Living in the "bell"

Good or Evil. Right or Wrong. Win or Lose. Left or Right. Hot or Cold. Yes or No. Hope or Despair. Optimist or Pessimist. Black or White. Start or Stop. Young or Old.

We are taught from infancy that the choice must be made. We are taught from the perspective of the teacher. Perspectives that perpetuate division amongst us. One or another; one's good and the other is bad. We learn to chose sides; sides that are separated by something: an idea, a border, a belief. A line in the sand. "We will be remembered for the choices we make."

So, it should come as no surprise to us that every issue we meet in our lives tends to become contentious. Who's side are you on? Are you a conservative or a liberal? Do you live in a red state or a blue state? You say "toe-ma-toe" and I say "to-mat-to". "You say hello and I say good-bye."

Isn't there such as thing as gray? as warm? as "hopeful despair"? as middle aged? as "in motion"?

The people are both sides of the issue get all the media attention. And I contend that there are not that many people on both sides. Most of us are in the middle. I submit the Bell Curve as proof. The bell curve, while not a measure of anything, is simply the representation of data that happens to be the most common outcome. The bell curve illustrates the probability theory and statistics that describes how data clusters around the mean; classes with the highest frequency cluster around the middle and classes with lowest frequency cluster at each end. The theory supports normal distribution. Did I say "NORMAL"?

What definition do we apply to "normal"? Who or what is in the bell? Normal implies conformity with established standards or regular or commonly accepted practices. We have the word, typical, which applies the most common characteristics of a issue, place or thing. Normal could be what is natural or innate; there is usual to describe the ordinary. Is normal really average?

Even when we are given the chance to be exposed to something outside of the normal we have been taught; even if we like the "other" choice, we never consider it normal. We stay safely within the bell and accept the concept that those people and things on the opposite sides of the cluster are not normal.

I like the descriptions are the illustration. Some of are the "same as others"; some of us agree more and some of us agree less with the others who think the same. It is not opposite; it is different. And I think that is normal.

Confessions of a Product Junkie

The saying goes that with age you get more stuff. Well, have you noticed that you tend to accumulate more product too? Yeah, product; that stuff we buy to slather, lather and rub into our skin, hair, cuticles and scalp. The stuff we get to color, scent and cleanse our bodies and faces.

The stuff that promises to rejuvenate, thicken, rehydrate, stimulate, volumize, moisturize and refresh. And all of the paraphernalia that goes with it. Want to soak your feet? Well you'll need a foot bath, paraffin tub, pumice stone, foot brush, "footloose and fizzy" foot soak, foot creme and moisturizing socks to put on after the ritual.

Thinking about painting your nails? You need more than a bottle of the perfect colored nail polish. You need a cuticle treatment and cuticle scissors and the all important cuticle stick; a nail file, a nail brush and a buffer too. Get out the buffing creme and the hand moisturizer (it's been cold so you may need the intense formula). A paraffin dip would be good, so make sure you have your plastic hand bags and gloves. When you get down to the actual painting, you will still need to have a base coat, a ridge filler, a top coat and a quick dry formula.

Can't do a thing with that hair? I surveyed my shower stall and found shampoos that promised to provide moisture and thicken my locks. There are shampoo formulas for dry hair, oily hair and the "not so" normal hair. There are products to straighten, products to restore and products to volumize. I have them all.

My body washes include those with fragrance and those without. Some promise to "gently scrub the dead skin away." Some of the formulas are for sensitive skin. There are special creams to whisk away the unwanted hair. After shower there are creams and lotions and oils and wraps to soothe. Herbal and vitamin infused.

In the bath we have dissolvable soap petals, oil beads, bubble bath, bath fizzies and something called bath pebbles.

There are hair products for every day and hair products for special days. There are leave-in conditions, serums to thicken, mousse to volumize, sprays to de-frizz, wax to spike and hair sprays to keep the style gently in place or frozen in time.

I have brushes for my hair, brushes for my teeth and gums, and the aforementioned foot and nail brushes. There are thin combs and wide combs; round brushes and square brushes. I have mouthwash for the morning and a special formula for the night.

The face gets special cleansers (morning and night), toner, anti-wrinkle cream, an occasional mask scented with cucumber. I have lip conditioner and eye cream and tweezers to pluck away at my eyebrows and other assorted places. There are sponges and cotton balls and Q-tips to apply the array of youth promising concoctions.

My make-up tray has brushes and pencils and pretty little compacts full of eye shadows and powders and blushes. There is a slender eye brow brush and eye lash comb and an eye lash curler that I never use. I have mascaras of various shades. I have enough tubes of lipstick that if need be I could use to write "I will not buy more product" 10,000 times.

I think I might be a product junkie. My bathroom is beginning to look like the beauty aisles at Target. And I'm not quite convinced any of them are working. Perhaps I should go shopping for new product.

Through a "green lens"

Some people never overcome the perceived tragedies of their youth. It poisons them; and in return, in poisons others,

She was a beautiful child. Her grandfather called her “Dolly”. She looked liked a porcelain doll. She became a beautiful woman. Her beauty turned to vanity. It was the only thing she felt was her very own.

She learned early in her life that being pretty could sustain her. Being the first born of an immigrant family she met prejudice; and poverty. Her mother spent her days with her paints and canvasses; and sewing. Her father worked in a factory and spent his free time singing and crafting. She would visit her grandfather’s studio and envy the wealthy that came for their sittings. Surrounded by artists, who wanted nothing more than to create, she wanted attention and things and validation.

Her talents were enormous. She picked up the paint brush and pencils and charcoal and met the challenge of the family business. At the age of twelve, a teacher questioned her talent. She was far too young to produce such works; she must have been getting help at home. She put down the brushes and refused to paint again. Criticism did not set well with her.

When her first brother was born, Dolly tended to him. It was something she could do to please her mother; it was a relationship she could build without the shadows of her elders. Her mother gladly let her take responsibility for the house. There was a story she told many times: money was scarce and bills were abundant; Dolly was sent to the market for groceries and was denied credit; she begged the store keeper to let her take the food home. I believe she never forgave her mother for sending her to “beg”. I believed she vowed then, never to “beg” again.

It was that sort of memory that haunted her; that turned her green with envy. She would do whatever it would take to have what she wanted and in a way that she wanted. It didn’t work out for her that way.

She wanted to be a dancer, but didn’t have the feet. But she would find solace in dance and over the years would retreat to the dance hall and tea dances and club socials. She wanted beautiful clothes, but the finances were not there. Later in life should would spend her days, everyday, shopping.


As a young wife and mother, she also cared for her ailing grandfather and parents. She thought marriage would be all about her, but it wasn’t. Her husband adored her and worked hard to provide for her. It was never enough. . .because she could not make it all about her.

She was “Dolly”. She should have the attention.

The early years of poverty bred shame. Shame led to the jealousy. It is ever so hard to be happy whilst looking through a “green lens”. Self esteem is weakened with each comparison; with each want that isn’t met; when each attempt at perfection is challenged.

Dolly would have been 92 this year. I wish I could have helped her be happy. I still pray for her.

The Magpie

(Claude Monet's The Magpie)

She awoke suddenly. Searching for her glasses, she realized her respite had turned into an afternoon nap. She found herself clutching the throw around her chin. It had turned much colder. Looking across the room she saw the curtain billowing about the open window.

As she pulled herself up from the chair, the book she was reading fell to the floor; frightening the cat from the ottoman. She went to close the window. The afternoon sun was dimming and the colors of dusk began to fall upon the snow covered lawn. She reached for the ancient sweater that she lived in during these cold, winter months. The sweater was once her Mother’s. Stretched and pulled, but still providing great warmth. It had a sweet smell to it, no matter how many times she laundered it. Perhaps it was the scent of almonds? She always pulled it close to her nose to breathe in its fragrance; it always smelled of almonds to her. She wondered why.

Drawing her arms to her chest, she stood silently, watching the shadows dance in the view before her. After a moment she took her now empty cup into the kitchen. Refilling the teapot, she was reminded of the winters of her youth. Days of sledding, snowball fights and hot chocolate waiting on the kitchen table. She remembers the whipped cream grabbing her nose; there was an endless supply of whipped cream. The winters these days were less active, more introspective and often spent alone.

That was her choice; the aloneness. She sought winter, not to hibernate, but, to rejuvenate. She would spend time among her books and her music that she stored for this very time. Time to collect herself and listen to her mind, body and soul. Like nature, she planned to re-emerge in the spring.

But now, she would breathe in the cold air and watch the twilight make an early entrance. She would stoke the fires in the hearth and wrap herself in the warmth of her cocoon. The coldness was outside her home; warm thoughts and memories surrounded her. Life is good.

Old Poetry

A few days ago I was going through a box of papers hidden deep in the closet. I found a few poems I had scribbled several years back. I went to a poetry reading last night and hence have been inspired to share.

The Affair

The spark ignites;
. . .it heats;
. . .it whispers.

The flame flickers;
. . .it dances;
. . .it prances.

The fire burns;
. . .it blazes;
. . .it consumes.

The spark succumbs;
. . .it is ash;
. . .it is done.

circa 2000

The Path

Time and distance;
resistance to persistence;
Letting go would prove consistence.

Holding on means losing pride;
no longer hiding foolish fears. . .
only fighting to save the years. . .
Fighting back all the tears.

Waiting for the dreams of yesteryear;
Evidence of the 'truthful' lies;
What might have been. . .
What should have been. . .
Consistence.
Time and distance.

February, 1993

Meet The Maker

Remember the days that looked so easy?
The nights that flew by?
The hours that resulted in confidence. . .
The minutes that built a life?

Hear the clock that ticks the seconds;
Watch the hand that counts down the image. . .
Feel the weight that shatters the soul. . .
See the mind that made the choices.

Remember the heart that held the days. . .
. . .danced the night. . .
. . .used the hours. . .
. . .counted the minutes. . .
. . .bought the clock. . .
. . .set the hand. . .
. . .strapped the weight. . .
. . .FOCUSED THIS MIND.

December, 1990

Winter Olympics - only 36 more days

Cold weather post number 3 - The Winter Olympics.

Perhaps it is my German heritage. Perhaps it is the fact that I grew up in South Florida longing for a winter of snow. Perhaps it is the fifth grade geography report I did on Austria and Switzerland and the Alps. Perhaps it was the perceived elegance of sophisticates attired in fur coats and hats (faux of course) drinking champagne on the slopes of St. Moritz or Gstaad. Or maybe it was just the crush I had on Jean Claude Killy. Perhaps the Winter Olympics just seem more elegant, glamorous and less sweaty. I have always had an attraction to the Winter Olympics (albeit runners and bikers are some of my favorite people).

The first Winter Olympics were held in Chamonix, France in 1924; springing from the Nordic Games which began in 1901 in Sweden. To me, these games have always been all about skiing and speed skating. Oh, I know there are other events, but it was those two sports that first attracted me.


My first recollection of interest in the Winter Olympics were the 1964 games in Innsbruck, Austria. I remember looking for the medal standings in the newspaper each day and getting glimpses of the competition on TV. Zimmerman, an Austrian, took the gold that year in the downhill. Years later I would visit Innsbruck and stand atop the very place that downhill race began.

The 1968 Games in Grenoble gave us Jean Claude and his three gold medals in alpine skiing events. Oh Jean Claude; although a very young lady, I was enthralled with Jean Claude. Charming and talented, he was the golden boy of the games.


And if he was the golden boy, Peggy Flemming was the golden girl, swirling, ever so gracefully, upon the ice in the figure skating events. I can still remember her gracefully floating in blue light to "Ave Maria." She took the gold that year. Her award in Grenoble was singularly important for the American athletes and the nation as a whole, for this was the only gold medal that the U.S. Olympic team won in the 1968 Winter Games. It signaled a return to American dominance in the sport of women's figure skating following the unprecedented tragedy of the 1961 plane crash which killed 18 members of the US figure skating team en route to the World Figure Skating Championship.


I must have been busy in 1972, since I don't recall gluing myself to the television for the Sapparo games; but I was back for Innsbruck in 1976. For us Americans, the Innsbruck games were all about Dorothy Hamill; and her haircut of course. Hamill came in second in the figures and then won the short and long programs, taking the gold medal. She was "America's Sweetheart" and they even made the Dorothy Hamill doll the following year.



Lake Placid in 1980 was all about the "miracle" of the US hockey team bringing down the Soviets on the ice. Speed skater, Eric Heidin brought home five gold medals for the United States.

As the years progressed the opening ceremonies seemed like they too were becoming a competition. Bigger, longer, and more people on the field than in the stadiums. TV coverage went twenty-four hours with features on the athletes: what they drank, what they wore, who they were dating. Too much information.



The last Winter Games that got my full attention was 1994 in Lillehammer, Norway. That is also the year that the Winter Games split from the Summer Game schedule. Lillehammer's opening ceremony was enchanting and despite the unbecoming behavior of American skaters Tonya Harding and Nancy Kerrigan, we got to watch Oksana Baiul. Oksana took the gold in the women's individual figure skating competition; beating out Nancy Kerrigan. She went professional the following year.

I can't tell you why I haven't been paying attention to the Winter Games since Lillehammer. I'm guessing that February has always been a bit busy for me. But I miss the alpine events and the speed skaters and I would love to see the Jamaican bobsled team back in action. 2010 Winter Games in Vancouver are quickly approaching. I want to see Sasha Cohen and Marco Sullivan and Kelly Clark and Shawn White. . .only 36 more days. . .

Heat? We don't need no stinkin' heat!

Newsflash. . .it is still cold outside.

With that said, I think I'll stick with the cold theme for today's post. I thought about giving my commentary on the issue of global warming and bullying those people who believe it is a hoax; but, opted for a lighter topic.

In late Fall of 2003, my niece, Veronica and my sister-in-law, Bea bought a farm in Martin County, Florida. Veronica is in the horse business (training, buying and selling) and the farm was perfect for her plans. While the existing house and stalls needed a lot of work, the potential was enormous. It was a little piece of heaven.

I had gone down in early December that year to celebrate my great niece's sixteenth birthday. They were still living in Palm Beach, so we planned an outing to visit the new homestead. The local community was having their "holiday parade" and we decided to initiate the community with a visit from our clan.

It was one of those "freakish" cold snaps for the area. The afternoon, while sunny, was a crisp 48 degrees and very breezy. I had gone to Florida with Florida clothes and had to borrow a light jacket from Bea. Our entourage included seven adults, four children and four dogs. In our various vehicles, we met in a parking lot to take our place on the parade route. I use the term "parade" very loosely. What we saw was an array of public service vehicles (fire truck, water department truck, a police cruiser), residents of the local retirement community driving their golf carts down the street, dressed like clowns and throwing candy into the crowd. I also use the term "crowd" very loosely. I believe Santa arrived atop a tow truck; or was it a boat being pulled by a tow truck? You gotta love a small town effort.

After the festivities of the parade we went back to the farm. Our plan was to spend the night. Although the house wasn't ready for full time residents, we were opting to "camp out." There were a few sofas and a bed and we brought sleeping bags and perhaps an air mattress. We cooked out for dinner and built a huge bonfire. Rory was our only adult guy until morning. Rory loves fire. Rory was throwing everything he could find into the bonfire. It was getting bigger and bigger and we were all quite toasty. Sitting in front of that huge blaze we weren't really conscious of the fact that the temperature was taking a nose dive.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (house), Bea had thrown a couple of those "clean air" logs into the fireplace; and Veronica had turned on the heat. Or, so we thought. As we begin gathering ourselves indoors and realized that the temperature outside had dropped below freezing, we noticed that the air temperature in the house wasn't much different. You have got to be kidding me! No heat. Yep, no heat.

Bea, always the eternal optimist, said "we'll be fine; I have another one of those fire logs." I had to point out that those fire logs only last a maximum of four hours. So at two in the morning, there would be no fire. Do we go or do we stay? We stay.

We all carefully choose our territory to bundle up with what we have and settle in for the night. I chose one of the couches and a small pillow. And, I coaxed my niece's dog, Bruno, to join me. I would have coaxed all the dogs to join me, but the couch wasn't big enough.

In retrospect, it wasn't that bad of a night, but to hear us tell the story the next day you would have thought we were stranded in a blizzard in the Andes. Someone had to let the dogs out during the night; that was poor Bea. I wrapped myself in a blanket that I found laying across the sofa. Finders keepers. The kids were bundled in their sleeping bags.

Trips to the bathroom sent you shivering back to your nest. Although I suspect Rory chose a different facility. We did hear the back door open during the night.

When morning came, we realized that we didn't even have coffee. The plan was to go into town to the Inn's brunch. We were laughing at the thought of this crowd filing into the Seminole Inn's dining room, straggly, hungry and cold. I was planning on a pot of coffee with a Mimosa chaser; and a warm bathroom. As we were gathering our things, Rory was getting something from the car and his little boy, Ryan was in tow. We heard the car door slam and also heard "oops" (that's the PG version). Yep, the keys were locked in the car. We called AAA and waited. I'm not very good at waiting without coffee.


Meanwhile, my nephew Kenneth arrived, having been on duty at the fire station. Being the problem solver he is, he went straight to the thermostat to see what was wrong. Kenneth turned the heat on. Yes, we could have heat all night. It was a matter of a small switch that had kept us in the cold. But, we were leaving now, so no point in letting it heat us up while we waited for the AAA tow truck.

The serviceman arrived and opened the car door. We loaded into our various vehicles, arrived at the Inn and sat down for a hearty brunch for fourteen hungry mouths. We ate. We laughed. And we laughed some more.

Heat? We don't need no stinkin' heat.