pouches of tuna in the house at any given time. More than half of adults have a least three. . .and one in four usually keep five or more cans or pouches of tuna at home."

I started my "research" on the origins of the word "tuna". My friend Webster cites the word with an American origin somewhere between 1880-85; a variation of the Spanish word atun; derived from the Greek Thunnus; a genre of game fish. Tuna is a fish, so why do we call it "tuna fish" or "fish fish"? We don't refer to snapper as snapper fish or salmon as salmon fish. Is it so good we have to say it twice?

A survey of old cookbooks and menus confirms that meat and mayonnaise-type salads were popular in America from colonial times to present. These dishes were culinary traditions brought over by European, primarily German, settlers. The tuna salad is an early twentieth century recipe.

Canned tuna was first mass marketed in the U.S. in 1903. American cookbooks began to offer tuna as an alternative to chicken and turkey in salad recipes. I found the following recipe from Salads, Sandwiches and Chafing Dish Recipes, Marion H. Neil (1916):

Tuna fish salad
1 can of Tuna fish
shredded lettuce
salt and red pepper to taste
1 tablespoonful vinegar
2 tablespoonfuls lemon-juice
Mayonnaise dressing
1 tablespoonful capers
1 hard-cooked egg
2 or 3 stuffed olives.
Line a salad dish with shredded lettuce. Break the fish into pieces and place it on top of the lettuce. Mix the salt, red pepper, lemon-juice, and vinegar together and pour over the fish. Chill, and when ready to serve, decorate with the capers, slices of hard-cooked egg, and the stuffed olives. Service with mayonnaise dressing. Another method - Flake one can of Tuna fish with a silver fork, add one and one half cupful of diced celery and one half cupful of broken English walnut meats, mix with mayonnaise - or boiled dressing. Serve on crisp lettuce leaves."

The Christian Science Monitor, ran a story in February 1913, "Tuna Now Popular Fish Food":

"In California the tuna is being introduced generally in the best restaurants, no only because it is new, but because people are beginning to value it for what it is. Tuna salads are getting to be popular. The housekeeper can prepare the fish in a dozen different ways."

Now, hasn't this post brought a whole new meaning to "lunch and learn." Bon Appetite!

Herb & Dorothy, Art Collecting and Me

When you think of art collectors, you have images of the rich and famous; of people spending hundreds of thousands of dollars for paintings by well known artists. You think of the Rockefellers, Gettys and Mellons. Do you know about Dorthy and Herbert Vogel? They are my new heroes; art collectors of modest means.

In 2007, Sotheby's UK included the Vogels in their book, Great Collectors of Our Time: Art Collecting Since 1945; and placed them among the top art collectors in the world. The Vogels had amassed a collection of nearly 4,800 pieces of conceptual and minimalist art.

It's not the number of pieces in their collection that makes them so unusual; and to me it's not even the artists that they collected. Herb was a postal clerk and Dorothy, a librarian in the Brooklyn Public Library. In the early 1960's, this couple began collecting artwork guided by two rules: the piece had to be affordable and it had to be small enough to fit in their one-bedroom Manhattan apartment. Herb's salary was devoted to collecting and they lived off of Dorothy's paycheck.

In 1992, the pair decided to transfer the collection to the National Gallery of Art and later, in 2008, launched the Dorthy and Herbert Vogel Collection: Fifty Works for Fifty States (along with the National Gallery of Art, the National Endowment for the Arts and the Institute of Museum and Library Services). The program has donated 2,500 works to 50 institutions across 50 states. The Columbia Museum of Art, in South Carolina, is one of those lucky venues.

Art is one of my passions. I have always hesitated to refer to myself as a collector; having the image of the Rockefeller, et al, accompanying the definition of collector. Now, having been exposed to the Vogel collection and the story of Herb and Dorothy, I "admit" to being a collector.

Unlike the Vogels, I do not have any "rules" to my purchases (other than how much can I afford to spend). My selections are mood initiated. The piece ends up "speaking to me" and I take it home. There is a story behind every purchase. The local artists in the Columbia area are phenomenal. They continue to amaze and inspire me; and comfort me in the confines of my home.



One of my favorite artists, and now dear friend, is Bonnie Goldberg. Bonnie's work speaks to my femininity, strength and spirituality. These paintings to the left are "New Attitude", "Reflections of You", and "Ladies Night Out".

As I survey my "collection", I realize that most of the paintings and prints are that of women; women alone, women with children, women with pets, women with women and two pieces of a woman with a prince. Now that speaks volumes to me.


Local artist, Blue Sky, is probably best know for his depictions of the Columbia area, Lake Murray and South Carolina in general. Shortly after my brother died in 1998, I was in Blue's gallery looking for a gift for a friend that was moving out of town. I saw this print for the first time then. This woman, was fallen upon the rocks of the river's edge, in despair. A lump formed in my throat. This piece, to this day, chronicles my grief of the loss of Bob. It's not with sadness that I look upon it; I know my brother would have appreciated the emotion of the image.


Friends question just what emotions I was experiencing when I chose "Good Ole Gal" by Cecil Parsons. I think I just saw a happy, well-groomed old lady with her cat. I aspire to be a happy, well-groomed old lady with a cat.

I have been lucky enough to add to my collection works by Richard McDonald, Joann McDermott, Carol McGill, Howard Hunt, Vincent Suttles and, of course my grandparents, Christine Lange and Ferdinand Veit.


I am no Dorthy and Herb Vogel. . .I'm just a "wanna be". . .I have lots of work to do.

What If?

What if we really accepted all men and women as equals? What if we didn't discriminate between race, ethnicity, creed, gender or sexual orientation? What if the word "minority" didn't exist? What if?

Sadly, I fear we would create the divide anyway. We are genetically predisposed to create sides (at least I believe such). I reach this conclusion after many years of experience as "us" and as "them".

As a young woman, I was part of a club, whose members, somehow, were all blond and bright. We looked alike; with our long locks parted in the middle. We dressed similarly and sounded the same. But, there were some who chose to read romance novels while the "majority" read classic literature. The readers of romance novels were mocked. We found a "minority" within; however petty.

In business, after many years struggling to gain acceptance in the board room, I found myself choosing sides. Not a man-woman issue, but the issue between marketing and operations. It was a continuous, and often nasty, battle between two groups. We all worked for the same company; we all worked toward the same profit margin; yet we chose sides - us versus them.

It is always us versus them: Americans vs everyone else; men vs women; gay vs straight; Christians vs Jew; and, the list goes on.

I believe we get lost in the issue of majority and minority. We say the "majority rules", but it is in fact a "minority" that rules us - that handful of people in government and those giants of industry. They are not really part of the majority. It is our wish in life to be on the "winning" side - survival of the fittest. But, I suggest we can survive with tolerance and acceptance; a win-win equation.

If we survive together, will we not have more plentiful resources of experience, knowledge and culture? But that means opening oneself up to new ideas and embracing the differences. I can hear the mantra now, "but those people are different"; said with a disapproving tone.

We teach difference. We perpetuate difference. We mock difference.

What if we start teaching similarity and symbiosis and mutual interdependence? What if we stop being scared of what is different and embrace the beauty of "not alike"?

What if?

California Gang Rape - Prosecute the Witnesses Too!

Every time I hear about this story I get sick to my stomach and my eyes begin to water. How does this happen?

Last week, a 15-year-old girl was brutally raped outside her homecoming dance. Richmond, California police believe as many as 20 people may have watched or participated in the vicious rape that lasted for more than two hours in a dimly lit corner of the high school campus. Watched; for two hours and took photos on their cell phones. The young woman, was repeatedly raped and beaten and her injuries were so severe that she had to be sent to the hospital in a helicopter. No one even called the police.

As of today, only seven suspects have been arrested in the "alleged" gang rape. I hate that word "alleged". It is not alleged; the young woman is hospitalized and traumatized. When she was found, after her father had repeatedly tried to contact her on her cell, she was semi-conscious and curled up under a lunch table on the grounds of the school.

Twenty witnesses and participants! Was this some sort of "mob behavior"? Not one of these young adults had the sense, or compassion, to see the atrocity of this event? Not one, had the courage to try to stop it or just call 911? No, they had their phones and began snapping photographs. Contra County prosecutors indicated that it would be "unlikely" that the witnesses would be charged with any crime unless they participated in the assault.

The high school administration is back stepping their responsibility of providing a "safe environment" for the students. They insist they did a sweep of the grounds following the dance; but admit that this particular corner of the campus was not searched. They commented that the dance itself was not marred by incident; a spokesman was quoted as saying, "the dance itself was a success in terms of safety." "This rape is an isolated incident". Isolated? Is this suppose to make the other parents and students feel better. It's a horrible incident.

The act of rape, alone, is tragic and will have lasting impact on this young woman. Being beaten will leave scars physically and emotionally. Being watched and not helped for nearly two and half hours? Will this young woman, and the community, ever feel safe and secure again?

We, as a culture, believe that if something "bad" happens, the cavalry will come and rescue us. The "cavalry" stood and watched. The nightmare of hearing the jeering crowd, smelling the alcohol and sweat of her attackers, hearing her own voice plead for it to stop, praying to God to rescue her. . .how can this poor girl not be haunted?

I pray for her physical recovery. I pray she will find a way to reconcile and forgive. I don't know if I could.

Hurry up and Wait

My sister had to go for a stress test today. The process takes four to six hours; most of the time is spent sitting and waiting for the next phase of the procedure. So, I sit in the very small waiting area with others who wait.

The room is small; so small that I believe it has been designed to encourage you to wait elsewhere. There is a television and stacks of magazines, brochures and pamphlets. As is common in most public spaces these days, there are large dispensers of hand sanitizers on each of the end tables.

I brought a book to read and a notebook to jot down my random thoughts. I am concentrating on my "waiting paraphernalia" and avoiding eye contact. Waiting room conversations are often laced with entirely "too much information"; particularly in a medical facility.

I see others with their heads buried into their books or staring intently at the television monitor. I think to myself, "good, it will be quiet time." Despite my obvious signs of "do not disturb", one of the waiting women attempts to get my attention. It starts with, "that is such a lovely wrap you are wearing." I note that the woman next to me bows her head more closely to her book. "Thank you," I respond as I continue writing. She is talking to me from across the room; it is only a matter of time before she invites them all into a communal discussion. The fact that I appear busy with "something" does not distract from her mission to "share".

It is not that I dislike chatting and meeting people; it is that I dislike chatting in any sort of medical facility. The conversations will always get down to what ailment they are being treated for, what medications they are taking and eventually lead to bodily functions. Too much information!

There are laws that provide strict guidelines to protect individuals' medical privacy. Doctors and hospital must provide privacy policies and structure their physical locations to allow for "private" check-in and consultation. They do this and then this woman in the waiting room announces her mother's medical condition, medications and whether or not she had a good bowel movement this morning. So much for mother's privacy.

I attempt to move the conversation away from "medicine" and her mother. We talk about food. Food, perhaps, was not my best choice. I am now told of the effects certain vegetables have on her and her children (and apparently the family dog as well). I excuse myself to go into the restroom. It's nice and quiet in there, but I know I can't stay in there too long. I know she will ask me if I'm alright! She does anyway. "I'm fine," I respond quietly.

The nurse has come out to tell us that they are running almost an hour and a half behind schedule. My sister can now have some lunch. I grab my purse, my books and her arm and lead her to the door. I hear "are you going to the cafe downstairs?" I have to say "no". I am not in a pleasant mood today. I just can't converse politely. I turn and smile, "No, we're going to go back to the house for awhile."

She looked so disappointed. She starts to tell me that she would go home too but she finally got her husband to agree to pick up the kids and she wants him to do that and then maybe he will think about taking something out for dinner and feeding the dog and helping the kids with their homework, and....BREATHE LADY!

Bless her heart. Now that I'm back at the house for a while, I'm starting to feel guilty. I promise, when I get back to the waiting room, I'll engage in conversation.

Critics of South Carolina - BACK OFF!

Last week Boeing announced they will be building a facility in North Charleston to produce their new "dream" plane. This is a huge economic stimulus for the State of South Carolina. While the state legislature patted themselves on the back for accomplishing this coup, there have been critics questioning Boeing's choice of location.

"Unskilled and barely above minimum wage employees should not be building planes with hundreds of people on them. This is a life and death."

"This won't work. Neither will the overheated, abused, underpaid serfs of Boeing in South Kakalakie."

What does the rest of this nation think is going on here in the state of "smiling faces and beautiful places"?

OK, so we have an adulterous, stubborn Governor; we have Congressman Joe Wilson who has no manners and yells at the President; we have an assistant attorney general who was caught with a prostitute at the cemetery; there's the man who has been caught fornicating with his horse (not once, but twice); our public school system is in shambles; the state is ranked in the top ten for HIV/AIDS; and the Confederate flag stills flys on the grounds of the State House. It's not like we have Ron Blagoavich or Elliot Spitzer running things. Why are we getting such a bad rap? As the Elephant Man proclaimed, "we are not animals!"

I have been living in Columbia, South Carolina for over 20 years now. I have to admit that when I first moved here my opinion of the state in general was that it was "a little backward." With that said, I find there is a lot of "backward" thinking all over this land.

South Carolina is an integral part of the evolution of this country; many "firsts" happened here. Many outstanding Americans have come from South Carolina including writers, statesmen, soldiers, scientists and artists.

Most recently, Columbia, the state capital, was cited, by BusinessWeek, as having the 14th strongest metropolitan economy in the country. Columbia's ranking was driven by a three-legged economic stool of state government, a public university and a military base - Fort Jackson.

In September, U.S. News & World Report chose Columbia as one of the nation's ten best affordable places to retire. The capital city offers diversity of activities and access to needed services and amenities. One recent retiree in the article was quoted as saying, "We find the people are really genuine. They are very friendly and very helpful." Thank You.

The presence of the University of South Carolina adds to the availability of resources for the growing region. USC ranked 110 out of 1,400 schools in the nation, by U.S. News & World Report in the 2009 college rankings. The business school is touted as one of the best in the nation.

Historically, South Carolina is most commonly noted for it's bold secession from the Union and instigating the American Civil War. Yes, that's true, but what about these "firsts" (all occurred in South Carolina and were the first of their kind in the United States or the world):
- First European settlement - 1526 - by Spain near current day Georgetown;
- First American built ship to cross the Atlantic - 1563;
- First public library - 1700;
- First professional female artist - Henrietta Dering Johnston - 1707;
- First building constructed solely for use as a theater - 1736;
- First systematic, scientific recording of weather information - 1737;
- First public museum - 1773;
- First and oldest municipal Chamber of Commerce - 1773 - Charleston;
These are just a few of South Carolina's firsts ( www.sciway.net/facts/firsts.html ).

And while most people think of Vanna White, Leeza Gibbons and Hootie and the Blowfish as South Carolina's contribution to fame and celebrity, there are many more.
Writers such as Mary Chesnut, Pat Conroy, James Dickey, William Price Fox hail from "South Kakalakie". Astronauts Charles Bolden and Charles Duke; Revolutionary War heroes and Consititional framers Pierce Butler, William Henry Drayton, Thomas Howard, Richard Hutson, Henry Laurens, Thomas Sumter, the Rutledges and Francis Marion - The Swamp Fox.

South Carolina natives include civil rights leaders, a president, athletes, musicians and let's not forget the ever charming and powerful Stephen Colbert.

So, I say unto those critics of the state, back off! We got it going on here and what would the news cycle be without us?

Stay Tuned!

Tomorrow's topic will be South Carolina. . .we are not idiots contrary to popular belief. . .if you have an opinion, please comment and I will try to address it in tomorrow's blog.

Thanks for stopping in.

"Haunting" Memories

It's Hallowed Eve eve. Ooohhhh ha ha. Ghosts and goblins; pumpkins and apples; candy and costumes; tricks and treats.

Earlier darkness falls upon the cooler, crisper evening. Fall leaves crunch below your feet as you wander the streets and alleys knocking on doors of strangers demanding payment of food for their freedom from pranks.

We send our children out into the darkness, in disguise, to collect sugar laden treats that will keep them up into the wee hours of the morning. Who came up with this idea?

Halloween has its origins in the ancient Celtic festival of Sahmahin. The festival of Samhain celebrated the end of the "lighter half" of the year and the beginning of the "darker half" of the year. The Celts believed that this seasonal change thinned the border between this world and that of the Otherworld; allowing spirits, both good and bad, to pass easily from one to another. To avoid the "evil" spirits that might present themselves, people took to dressing as these spirits to avoid harm and scare them off.

As it was also time for the harvest, the Celts would take stock of food and livestock to store for winter. Thus, the search for "treats".

Halloween, clad in its colors of orange and black, costumes and disguises, has many traditional symbols: bonfires, Jack O'Lanterns, and candy apples.

The bonfires provided a symbolism of cleansing. The bones of the slaughtered livestock were tossed into the "bonefires". The hearth fires of the homes were extinguished and relit from the flames of the communal fire; providing a continuity for the approaching winter. In some of the clans, two bonfires were built side by side and the people and their livestock would pass through as a cleansing ritual.

The Jack O'Lantern actually began as a turnip. It became a pumpkin only in North America where the pumpkin was more abundant in late October (and easier to carve) than the turnip or rutabaga. The Irish legend goes that there lived a greedy, gambling, hard drinking farmer named Stingy Jack. Jack tricked the devil into climbing into a tree and then trapped him there by carving a cross on the tree. The devil took his revenge by cursing Jack to wander the earth forever, at night, with only a light in his head.

Candy apples and bobbing for apples were also part of the evolution of Halloween in North America. The festival came in the wake of the apple harvest. And the candied part was a result of the nuts and syrup also collected at this time of year.

Growing up in South Florida, my Halloween memories don't include those crisp, cooler evenings. More often than not, it was damp, rainy evening. I remember perspiring under the masks and had them off early in the search for treats. I remember being a sailor girl, a princess, a witch and a hobo. Mother didn't use too much of her creativity in developing my Halloween persona. I believe that came because I was the youngest of the six kids she raised.

As an adult, I have taken the guise of Cruella D'Ville, a very wicked witch who smoked a cigar, Ginger from Gilligan's Island, Morticia from the Adams' Family and Tina Turner (most people thought I was Ron Wood in drag). I love the thought of developing a unique costume; I just don't seem to get around to it in time for Halloween.

It's like all the other holidays. . .it just sneaks up on me.

Happy Hauntings and be safe out there.

866 American Lives Lost

It is said that in peace, children bury their parents; in war, parents bury their children.

American deaths and Afghanistan have weighed heavily on my mind these past few days. Claims of the "deadliest month" has become a repetitive headline; each month. There have been 866 American lives lost since the 2001 invasion; 53 deaths in October; and, President Obama met 18 fallen American personnel in a midnight visit to Dover Air Force Base last evening.

In a cold and misty night, the President and his entourage, quietly saluted the return of the flag-draped coffins in what the military calls "a dignified transfer." A Chaplin raises his hands in prayer as the "cases" exit the "precious" cargo plane. It is only recently, that the American public is once again allowed to see the return of these fallen victims of war. The Bush Administration had restricted the media coverage of these "transfers" since the onset of the Iraqi and Afghan invasions. Some say to give privacy to the soldiers' families; others say it was to mask the casualty count that these wars have produced.

I came of age during the war in Viet Nam; or the conflict as it was called. I remember the news coverage each evening of the bloody battles and knew young men that lost their lives in the "conflict." I knew and know many men that live "lost lives" because of that "conflict."

While President Obama has inherited these wars, the pundits proclaim that it will "define his presidency." As he, and his military advisers, ponder the deployment of yet more Americans into Afghanistan, he is being called "overly cautious and indecisive." I am having memories of Lyndon B. Johnson and his decisions to escalate American presence in Southeast Asia; in these lands where a civil war threatened the freedom of many. Viet Nam, sadly, defined the Johnson Administration too.

If we learned nothing else from the Viet Nam tragedy, we should have learned that you can not fight for someone else's freedom. It is not our fight. Freedom is something for which each individual must make a sacrifice. Do we, or can we, really "give" freedom? Do we all share the same definition of "freedom"? We went to the Middle East to search and destroy the Taliban and Bin Laden. We went there for selfish purposes and now claim we are there to protect the freedom of the people.

Whatever happened to good, old fashioned covert operations? If Bin Laden, one man, was our mission, why have we sent so many? Saddam is gone, why are we still there? Are we really there to "root out evil" and "crush injustice" or are we on a proselytizing mission to assimilate western culture into an ancient civilization? Did we not learn from the Crusades?

H.G. Wells said, "If we do not end war, war will end us." It is not my wish for our children.

Post Career Occupation

With the economy and job market in its spiral, not knowing if it's going back up or down, I am rethinking my "retirement plan."

After spending thirty plus years building a career and a bank account, I woke up one morning to find them both gone. Well, not completely; the memory lingers. But the substance of both is fading away. I have spent these many years "living to work". I was my career. I never thought about retirement. I never imagined myself not working; at something. And, the work didn't necessarily mean making money.

I was a "cheap date". My employers really did get more than they were paying for. I know that now and I am perfectly fine with that. I am willing to do the same again, in my retirement.

That's right - retirement. I contend that the "new retirement" is "working to live" and not the other way around. Since I have to keep working through, into and around retirement (until that final retirement we call death), I am going to do something that I love and that I love everyday. It will be a job; not a career; it will be my avocation; it will be fun and fulfilling.

It will be something I can be passionate about while I'm doing it, but not so consuming that I can't leave it at the door. It will be something that will provide me with a steady income, but not bonuses upon bonuses that will keep me tethered to the office. It will be something that gives me repletion, but not something that sucks the life out of me. In my retirement, the company store no longer owns my soul.

Do you know how my friend Webster defines retirement? Being retired: withdrawing from work or business because of advanced age; drawing back from contact with others; being in a place of privacy or seclusion; to withdraw from use. As any "old geezer" would say: poppycock! That was never the plan!


The "retirement plan" included increased time for leisure activities with family and friends; meeting new people; seeing new places; taking up art or music and reading that stack of books. Does that sound like being withdrawn from use? There's work to be done and we have the experience and knowledge to do it.

I am not entering retirement any time soon. I am entering my "post career occupation".

Embrace Your "Freakism"

"Flying the freak flag!" That's what my niece, Veronica, calls it when she reacts (read over-reacts) to a situation. I laugh. I know that the "freak flag" is part of a family tradition.

We are a passionate, opinionated and emotional lot. Chaos follows us. Panic envelops us. Laughter consumes us. We are consummate communicators - we verbalize everything. Those behaviors make some people very uncomfortable. We're sorry, we can't help it; we have learned to embrace our "freakism". And we proudly "fly the freak flag."

We don't think we're freaks at all. We find the humor in our reaction to life's little and huge obstacles alike. We just don't know how to contain the "freakism" before it explodes. Our arms begin waving, our feet may stomp and the words spill from our mouths.

Choruses of "what the hell" and "you got to be f**king kidding me" can be heard quite frequently. Paul Tillich said, "astonishment is the root of philosophy." We're just a bunch of modern day philosophers. We are always astonished by what people say and do, but we are never amazed. We're astonished by what we do and say too. We spend time a lot of time trying to figure it all out. And then, we roll our eyes, throw up our hands and chuckle - maybe we're just a bunch of big freaks?

Can you believe what I said? Did you see what I did? I lost it, didn't I? I'm such a freak! And I come from a long line of freaks.

Freakism is a learned behavior. It is animated and often loud and boisterous. It is raw emotion. When confronted by "freakism", many people view it as anger - sometimes insanity. It is neither. It is a reaction to perceived injustice, prejudice or plain stupidity. It is intolerant to lack of thought and logic.

Methinks we all have a bit of the "freak" within. Some are highly repressed. I suggest that letting the freak out every now and then is healthy and liberating.

Embrace the freak, just don't get it wet or feed it after midnight - remember what happen to the Gremlins.

A Woman's Nation - Divided

The posts over the last couple days addressing the Shriver Report on A Woman's Nation has drawn a number of diverse comments (primarily on my Facebook page). It concerns me, because it is evidence that there is still a huge divide on women's issues; and the divide is between the women.

I'm not sure if the divide centers on women with children and women without children or women with careers and women without careers or single woman and married woman. Both groups on each issue need each other's support. Each of us have made choices in our lives and each of us should address those choices with responsibility and acceptance.

The Women's Movement provided us all with choice. If it wasn't for the movement, many of us would not have had the opportunity to build our careers. Had we made the choice not to marry and not to have children before the movement, we would have been confined to pink collar jobs and low wages; literally eating cat food in our old age.

The Women's Movement sanctioned women with children working out of the home. It gave increased opportunity to single mothers to provide for their children. Mothers, married and single, have every opportunity to pursue education, career and relationships because of the movement. The children are no longer an excuse not to do something.

Some of us may believe that if you choose to have a child, that you should stay home and raise the child. Some women do not have that choice. Some of us believe that woman who pursue careers, without children are selfish. These are the judgements that create the divide.

Do not judge unless you walk in those shoes. We were given choices, but the choice we make are still a result of our personalities and value system. The cornerstone of the foundation of the movement was "acceptance"; acceptance of choices to fulfill our dreams.

Some women raise three children on their own, work full-time, volunteer in their community, go to the gym regularly and spend quality time with family and friends. That full schedule may be too much for other woman. Some women are married with children, stay home and keep house; and that is a full enough schedule for them. Both are right. Both made a choice.

We should not feel the need to make excuses for why we do or don't do more or less in our lives. You answer only to yourself.

We cry for diversity in the workplace, in education and within political policy. Why can't we achieve diversity and acceptance within our own gender? No more excuses. Just know you have choices thanks to many women before you.

A Woman's Nation - Part Deux

A Woman's Nation: the story of my life. I read more of the Shriver Report last night. And then I sent it to all of my nieces and young women friends. Yesterday, I said it was "old news". It is old news to me, but a "must read" for women 45 and younger; and for their fathers, brothers, husbands and sons.

Maria Shriver opens her chapter with great affection and reverence to the achievements of her mother, Eunice Shriver. Eunice was a great role model for many women. It was often said that "had Eunice been a man, she would have been President." Eunice had the "luxury" of being "liberated" and took the responsibility of being a role model very seriously. It was appropriate for Shriver to laud her mother in the opening paragraphs of this report.

One of the driving forces of the report/study undertaking was the sentiment that women did not have "a place to connect". Between the lines, that reads as the lack of "a good ole boy club." I submit that this is true for the fact that in the early days of achieving success, many of us saw each other as the "enemy". Instead of finding our role as successful women, we took the role of "mini-men". We wanted to be accepted as "one of the boys" and believed there was a very finite space for "mini-men" at the table. Maybe that was because we didn't have access to team sports as we grew up; we were trained to compete for the attentions of men and that very much got in our way as we left the confines of our father's and husband's homes.

"They don't speak with one voice and they don't have just ONE issue." Well said.

During John F. Kennedy's presidency, he charted the Commission on the Status of Women. The purpose of the commission was to reveal how the nation could best achieve "practical equality" with men educationally, economically and politically. Practical equality? Practical: dealing realistically and sensibly with everyday activities; that is in practice whether or not in theory, belief, value or law. There was a disguised contempt is that treatise.

In the Commission's final report, released in 1963, Margaret Mead, co-editor, wrote, "The climate of opinion is turning against the idea that homemaking is the only form of feminine achievement." It was no longer practical.

Hence the "battle of the sexes" began. Those of us who were of age in the 70s took to the schools, the workplace and the political forums. We came with a different perspective, with different ideas, but were forced to assimilate into the men's accepted practices. We went undercover, waiting for the time we could truly speak our voice. Nearly fifty years later, we are still seeking "one voice". Can we achieve "one voice" when we have so many issues to address?

The Shriver Report provides findings on TEN issues: economy, government, immigrants, health, education, business, faith, media, men and marriage. All of these issues affect men as well, just in different ways.

Much attention is given to the "sandwich generation". The generation that is finding itself responsible, not only, for the caring of its children, but the the caring and support of aging parents. Look around and you will find that the duties of care taking are more often thrust upon the women. By choice or by necessity, women find themselves attending to the needs of the generations before them and following them; and the men with them. Agreed that there are many men who have stepped up to the plate to assist and provide. However, have you ever attended a caregivers support group? Mostly women.

In the report it says that the battle of the sexes is now "the negotiation between the sexes." That is a huge step and I agree that we do sit down at the table to discuss who will pay what bill, who will take the kids to school, who will address locating an appropriate facility for Mom when the time comes.

However, "we are all a bit disoriented", in this constantly changing landscape - economy, health care, climate change. Hence I return to the comment I made yesterday: these are not just women's issues, these are "people issues".

We are genetically coded to be aware of the "differences" in each other; it is some sort of survival mechanism. Isn't there some"code" we can use to to collectively find one voice? It is not women versus men; it is not black versus white versus brown versus yellow; it is not Christian versus Jew versus Muslim.

For all practical purposes - its us against ourselves. The change to acceptance is within. Can we find the "place on the porch" together?