Congress: Cut the Crap

Benji

I know you won't believe it, but I witnessed this guy with a little road rage yesterday.

It started with a diaper change he wasn't ready for—who wants to deal with all that crap? Pretty soon he was in such a state he couldn't remember what his point was. There were tears, screams, and lots of "NO! I DO IT!" Compromise was just a big word he didn't want to learn. It was a lively scene, and a messy job, but eventually he relaxed his stand, and reached his goal:

Photos and child provided courtesy of Marta.

Joseph Fielding Smith said,
"Don't stand up so straight you fall over backwards."

Benji is learning that concept. When he relaxed his rigidity, the never-ending crap was dealt with, and everyone was more comfortable. That might be why his mom often says, "C'mon Benj, you need a change." Doesn't everyone?

Here's a group that needs a change.

They don't want to deal with all the crap. The tantrums we're watching are all too familiar to those of us who know two-year-olds. "NO! I DO IT!" sounds ridiculous to grown-ups everywhere. Compromise is a big word these kids should have learned by now!

"So dry your tears, guys, try to get along. Share the glory, share the blame, you can do it. Stand for your principles, but don't stand up so straight you fall over backwards. Relax your rigidity and we'll all feel better."

Maybe there will even be cupcakes!

Getting Acquainted with Sadness

Lots of folks are looking at what the tornado left behind. I identify.
Our life got blown to smithereens this month, and I have to say

"I liked it better when . . . "

1. I didn't feel scared every time I remembered.
2. I thought cancer happened to other people.
3. Life and death decisions were hypothetical.
4. I was ranting about the cost of other people's chemo.
5. My old problems were my main problems.
6. Our future seemed predictable.
7. I could relax my shoulders.
8. At 2:15 am I could concentrate on blogging.
   
9. Feeling hopeful didn't take such an effort.
10. I didn't know how I'd feel.
    

The doctor told us that after a cancer diagnosis, people go through stages of grief. By the time he mentioned it, I figured we'd been through the stages already that week and we'd go forward with a stiff-upper-lip and faith in the future, back to life as we'd known it. What I've discovered is life as we know it is gone. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

With any big change-of-direction event, life becomes a new locale. Thinking, planning, dealing with the day-to-day has new implications. Dee gets phone-calls from his buddies—the ones he coached T-Ball with, the guys he chaperoned scout camp with. Now, instead of talking about fishing in Alaska and collecting cars, guns, or golf trophies, the big conversation is about the incontinence he can expect after surgery, hot-flashes and mood swings that come with his $900 hormone shots, or the ever-present fatigue and constant diarrhea radiation has to offer. Discussions of whether he can work during treatments, if it's worth it to risk a stroke on the operating table, how to handle the horrendous costs before Medicare kicks in, and if it's wise to let the tumors grow wild for a few more months. Questions. We're full of questions without answers and it's disconcerting.

New, unexpected symptoms and side-effects add to the life-long surprise party these guys got invited to. Dee's overwhelmed, of course, and I feel overwhelmed, too. I'm in a crazy time: the final edit of my manuscript is due, my church newsletter deadline is tomorrow, and two or three projects are stacked on my desk. Real life doesn't slow down to let its travelers catch their breath. I find I have to remind myself to eat, a problem I've never had before!

Dee and I have lots of moments of hope and excitement and even exhilaration—we're re-inventing ourselves for our next chapter—it's a technique we've used several times and it's always rejuvenated our lives before. (More in coming weeks.) But there are all the in-between moments when I feel sad, and scared, sleepless in SLC (you think Tom Hanks wants to chat?) breathless, exhausted and depressed: my stomach churns, my head spins and my heart feels a little broken. And I long for how it was before.


Just for a while it would be nice to forget June, and skip back to May for a last taste of carefree.

I liked it better then.
I just didn't know it.

❧❧❧❧❧

Did you ever write about a difficult time?
How did you keep a balance between
Depression and Optimism
in describing your reality?

Make sure your journal isn't all perfect children and marital bliss. (Your kids will wonder what's wrong with their life, if they ever crack open such a boring read.) Tell about your down-days, too. That's when readers identify most, and your blog or journal becomes a teaching tool. Introduce readers to coping skills you've used when getting acquainted with sadness. It might remind you of some you already have, for the especially tough times. The times you look back with nostalgia and say: I liked it better then . . .

Heroes

Suddenly what I was going to say doesn't seem very important. I just heard that US forces killed Osama Bin Laden.

President Obama said this mission had been in the works since August. "Finally, last week, I determined that we had enough intelligence to take action, and authorized an operation to get Osama bin Laden and bring him to justice. Today, at my direction . . . a small team of Americans carried out the operation with extraordinary courage and capability. No Americans were harmed. They took care to avoid civilian casualties. After a firefight, they killed Osama bin Laden and took custody of his body."

President Obama probably had a lot on his mind last week while Donald Trump was taunting him about his birth certificate. It reminds me of the 8th grade bully teasing the smart kid or the rich kid taking the poor kid's lunch money. How easy to noisily dismiss someone who might be silently facing something huge.

The Donald has a flaw most of us have at times. He thinks he should be the star of everyone's reality show. To get the attention of the audience, he blows spit wads at the hero who's heading off to slay a real dragon. Have you ever done that? Felt that another so-called life couldn't possibly be as weighty as your own? That yours trumps theirs? Or have you wondered why you have to fend off spit wads as you face a fiery foe that you haven't told anyone about?

In case you have a dragon to slay, do it with courage, patience and intelligence. Ignore those who doubt your ability. Be a hero.

(And when your show is in reruns, don't blow spit wads at the other guy.)

Beauty Tip for Late Bloomers

"The easiest way to diminish the appearance of age,
is to keep your glasses off when you look in the mirror."
—Joan Rivers

You Don't Say!

"I won't stand for gossip!
No, I sit down and make myself comfortable for gossip."
—Crabby Road

What is gossip anyway? Is it only when you say something bad about someone else, intending to ruin their reputation? Or is it when you say something good that just hasn't been told yet?

A friend of mine said recently, "I've never been able to tell my own news—my mother always told it first." Is it gossip for mom to tell the great-aunts the family scuttlebutt? Or is it helpful to know they'll hear about the raise, the house, the engagement without you having to call personally at a busy time? Is it treading on toes to share news that's not yours to share?

What about the times you could help, or know someone who could help, but it's just been discussed "in confidence?" And how do you handle a situation when it would save feelings and embarrassment to let the word get around, but the person doesn't want it known. For instance when a couple separates and passes it off as a work situation, and the neighbors are planning a surprise 50th birthday bash without understanding the possibilities.

Is acting on gossip charity? Or is it meddling? I don't mean malicious snooping; I'm referring to the friend who might be having a miscarriage and doesn't want anyone to know, but you'd love to take her kids for the day. Or the niece that tells you in confidence that her mother needs a shoulder to cry on, but says, "You can't let her know I called you."


I'm just wondering what you think. I won't tell anyone—I'm the very definition of discretion.

(Unless I see a trustworthy friend.)

Wisdom for a New Year

"Quite often we look at a task and think there is no way we can do what needs to be done.
That happens because we look at ourselves when we should be looking at God."

—Joyce Meyer

Planning Ahead

"The question is not can you make a difference?

You already do make a difference.
It's just a matter of what kind of difference you want to make."
---Julia Butterfly Hill

Bullies

Will

Oma: How was your day?

Will: Fine, except for when I was attacked for no reason.

Oma: How awful! What happened?

Will: I just got beat up.

Oma: Who did it?

Will: Madelyn.

Oma: What did you do?

Will: What do you think? I ran away!

Art by Feodor Rojankovsky

The other day I got attacked for no reason. I was halfway out the door, already late for an appointment, when the phone rang. Thinking it might be a call I'd been waiting for, I rushed back in to answer. The woman, an acquaintance new to a group I'm part of, began with some observations of how things were done differently in this group than she was used to. When I tried to explain the reasons, she launched into a full-blown critique of the group. Then she got more personal and listed some of the things I was doing wrong. She assured me she was just trying to help.

Devastated, I listened to her soft-spoken and (supposedly) well-meant evaluation of my performance, thanked her for calling, and said good-bye. At first I felt embarrassed—I didn't even know I needed her help! What a loser I was! Then the defensive team in my psyche took over. Hey! Who was she to beat me up? She wasn't aware of the circumstances or the efforts to do the very things she'd suggested. And I won't be explaining them anytime soon. Sometimes the only thing to do is run away—fast!

What do you do when you feel bullied? Why do people outside a situation take on the responsibility of critique? How do you ever trust or like a person who you know disapproves of you? (Just wondering. I'm totally over it.)

I'm not a crybaby!

Face It

We become what we think about.

Fifty years from now our faces will reveal our secrets.

Heartache,

Heartbreak,

Delight,

Humor,

Kindness,

Imagination.

What do you think about? I got an email one day from a woman who reads my blog. She said she was raised on lemons instead of lemonade, and asked, "Can you learn to be optimistic, or do you have to inherit it?" In answer I wrote this post called:

Positively!

I both learned and inherited optimism from my dad. He was consistently positive and hopeful, and he looked for the good in others. I always felt like I was smart, talented and unique because he told me I was. His faith in my abilities kept my self-esteem healthy. Dad had a pep talk for every occasion and I learned them all by heart. By the time I was an adult, being optimistic was a natural part of my personality. It's a trait I've needed often.

Dee and I started out with nothing but hope. A vital part of our relationship is to buoy each other up—we count our blessings and reflect on great memories—when troubles come. Balancing on the teeter-totter of reality requires one of us to be up when the other is down, and we can tell when it's our turn. All seven of our kids are upbeat, cheerful and confident: it's part of our heritage to see the glass as 3/4 full and find the good in every situation.

I know I was lucky to grow up in an atmosphere of optimism. My dad reminded me often that faith (in myself, and in God's willingness to help me) would achieve miracles. He taught me that faith and fear cannot coexist, and that fear, doubt and worry were to be banished. Although he had his personal fears, they were overcome by his faith. He took risks, thrived on challenge, and lived positively.

Dad taught himself to be this way; early struggles haunted him. He grew up poor. His beloved older brother was always sick, and died at 18. The strain sapped all the joy from his parents for years. One of dad's favorite stories was how excited he was the day the store repossessed all their furniture and the kids skated in their socks through the empty rooms. But he always remembered how his mom sat on the porch steps and cried as her lovely possessions were hauled away. Eventually they lost their home and had to move in with another family for a while during the depression.

Dad (in the glasses) and his brothers, about 1933.

Dad served in WWII and came home seriously ill. It took him three months in a hospital to recover. When he'd joined the army, he had neglected to officially drop out of the university. After the war he started school again with a whole semester of failed classes on his transcript. To qualify for Optometry school earned straight A's for three years to raise his GPA to the required level. Born with cataracts which impaired his vision most of his life, he decided life would be better if he viewed it through rose-colored glasses.

When I was seven Dad almost died of pneumonia. My mom prepared mustard plasters and tried to keep us quiet, while he laid in bed for weeks worrying about our future. That's when he first read the book Think and Grow Rich, by Napoleon Hill. Knowing my dad, I'm sure he was thinking in literal terms when he saw the title. But the concepts he learned made him wealthy in another way that became my most treasured inheritance. He discovered the secret of positive thinking.

Everybody who knew my dad remembers him preaching this good news. Assimilating it into his character was the goal of his lifetime. He changed his attitude and it changed his world.

Dad, at his best!

It is absolutely possible to learn optimism.
It's also possible to inherit it.
And from my viewpoint, it is positively essential to have it.

Sheri Dew said, "Ultimately we become what we give our hearts to. We are shaped by what we desire and seek after. Fifty years from now we shouldn't be too surprised at what we have become. Our desires are what motivate us and we become what we set our hearts on. Our face will reflect who we are."

The Great Stone Face, a story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, tells about a village overlooked by a massive stone cliff that resembled a man's face. An old legend said that "someone will be born hereabouts who will look just like the Great Stone Face, and he will be the noblest person of his time."

A little boy in the village named Ernest was especially attracted to the Old Stone Face. He studied it with boyish admiration while he walked to school each day, and saw intelligence and goodness as he wondered when the man would come.

A famous philanthropist came to town, and Ernest thought he might be the champion, since he was so generous, but he looked nothing like the stone face. Then an important politician visited and Ernest thought that surely this honorable leader was the hero. But he didn't bear a resemblance to the craggy mountain either.

Ernest watched the faces of returning soldiers and scholars for signs of the courage and wisdom seen in the face. Meanwhile, he worked hard on his farm and was respected by his neighbors for his honesty and decency.

Years passed and though Ernest became an old man, he never ceased to study the Old Stone Face. But no one ever came to the village bearing its image. One evening when he was sitting with a neighbor on the porch, the neighbor looked to the distant mountain and then fixed his gaze upon his old friend as he sat in his rocking chair. "Ernest," said the neighbor, "You are the Old Stone Face!"

Amy 1976

In youth our face reveals our genetics.

Someone at 60

With age we get the face we deserve.

Overbite

Chase and friend

My advice:

Bite off more than you can chew,
and then chew it.

I took Chase out to dinner one night and he ordered clam chowder in a bread bowl. He lifted the overflowing bowl up over his face and took a giant bite out of the bottom, then caught my look of horror. "You're supposed to eat the bowl," he said.

Chase is an enthusiastic eater. I caught myself just before I sounded like a critical grandmother, and commented, "You have an interesting way of inhaling your food."

Chase, pre-braces

He replied, "It's because of my overbite."

People run marathons, they hike mountain peaks, they have babies or get married, move across the country—it's luscious to bite off more than you can chew and then chew it. If you haven't done it in a while, order yourself some clam chowder in a bread bowl and see how much fun it is to take a big chunk out of something really hard. Under that napkin you'll be smiling ear-to-ear.

P.S. My book is going to be published!! (Sorry. I'm gushing.)

English as a Second Language

Aliens, 1985

Quiz Time!

Do you know what these words mean in English?

1. Trolley
2. Carrier bag
3. Hob
4. Doorstops
5. Lollies
   
6. Chippie
7. Minced beef
8. Torch
   
9. Jumper
10. Plimsolls
11. Trainers
12. Pillar box
    

We lived there, but we didn't speak the language.

In 1985 our family of nine crossed the border to a different country, where we got free health care, subsidized transportation and an education. Our dress, manner and accent gave us away as foreigners, but EVERYONE was nice to us anyway. Never once did we feel anything but welcome during our year in England. Nobody scuttled away in fear, or insinuated that we were there to take advantage of their lifestyle (even though we were) when they heard our R's. In fact, people sought us out because we talked different.

Classmates invited our kids to tea from the first day, their parents offering to come round for them—which they did—in taxis, because they didn't own cars. Shop keepers offered free sweets to the American children, and asked where we were from. Most of them had never heard of Utah. When we explained it was in the west, we were always asked if we knew their brother/aunt/second cousin in California. Neighbors didn't know why we were there, how long we were staying or if we were there to steal their job. Without knowing our circumstances or intentions they just acted neighborly.

They came for Thanksgiving and tried cranberries, and for a 4th of July barbecue, where they ate chicken marinated in 7-up. Why would we change our family traditions because our neighbors didn't share them? And why would we suddenly embrace Guy Fawkes Night as a major holiday when we'd never heard of it? Sure, we went to the party and ate beans and chips around the bonfire, but no one expected us to understand the Gunpowder Plot just because we lived there. And no one asked for our passports when we called our chips French fries.

Our year in Yorkshire was nerve wracking enough without persecution. I was embarrassed to ask for Q-tips (cotton wool) and molasses (treacle) and then not understand the replies. How was I to know their apple cider was alcoholic? Or that polite friends offered to pay petrol money for a ride to church? That a few pence should be left next to their telephone when you used it to make a local call? We committed faux pas after faux pas: wearing an inappropriate Halloween costume, expecting restaurants to be open on Christmas Day; swearing when we didn't even know it . . .

I can't imagine how horrific our year would have been if our kids had been frightened that our names were on a list of possible illegal immigrants. Or if we were suspect because other Americans had smuggled drugs. While we lived in York my tooth broke. After the dentist made me a crown, I asked for the bill. His office staff was not set up to take money or insurance, so I was treated like a Brit—for free. What if it was in the newspaper the next day that hoards of Americans were coming to England just for free dental work? Some might be, but I wasn't. My denial could have been lost in translation.

We searched out people who were like us, people who talked our language. We went to church to find them, discovered a restaurant that served decent hamburgers, found a store that sold root beer. The familiar was comforting. It seems logical to me that any immigrant family would feel more secure moving to an area where they would be understood, where they could communicate.

Axel (my grandpa) came from Sweden when he was 17. He met Agnes (my grandma) when he moved into her mother's Swedish boarding house. Agnes taught him English; eventually they married and moved away from the local Swedish community. Twenty years later he was called on to offer a public prayer in church. He was so embarrassed by his accent that he stopped going to avoid being humiliated again.

While I agree that new immigrants should learn our customs, culture and language, I think we need to be patient and not pass judgment on first generation immigrants. English can be tricky, even for Americans.

Quiz Time Answers

1. Trolley: Grocery cart
2. Carrier bag: Shopping bag
3. Hob: Stove
4. Doorstops: The ends on a loaf of bread
5. Lollie: Ice cream on a stick, like a Creamsicle
   
6. Chippie: Fast food joint
7. Minced beef: Hamburger
8. Torch: Flashlight
9. Jumper: Crew necked sweater
10. Plimsolls: Indoor gym shoes
11. Trainers: Running shoes
12. Pillar box: Mail Box
    

Pillars of the community, 1982

Coming up: A Year in York

Raise Your Expectations

"If we did all the things we are capable of,
we would literally astound ourselves."
—Thomas Edison

My new best friend is Ruby. I'm with her 24/7 and I really like her. Maybe it's because I made her up. Anyway, I've learned a lot from her.

At eighteen she fell for the wrong guy. Most of us did that, but she thought he was her ticket out of a boring life, and literally fell for him, hoping that would keep his attention. It did, for a few hours—just long enough for him to leave her with a souvenir of their, um . . . friendship.

Trying to do the right thing by her new little guy, she left the baby with her mother so she could go to a new place and start over. Back in 1873 there weren't many career choices for an untrained young girl, so, sad to say, she fell back into her area of expertise.

Now, as a soiled dove, she has forgotten who she really is. Stuck in The Fat Chance Saloon, she accepts the lie: "You think you're capable of something more? Fat Chance!"

On the surface, Ruby and I don't have much in common. But I have stayed a few times at the Fat Chance Saloon, and I know how it feels to wonder if I am capable of something more.

Ruby might be rescued if someone sees her potential and helps raise her expectations. Time and again, I have had that experience. Lucky for me, I fell in love with the right guy, and he didn't ride off with all my hopes and dreams. He keeps handing them to me, over and over and over.

I hope Ruby finds a guy like mine. Maybe I'll make one up!

(Here's a scene I worked on today.)

Excerpt from
Son of a Gun

by
Marty Halverson

Jute started a small fire. Pre-empting the conversation, he said, “I don’t think we ought to talk about you and the woman, Boss. It ain’t really fitting. There’s things that won’t stand a straight answer, and what’s between a man and a woman is one of ‘em.”

“You liked her, though, didn’t you?” asked Leo.

“Sure. She seemed a right nice lady.”

“You call her a lady. That’s sort of funny under the circumstances.”

“No, I don’t reckon it is. Not the way I see things.”

The wizened cowboy fussed with the coals, shifted his legs, and finally got out the rest of his reply.

“Well, let’s just put it this way, Boss. I’ve knowed whores I’d take my hat off to, and respectable women I wouldn’t spit on.”

“I know what you mean,” said Leo soberly. “It’s the kind of thing where people are more what they think they are, than what they really are. You know what I’m trying to say, Jute?”

“Yes, sir, I do. It’s what I meant about Miss Jewel.”

“Her real name’s Ruby, Jute . . . Ruby.” They sat still again, watching and listening to the flames.

“I reckon most of us don’t get a second chance,” mused Leo. “We don’t get to be our better selves. Folks just expect us to keep on being, and we live down to their expectations. It’s a shame.”

*Homework:

~Who is someone you know who's staying at the Fat Chance Saloon? List some achievements you've observed, and send them a note of congratulations. Raise their expectations by reminding them who they already are.

Waiting for Opportunity

Lazy
lazy
lazy
lazy
lazy
lazy
Jane,
she
wants
a
drink
of
water
so
she
waits
and
waits
and
waits
and
waits
and
waits
for
it
to
rain.

From Where the Sidewalk Ends
by
Shel Silverstein

Opportunity rarely drops out of the sky.
It strolls by wearing a disguise.
It's up to us to recognize it, catch up with it, follow it and tackle it.

What opportunity are you waiting for?

Through a Historian's Eyes

Sign In

Historians can't be near-sighted;

Drops

Things are blurry when they're too close.


Dress for the occasion

Dee had eye surgery this morning,


Thirty minutes later

No blood, no pain . . .

One hour later—look at that!

But a whole new perspective.

Dee has always envied my 20/20 vision, but he's taught me to see things through a historian's eyes. Whenever I fret about the state of the world, he reminds me that it's all happened before, and that we can learn from the past.

Prejudices have come and gone in our country, and it seems like every generation has to learn the same lessons. These days Hispanics are being profiled and stereotyped, but a hundred years ago Italian and Irish immigrants took the brunt of racial aversion. Chinese people were only allowed in the USA to work on the railroads. Before "political correctness" was a concept, Jews and Poles were punchlines of rude jokes, and John F. Kennedy was feared because he was a Catholic.

Remembering history is a perk of getting old.

When I was a little girl, a Japanese-American couple put an offer on a house on our street. (This was Salt Lake City in about 1958.) Our suburban neighborhood had restrictive covenants that didn't allow Japanese people. Even though they were born in Hawaii and California, and the husband had served in the army in World War II, they looked Japanese, and therefore were not welcome.

A petition went around to keep them from buying the house. Ironically, a woman from Indonesia (not yet an American citizen) headed the attack. I remember a meeting in our living room where the neighbors (all upstanding church-goers) gathered to discuss the problem. The prevailing view was that property values would go down if these kinds of people were tolerated.

Well, the couple didn't buy the house.

This particular woman has since become very prominent in our community. People buy her books and line up to hear her speak. When she refers to the humiliation they faced in the 1950's because of their race, there is a hush in the audience. Who would be so racist, so condemning, because of their foreign sounding name or the shape of their eyes? It seems unthinkable, now, knowing who she is. Unfortunately, nobody in my neighborhood knew who she'd become.

Looking through a historian's eyes, we were a little near-sighted.

More perspective tomorrow . . .

Childish Games: (Your Thoughts, Please!)

"Tick tock, the game is locked.
Nobody else can play but us . . ."

On the way home from the dentist that day my mom bought me a purple and blue marbled rubber hoppy-taw. It landed with a satisfying slap on the hopscotch she drew in our driveway with white chalk.

Karen and Linda came over and we practiced our expert throws, skillful jumps and precise turns in preparation for the fifth-grade competition. It was annoying when a couple of little sisters begged to join the game. So, we joined hands and locked them out.

Afterward we went out of our way to demonstrate all the fun they were missing, showing off our solidarity in excluding them. Were we cool or what??

Apparently not. Mom came out and took away the hoppy taw. It had been a gift from her, and she didn't like the selfish attitude I had in using it. She scuffed out the hopscotch, sent my friends home and told me when I learned to play with my little sister I could have my grown-up privileges back.

Mom taught the lesson over and over. "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you."

That's why my shoulders tighten and my stomach churns when I hear the angry voices on the immigration issue. Although the arguments make it sound complex, to me it boils down simply: I'm not more special than anyone else, and I'm supposed to share the blessings I've been given.

This is the introduction to a recent series on KSL TV on immigration.

The Dream Divided

It is an issue that affects every American, and everyone who would become an American. And while it touches a thousand aspects of American life, it has managed to divide America into two camps.
One which believes our national borders are there to protect a way of life. Another which believes there should be no hard borders for those who strive honestly for freedom and opportunity. One side believes our nation is made weaker when the Rule of law is not enforced. The other believes our nation is made stronger by those who come here to build a better life. Neither side is right; neither side is wrong. It is a battle of perspectives, influenced by many factors -- compassion versus concern over safety, economic stability, the integrity of our culture. It raises a fundamental question about what we call "The American Dream." Does it envision a place of refuge, or place that ensures the security of those already here? The most important question: Is there a place in the middle? That is the question, and while the debate rages, the Dream is Divided...

From my perspective, it's wrong to join hands and lock somebody else out, just because I started playing first. That's a childish game.


*I'd love to hear your comments, whether you agree with me or not. This is a subject worthy of a serious back and forth discussion. Although I usually don't comment in my own comments, I'm excited to respond to your thoughts. Tell me how you feel about all this!

Seeing Clearly

Emmie and Jake, 2008

"Go bold!" he said. "Use your glasses to add some pizazz." I met Rudy at Lenscrafters today. He followed me around with a little box, collecting the frames I liked and commenting on life in general:

1. "When men try on frames they look in the mirror and see the frame. Women look in the mirror and immediately fix their hair. Then they notice the frame."
   
2. "Your eyes feel dry because we're in a desert. And that's why our skiing is so great."
   
3. "I lived in Wisconsin but people there are grouchy all winter. I like a place where people wear flip-flops in the snow."
   
4. "I love kids who put their whole face into an ice-cream cone like that, even though I'll have to wipe down the door when they leave."
5. "You look really young to me, but in case you have AARP I can give you a discount."

Rudy wiped off the smudges and adjusted my new glasses, but my vision had already been improved. In case your life is a little blurry right now, I'll share my new prescription:

1. When I focus on myself I miss the whole point.
2. If I turn my problem around, it might be a blessing.
3. My attitude affects other people.
4. I'm happier when I find joy in the joy of others.
5. Getting old has lots of perks.

See what I mean?

("I see," said the blind man.
And he picked up his hammer and saw.)

*Homework:

~Are you being near-sighted? Think about something that's making you unhappy lately: worry, jealousy, fear, pain, sadness, loneliness, whatever. Would one of the truths listed above change your point of view?

~Try it and write about the results.

Fear of Guns

The shoot-out.

Saturday I faced a fear.

I'm terrified of guns. Dee grew up with them, hunting pheasants and rabbits when he was just a kid. He took our sons duck hunting and target shooting even though my stomach would be tied in knots the whole time they were gone. "Boys need to learn how to shoot," he told me. (I've realized mothers and fathers are different, and that it's supposed to be that way.)

All our kids remember a major melt-down I had at the Holladay Gun Club twenty-five years ago. After an adventurous day in the mountains (the kids climbed rocks, built fires without matches, used ropes to cross the river on a log) Dee announced a surprise grand finale. Our Heroes (ages 14-3) cheered with anticipation as he drove up the hill to a shooting range. I practically threw up. Shots rang out as we pulled into the parking lot. I freaked out and refused to participate. As Marta and I sat in the car crying, my indignation and imagination ran wild—fear took over.

Oma takes aim at her fear.

As fears sometimes do, this one became irrational. Gun safety was a concept lost on me. I've assumed guns spontaneously go off and shoot people; that shooting ranges are filled with drunk militia weirdos in camouflage; that bullets fly randomly through the air in all directions constantly. Refusing to even consider a different scenario, I let it become a phobia.

Safety rules.

So now I'm ghost-writing a western novel. JJ, the star of the book, is a cracker-jack shot even though he's only twelve. This seemed preposterous to me. But Dee was like that, and my son-in-law Dan was, too. Even my own sons and grandsons have been familiar with guns by age twelve, in spite of my anxieties. In the old west most little boys learned to hunt and handle firearms when they were tall enough to hold a .22.

Colts, Winchesters, bullets and calibers—Dan has been my go-to guy, guiding me through the mysteries of 1870's hardware for the book. So he decided I needed a research trip. JJ can only be as knowledgeable as I am.

Dan planned our outing as my Father's Day gift to him. Because he's such a fabulous father of such a darling grandson, I couldn't say no. But I was scared silly.

Opa and Oma on the range.

Target shooting was so different than I'd imagined. No self-exploding bazookas, no crazies— everybody knew and followed the rules. Except me. I shot at another guy's target which is a major faux pas. (He was very nice about it, though.)

And there was an incident during the ceasefire. Every fifteen minutes there's an announcement and all shooting stops. Guns are unloaded and placed on the tables and everyone steps back behind a red line. Then, when it's totally safe, they announce that you can go check your targets. Shooters stay behind the red line until they announce the range is hot, and then you go back to your stations. Anyway, during the ceasefire, I forgot, crossed the line and started to load my gun. "MA'AM! STEP AWAY FROM YOUR WEAPON!"

My chaperones were very patient and assured the others they'd watch me closer.

Right on target.

A little experience shot my fear to smithereens.

Photo Shoot

Some high-flyin' photographer has got me in his sights.

Marta (a photographer in her own right) told me a few weeks ago that my Mother's Day present was going to be a portrait of the two of us. She had the appointment all scheduled for April 20th. Was that OK? I pictured a cute 5 X 7 on my bulletin board and got my hair cut for the occasion.

Tonight I got some scary details about this modeling gig. Justin Hackworth doesn't just take pictures—he produces art. He doesn't photoshop out your double chin(s) or whiten your teeth; he finds beauty in shapes and textures (otherwise called bulges and zits.) And then he puts them on his blog.

This is the third year of his Thirty Strangers Project, a fundraiser he does for women and children in crisis. Every day during April he photographs mothers and daughters for donations to this cause. It has been so successful that people from all over the country vie for the chance to be part of the project. In February he announced on his blog that he would randomly give away the 30 spots. Out of hundreds of contestants, Marta was one of the winners, and tomorrow is our big day.

I checked out his awesome website and it's obvious Justin is into truth in art. Marta says we'll finally see what we really look like. That terrified me, so tonight I've practiced sucking up my chin(s), sucking in my stomach and sucking up to the artist while looking aesthetically pleasing at the same time. The authentic arty Marty look.

If I'm appearing on anybody's blog, I need some beauty sleep. I'll give you the full story later.
I may or may not let you know when I'm the centerfold on his blog.