tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47293715706717398252024-03-24T18:33:38.257-05:00sky-colored dirtEssays on womanhood, motherhood, Appalachia, and culture.d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-32013187424583919062024-01-10T12:17:00.004-06:002024-01-10T12:52:08.318-06:00If You Love Them, Feed Them<p>Last night at the dinner table: My insanely picky eight-year-old cooperated, sort of. Sometimes Mamma has to pull rank to get things done. </p><p>Under duress, he scrunched up his chubby little nose—whose tip gets tiny kisses from me whenever he'll tolerate it—narrowed his huge brown eyes, and ate a small bite of beef and gravy. </p><p>8: Not too bad...kinda pretty good. </p><p>Me: Good job, buddy. </p><p>He then went on: Mamma, why can Santa bring big gifts but Cupid can’t? </p><p>With no good explanation, I told him to Google capitalism. </p><p>Dinnertime in my home isn’t an exact replica of my childhood, where my mother held no quarter. There was no option to even think of rebelling. My mom, a bonafide Appalachian beauty with a hot bod and a hot head of bottle-born auburn hair, is the ultimate nurturer of children, animals, and anyone who doesn't cross her. I have followed in her footsteps, mostly; my storm is a bit calmer due to a dose of my dad's rational nature. In the 80s, Mom worked for an Iranian gynecologist in the tiny downtown of my hometown, returning home with dry-witted tales of his accent butchering the pronunciation of various female body parts and gynecologic afflictions. My mom has always been funnier than she knows, oftentimes at the expense of my dad, like the time he saw a commercial for Vagisil and asked why they chose that name. Mom: So people won’t brush their teeth with it, Guy. </p><p>On most evenings of my youth, dinner was a family affair, with my dad, mom, big brother, and me at the table. Mom rolled out all the home-cooking favorites, like chicken and dumplings, pot roast, and pork chops. Although I stopped eating red meat and pork 30 years ago, living in Memphis with the constant scent of sweet barbecue nearly broke me. Nearly. Sometimes I stick to my guns for no good reason. Despite years without, I could still get down with some roast and pork chops, but I probably won’t. </p><p>In my home, food has been a battlefield. My kids thoroughly resent my healthy ways, reminding me every chance they get that other moms let their kids eat all the junk food whenever they want, to which I say, Cool, go live with them and let me know how it goes. Then I call on my two cousins to complain about how hard this is, because who else has your back like another mom who loves you. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM8KgoQxUEkDbysXcnZv2xsyEnSoLyPZc393MwWyWeIcqrv8LFbuZJc4x-O23cywZMA3PhVyZAij2PbJbPI8jP_CkHRbCa1SNHIngdG2WqL_SkTyoeDYYwhAi9NLDSTIQ56g1Xa4NZ-mis9Zms7yAfbDQb37zc91KcZ8dYc9N_XQD5DehTbJejyvwKD4K/s3337/IMG_1631.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3337" data-original-width="2502" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEM8KgoQxUEkDbysXcnZv2xsyEnSoLyPZc393MwWyWeIcqrv8LFbuZJc4x-O23cywZMA3PhVyZAij2PbJbPI8jP_CkHRbCa1SNHIngdG2WqL_SkTyoeDYYwhAi9NLDSTIQ56g1Xa4NZ-mis9Zms7yAfbDQb37zc91KcZ8dYc9N_XQD5DehTbJejyvwKD4K/s320/IMG_1631.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>War stories aside, my boys and I have managed to bond in the kitchen. We love a game of Nat Geo trivia or playing “Would you rather” over a meal. In our latest round, I managed to sneak in a life lesson to my eight-year-old, who asked “Would you rather not know a lie or know a lie.” Me: “I like to be told the truth, even if it’ll make me feel yucky—and I want you to always tell the truth too.” I’m also teaching them to cook in hopes they’ll grow up to be self-sufficient young boys who can take some heat off their busy mom. I’ve taught my 12-year-old how to make his own burger, egg in a hole, and pan-fried chicken. The three of us have made homemade tortillas and pizza dough and baked dozens of cookies. There are photos and videos of our kitchen adventures, which I scroll through often because I’m a nostalgia junkie, even if the days past were only last year. <p></p><p>Like my mom, I’m a pretty good cook, with a failure every now and then. A feminist bone in my body keeps me from imitating her old-fashioned ways too closely, but I’ve held onto the parts that matter most: If you love them, feed them. If they screw you, give them hell. </p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-20400128377797961442024-01-05T19:11:00.003-06:002024-01-06T23:09:25.789-06:00Fried Chicken and a Diddle-I-Dune: I'm Coming Home<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The small coffee stand in the hotel lobby kept odd hours. I learned that the hard way when we arrived the afternoon prior, when I thought I had time to wander the halls dressed in their Christmas best before getting my fix. The next morning I made sure to be punctual, a mostly impossible feat if you’re me, unless there’s an endangered beverage or a paycheck involved. Next to me in line under the oversized oak tresses of the lobby’s vaulted ceiling, my dog gave side-eye to the life-size (if you’re my size) nutcracker to let him know he shouldn’t get too close to her mom. On my right, she made quick friends with the FedEx guy with the kind eyes. They say dogs can sense a person’s intentions; God knows I can’t see past my own, so maybe that’s why I always keep a dog around. </span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That morning, I stole a few minutes to savor my coffee while my kids were still in the room asleep. From my perch at a high-top table for six pushed against the middle set of oversized windows, I watched the lake as it did its one and only wintertime thing: sitting perfectly still. It was a moment of release, which I’m told I could achieve on the regular through pharmaceuticals, if I were someone else entirely. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My body is a temple, unless you count tattoos and weekend carbs. </span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Although I have no relationship with the outdoors as it pertains to tents, kayaks, and summertime forests, I’m close to Nature in my own way, having grown up a child of my grandmother’s hilltop farm, sucking on honeysuckle, chomping on crab apples, pining for ponies. To this day, I remember perfectly the sound of a rooster yelling <i>Rise and shine, bitches! </i></span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-hn8D4ykyHqwFqq-0XWOk3-9jlb4VeHdo142kXqVRwkxI9IKA0MdT_-5-6gVOeja41y9cKqbroJuC1gogtzzLgu4oRlvmaIZ4VB2ktm4vjUJ8yGjDLYbaIDogwGfQJcX0yyX-clYKi1PFjX-0qeJlsS4o3zOuuGKQcMOgTA1vifE19h8-omaSMj7pbZw/s2048/401759310_10233984300613462_564000896049920934_n.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ-hn8D4ykyHqwFqq-0XWOk3-9jlb4VeHdo142kXqVRwkxI9IKA0MdT_-5-6gVOeja41y9cKqbroJuC1gogtzzLgu4oRlvmaIZ4VB2ktm4vjUJ8yGjDLYbaIDogwGfQJcX0yyX-clYKi1PFjX-0qeJlsS4o3zOuuGKQcMOgTA1vifE19h8-omaSMj7pbZw/s320/401759310_10233984300613462_564000896049920934_n.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>Sometime last summer, Nature sent her sirens after me, singing me away from my citified safety net full of noise and distractions intended to keep my mind in line...as if. So I finally began to listen: I took my dog on Saturday hikes when my kids were away splashing and fishing on the Buckhannon River where I could never manage to feel at home. Jezebel and I didn’t do any deep-forest explorations, but we took baby steps along the fringe of Nature’s well-worn skirt. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In late fall, a girlfriend invited me to hike in the woods at a resort halfway between her city and mine. We met a couple of years ago when I was writing for her department at a university. When it comes to my people, I know 'em when I see 'em (if I listen to my instincts), and so it wasn’t long before she and I were on my porch sharing pizza and talking shit like we’d known each other forever. A long-divorced 50-something southern WV firecracker, she’s become a dear friend and my outdoors guru. This winter, she’s teaching me the ropes of cross-country skiing. I’ve never downhill skied and have no desire to, but walking in the snow is one of my favorite things, so I think I can hang. </span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For many years I've called myself a summer girl, a disciple of the sea. Last summer there was no family trip to the ocean, and while disappointment loomed at the time, now I see the gift. It was Nature’s tough love, teaching me to learn to feel at home in the home that is mine instead of wishing to be anywhere but here. I’ve always loved West Virginia for the magical childhood it gave me. I’ve appreciated its history, food, and art. Feeling connected on a spiritual level has been a struggle. I’m a sucker for deep soul connection, and I guess that’s why living here hasn’t</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> felt quite right…until now. My roots are tugging on me. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CkvvsM9ei72OozmFQkfZsByMZwu-qnnOiQYtT2eQ1QLTFPYFZnkC1SNJsO_-fvhO7aIWipx7nj9ZGa5KQwNaM9J8fuIcKzJYQuxp-Be1NWfZIJvOPiW2taEi1t9XO8Ua5YqVuAv3qYAFJEt02Vh3eIDqo7vMrNlT4rfFy0DZH-2xuNI_Yt4FSNXebikA/s2258/last%20night%20in%20motown%20013%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1481" data-original-width="2258" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CkvvsM9ei72OozmFQkfZsByMZwu-qnnOiQYtT2eQ1QLTFPYFZnkC1SNJsO_-fvhO7aIWipx7nj9ZGa5KQwNaM9J8fuIcKzJYQuxp-Be1NWfZIJvOPiW2taEi1t9XO8Ua5YqVuAv3qYAFJEt02Vh3eIDqo7vMrNlT4rfFy0DZH-2xuNI_Yt4FSNXebikA/s320/last%20night%20in%20motown%20013%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I was a kid, one of my favorite places was a holler on the wrong side of the tracks. East View is where my mom grew up and where many of her siblings live to this day. Of my mom’s 16 siblings, Aunt Kathy was my favorite back then. Her husband, my Uncle Fred, was a long-haul truck driver whose rough-hewn good looks were like burlap wrapped around a heart of gold. It was Uncle Fred who taught me how to do the “honk your horn” move with my arm when passing an 18-wheeler on the road. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When Uncle Fred left us too soon three years ago due to complications from Covid, a long line of 18-wheelers paid tribute through Rt. 98 in my hometown. A few weeks later, I sent my aunt a gift—a wind chime engraved with the name of the man she’d been with since they were kids, to remind her to think of him when the wind blows. I still think of him too. </span></p><p></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8JQ83kZrKyQRZeHxB8IyAeFS2b2cMxO-pE3tD1RxEreZ-p4_08IkhO_BS7HFTWQ2sUIjhoEPkKdrRnvtqA4dpV2sWDV7G1o6BxD26Q3vStbWLdRbB8nt_ZNwC0DB5xnl2Bo39JzvgebhSQ2xqffvRUT66etbOmHexmS6PyP8orKIoAf-wmTsmKguMjDPa/s612/1043982_10201835327309222_1450970771_n.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8JQ83kZrKyQRZeHxB8IyAeFS2b2cMxO-pE3tD1RxEreZ-p4_08IkhO_BS7HFTWQ2sUIjhoEPkKdrRnvtqA4dpV2sWDV7G1o6BxD26Q3vStbWLdRbB8nt_ZNwC0DB5xnl2Bo39JzvgebhSQ2xqffvRUT66etbOmHexmS6PyP8orKIoAf-wmTsmKguMjDPa/w328-h328/1043982_10201835327309222_1450970771_n.jpeg" width="328" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Before the years took Uncle Fred and me away from the holler, life was all dirt and dogs, horses and hay, cousin alliances and country anthems. Until today, I didn’t know the name of the man who sang <i>fried chicken and a country tune/they go together like a moon and June/a finger lickin' chicken and a diddle-i-dune/fried chicken and a country tune—</i>but I know that verse like I know my own name. </span><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Over the years, my East View family and I have butted heads due to my big-city liberal beliefs and my big fat mouth that may never learn the art of shutting up. I’m no staunch partisan, more so a fan of doing what feels right, be it left or right, but it’s not my job to convince anyone else of who I am... </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">although I’ll probably try if I care. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thankfully, my family and I have realized that what we had together in those glory years isn’t worth losing now. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now, fresh from the heady glow of the holidays, I have time to gather pieces of me from the past, measure them against the present, and decide how to move forward. Perhaps toward places quieted by canopy or booming with conversation between the farm animals of my youth. I doubt I’ll ever go deep into Nature alone, and probably never in a tent, but I’ll meet her on a wooded path or at a tree-lined river with a friend. </span></p></div></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-46593015006608390332023-10-08T13:30:00.007-05:002023-10-08T18:31:48.867-05:00Snow Day<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Today, fall finally fell upon Morgantown. The slight sting in the air got me thinking about the season ahead and the hope of snow. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I remember snow as a New Yorker. </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was 24 years ago, when I spent five months on the Upper East Side. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The city is hard, even on Mother Nature. Snowflakes first starched and pressed like fine linen fall flaccid and stained when met by pavement or skyscraper. New Yorkers, in their hard black shells, scuttle along sidewalks and underneath scaffolding, gathering in entryways to noisy tunnels underground. I marveled at hundreds of them each morning on my way to the 6 train, all heavy in wool Burberry, tightly wound in cashmere scarves, moving fast yet mindful to sidestep a snow-covered sidewalk grate. In the city, winter is a fury, a season to bear.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At home in West Virginia, Mother Nature is safe, benevolent. The fluffy train of her winter-white gown lays undisturbed on vast expanses of grass and trees. These are quiet places, perhaps dotted with deer hooves or uneven in patches where the top layer of snow is folded back by the wind. Townspeople, cheeks rubbed pink by a flirtatious breeze, stay for long hellos on lamp-lit street corners. As evening’s indigo blanket settles over a cirrus-streaked sky, I am at my bedroom’s only window. If I listen close, I can hear the hooves of deer crunching leaves in the backyard. This is splendor, I’m reminded…or scolded, for when I’m not careful or grateful, I’ll dismiss it like a million breaths or blinks.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As memory will, mine warms the past with myth. That brusque city winter is now a collection of storefronts in miniature, arcing an oblong rink where a single, tiny ice skater spins and swirls to “White Christmas,” all blissful and balmy in a small glass orb cupped in my hearth-warmed hand. It takes but a glimpse of a snowy New York night on the TV screen to send my thoughts swirling up and away in a wind-swell of what ifs. I imagine myself seated by the window of a warm West Village café, looking outside to a street stolen from a Victorian painting: lush with greenery, heavily saturated in burgundy, emerald, royal blue. Home, never a long walk from anywhere, is a just-right studio near Washington Square Park, where I watch joyful mixed breeds and Standard Poodles bounding through powdery groundcover while their owners sip coffee in paper cups from the deli across the street.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9764o0Kbil2j0p6q316dYMTiQ6WfhGBd5mFoa2UGLcOU2OjgXpx6eu9iRkPAYtLKFppm_Lc4Ms467YatSHs3R6nYAtChZ8YJZSu9imDgn5yMeclZI3rpS9Wpnl9z7wr1ctBCOeMnziHZm_uLeF3TlMuT05cOUMFc_fVjdFZnVZlvkA43yFcwmioDP-NI/s4032/IMG_9799.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9764o0Kbil2j0p6q316dYMTiQ6WfhGBd5mFoa2UGLcOU2OjgXpx6eu9iRkPAYtLKFppm_Lc4Ms467YatSHs3R6nYAtChZ8YJZSu9imDgn5yMeclZI3rpS9Wpnl9z7wr1ctBCOeMnziHZm_uLeF3TlMuT05cOUMFc_fVjdFZnVZlvkA43yFcwmioDP-NI/s320/IMG_9799.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A new snow is like childhood: pure, wondrous, shaped by all that it will touch. When I was small, winter brought gifts of days off from school and snow angels in front of the neighbor’s rhododendron bush, aka the preferred bathroom of our beagle, Cujo. My big brother, Kevin, and I made lop-sided Frosty-men on the wooden deck atop the front porch, which Dad had built, meticulously and obsessively, as is his style for home improvement and life in general. We went sled-riding on the hill between my friend Cara’s textbook-tidy middle class-home and the sagging duplex of the man who dressed as Santa in the Christmas parade. </span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYb3b0HY9CLPMaOcXEyt-SrJZ4h3e4FSVsCgZbCbh6e5Mmso-p4Qlk84lGAuwGaEHHi5QFqhxlQ7Q6z97HtNdCRGTJ364kTMxsCyFJwr8oAIcZGjVNTcfxbGkPB9VFYOhalpC5l4Q5d0Xnqra_DyOXmaiZDxgRoceqvLKQhVjj1c6h6RGI0Ls9HtqclsN/s4032/IMG_9798.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYb3b0HY9CLPMaOcXEyt-SrJZ4h3e4FSVsCgZbCbh6e5Mmso-p4Qlk84lGAuwGaEHHi5QFqhxlQ7Q6z97HtNdCRGTJ364kTMxsCyFJwr8oAIcZGjVNTcfxbGkPB9VFYOhalpC5l4Q5d0Xnqra_DyOXmaiZDxgRoceqvLKQhVjj1c6h6RGI0Ls9HtqclsN/s320/IMG_9798.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mom would lay out gloves; “toboggans” (or beanies if you aren’t from North Central West Virginia); and puffy overalls bought once every few years from Fanjul’s Outlet near my Grandma’s on the east end of town. Sometimes Kev would cover his Calabrian-Italian good looks with a full-face ski mask that showed off his best feature, in my opinion: his smile. His front teeth recline slightly, a visual foil to the anything-but-relaxed nature of our Costello genes. His “got away with something” laugh is only ever the result of three things: his own quick-witted retort, a recollection of a quirky movie scene, or a reaction to my young sons’ exploration of bathroom humor. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My favorite times sled-riding were the days when the older kids would build a jump in the middle of the hill. They’d carry buckets of water from Cara’s house to pour over a hand-packed hump of snow. If it was cold enough, the water would freeze in a flash, and we wouldn’t have to wait to try it out. Kevin was the Evil Knievel of sledding on his wooden Flexible Flyer, making a running start for the jump, going faster and higher than anyone else. Once he went to fast and so high that his sled landed upright, stuck like a dart in the side of the hill. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The first time my dog saw snow, I thought he’d be afraid. Or at least curious. He was still tiny then, a brown, wriggly bunched-up thing always in my arms. Because he outright refused to climb the metal steps leading to my college apartment, I would carry him to the bottom and follow him, floppy-tailed and frolicking, to a patch of grass beside the ground-level window of the neighbor with a dog named Dude. This was the routine, many times a day. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On one frigid December morning, the grass was covered in a white crust that sparkled under the glance of the sun. Kaiser went on as if nothing were different, his pink nose shoveling a path to his chosen place of squatting. I remember thinking that soon he’d be old enough not to squat anymore, disciplined enough to pass the bed without tugging at the sheet’s hanging corner, big enough to have lost those razor-sharp teeth. For 12 years, Kaiser and I grew together: moved and settled many times; made fewer messes for others to clean. When I think back to that wobbly puppy on a snowy December morning, I see my first lesson in unconditional love. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now I am now old enough to be the dutiful mother, laying out boots and hats and gloves so my little darlings will stay warm and dry as they glide and roll down the steep incline of our backyard, which remains devoid of child’s play for most of the year, aside from snow days and the occasional game of pass. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Last winter’s lackluster performance fell far short of my children’s snow-day dreams. Luckily, their mother knows how to hold on to hope, stirring memories to life like flakes in a snow globe. When I think of the winter to come, I am nine years old again. A grin stretches my wind-chapped lips wide as I watch a masked daredevil with a familiar smile take flight.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">May this winter grant precious days when our own small world is white and new. </span></p><div><br /></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-76515260423916160172023-09-27T15:55:00.007-05:002023-09-28T15:38:41.014-05:00Dear Stansbury Hall, Thanks for the Lessons<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I live in a city of ghosts. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I don’t mean the kind who pay the bills of paranormal pros. If there is such a thing as real ghosts, they don’t bother the likes of me. Being supernatural and all, they know I’m already far too busy with self-made apparitions. When you create your own terrors, outsiders can’t get in. The anxious mind is generous that way. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">My Morgantown ghosts are pieces of my past. Like my boys’ impending Halloween-haul dreams, they are a mixed bag stuffed to the brim with sweet and sour, keepers and throwaways, and the occasional super-sized surprise. I offered the latter last week on our way to my eight-year-old’s swim lesson: As we came upon the hulking, shiny and new WVU Reynolds Hall, I told my boys that it was formerly Stansbury Hall, where during college Mamma committed a tiny, baby sin that resulted in getting a passing grade in a required gym course. (Not that kind of sin. Come on.)</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Demolished a few years ago to make way for the new, Stansbury is now a ghost of WVU’s history and mine. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmpP0FmrhCE0yPZpnMRTmp-OBIiySreWpoan9KzDS-rS15luJjQNUS3Un2tDXiadeHPL6PfR5Z4cxNdQubDWfl_dgI7GWXn0jAomk8yKnNmpLmxiPCtMTNWpu8lAneuVTiIQAG1n_-fB23n3n3j0upUvzJgY9nFwL_cE49U8G0dHH6heb3QUp8PuHKaaa/s361/stanbury.gif" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="361" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTmpP0FmrhCE0yPZpnMRTmp-OBIiySreWpoan9KzDS-rS15luJjQNUS3Un2tDXiadeHPL6PfR5Z4cxNdQubDWfl_dgI7GWXn0jAomk8yKnNmpLmxiPCtMTNWpu8lAneuVTiIQAG1n_-fB23n3n3j0upUvzJgY9nFwL_cE49U8G0dHH6heb3QUp8PuHKaaa/s320/stanbury.gif" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was Stansbury Hall, 2000, where the title of a professor’s newly published book invoked the latter part of Psalm 121:</span><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.</span></i></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I didn't read the book, but that verse became a portent. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A few years after college, I moved to Memphis, where I found myself in perpetual need of things that don’t come easily: money, a support system, a safe place (sometimes literally, due to a new-to-me weather phenomenon called “straight-line winds,” the conservative cousin of a tornado). In typical fashion, I easily made friends, some I considered family—from whence would cometh my help, or so I thought. After years of mourning the painful truth of those relationships, wisdom coaxed me toward forgiving (which is divine) without forgetting (which is insurance). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After reaching my zenith in the Mid-South, I finally lifted my eyes unto the hills. Country roads took me home. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Last week, as I drove my boys past the ghost of Stansbury Hall, we had time to kill in traffic, as usual. I’m convinced that whoever designed the layout of Morgantown is the same one who forgets to include one essential bolt in every box of DIY furniture. As we sat idling in the long line inching toward the intersection at Beechurst and University, my mind traveled back in time to the early aughts. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I spent a lot of time at Stansbury Hall, then-home of WVU’s English Department (as well as a weathered gymnasium and an annex that was freezing or sweltering depending on the season). It’s where my non-advisors didn’t advise me to seek tuition waivers for my high GPA, hence a student loan bill that expanded to Goodyear Blimp proportions. It's where I critiqued Seamus Heaney poems under the tutelage of an enthusiastic, stereotypically Irish-looking professor whose voice was a sponge soaking up all the air in his throat, a sound still fresh in my mind nearly 24 years after the fact. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">At Stansbury, I wrote corny heartbreak poems after parting ways with my understated singer boyfriend and then, two-ish years later, my overstated artist boyfriend. They both broke my heart and tried my (high-to-a-fault) tolerance until their respective moments of epiphany, at which point my trust was like Stansbury Hall: long-suffering and gone. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In an east-facing classroom on Stansbury’s third floor, I honed my senior thesis, a collection of poems and nonfiction essays inspired both by my maturity as a writer and my discovery of <i>Cane</i>, a beautiful book of verse and vignettes by Harlem Renaissance writer Jean Toomer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In a graduate literary theory course at Stansbury, I devoured conversation about racism and sexism, my beliefs about which had grown wild and free despite my childhood in a small town 38.3 miles south, where minds tend to be held down and smothered by the hard, leathery hands of Fear and Judgement. In that same class, affinity blossomed with a woman who would come to exemplify <i>from whence cometh my help</i> when I became a first-time mom on my own. While others passed judgment about my choice to continue on my path as a writer, she offered real talk and real listening, eventually confiding in me a tragedy that only a mother can know, in doing so encouraging what I already knew: I was doing the right thing. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Each time I pass Reynolds Hall, which is often since it’s on a main thoroughfare, I see the ghost of Stansbury. I recall the formative relationships I made in those years. I see the girl I was then—with fewer responsibilities and more energy but the same white-hot fire for curiosity and connection. I hear better judgement reminding me that neither love nor listening will flourish outside the sacred space of trust. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ghosts are apt teachers, if we’re willing to look back on old things with new eyes. </span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-3327768121535737432023-08-25T12:52:00.008-05:002024-02-16T12:02:31.913-06:00Curbside Pickup<p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Yesterday, my son cracked his<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>shell for the first time.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It made only a small fissure. But a mother knows.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Earlier in the day, I stayed a safe distance from the bus stop.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was the least I could do to assure my growing boy that no one would suspect he has a mom who is so cringe. (Don’t even get him started on how she dances to music in public places.)</span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvggdzM0nStM3gQ_zqhl8jg73d-B_an61tIIJuEB4Edte6DOAJuFWqomuX5gdP1FoVkIeMMpu3pBvgyRsstntLDSMSJ7i6_oZ1nt6S00CSKZo64b2KbN1c-FfoQ0ziwqQplhdD-3mjf65fg-wa74XYtEXThYUvI5cF6hrBO3y42DftBcS62Zr37gWEx2P/s4032/IMG_9514.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvggdzM0nStM3gQ_zqhl8jg73d-B_an61tIIJuEB4Edte6DOAJuFWqomuX5gdP1FoVkIeMMpu3pBvgyRsstntLDSMSJ7i6_oZ1nt6S00CSKZo64b2KbN1c-FfoQ0ziwqQplhdD-3mjf65fg-wa74XYtEXThYUvI5cF6hrBO3y42DftBcS62Zr37gWEx2P/s320/IMG_9514.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So I waited like a dog-walking stranger admitting defeat under the oppressive sun, taking refuge under a sliver of shade on the curb, dawdling on her phone, offering her overheated dog droplets from a bottle until the breeze...or a schoolboy...comes back around.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">This is how it goes when a little boy begins to crack his shell. A mother knows.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I traced that fissure all day, wondering when the next one will come. And then the next. Until all that’s left are shards and he’ll roam free without the shell I’ve nurtured him in.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Until then I’ll do a poor job, in his opinion, of choosing when to be the stranger he wants or the protector he needs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I’ll be his greatest embarrassment for a number of years—by merely existing! Even worse, by moving through life with principles. Until one day, hopefully, when his grandmother's genes kick in and he comes into his own power.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For now, my fissure boy, he calls me a Karen.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">To that I say: Sweetie, my concerns are not trifles—and by the way, do you know the male equivalent of a Karen? They [The Unevolved] call him “A Real Man.” Or “not a [that other word for ‘cat’].”</span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Be your own man, my Brilliant Boy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mamma will eagerly await your arrival. From a safe distance on the curb.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-27428371328276799762023-08-23T10:36:00.007-05:002023-08-23T10:36:55.560-05:00Dear West Virginia University: We're Not Gonna Take It<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">ICYMI: WVU, West Virginia's flagship land-grant research university, is recommending eliminating 9 percent of its majors, all the foreign language programs and 7 percent of full-time faculty members.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Since WVU’s massive cuts were announced, an entirely predictable response came from those who are entirely incapable of thinking outside their political box: “Good riddance!” </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Hating on higher education has become a cultural preoccupation in recent years, stemming from the misguided belief that universities are breeding grounds for liberals. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0UYPTvx8mKqA6f1I0mVHyGbPM3i-RBVxyc8uv1-AcnhyLIlFCZ4epR0ev1svRIfB5wA5UUE-D1I68BJJzRbeSyKhyTcZ6QEkRD1a4eeUmdr4orJhUHiNKs9-dZOUi25AChJ6V63otDn2azObaqiHiw_RFBbASGOZtCS9IvcGvZS9WvXkJZLdEwi_uJRA/s2048/368368139_10231133700549925_2542478819517729891_n.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="2048" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi0UYPTvx8mKqA6f1I0mVHyGbPM3i-RBVxyc8uv1-AcnhyLIlFCZ4epR0ev1svRIfB5wA5UUE-D1I68BJJzRbeSyKhyTcZ6QEkRD1a4eeUmdr4orJhUHiNKs9-dZOUi25AChJ6V63otDn2azObaqiHiw_RFBbASGOZtCS9IvcGvZS9WvXkJZLdEwi_uJRA/s320/368368139_10231133700549925_2542478819517729891_n.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Credit: Dave Reyn, Morgantown, WV</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Here’s an inconvenient truth: We need liberals. Just like we need conservatives and all sorts of other groups we find distasteful. It takes a variety of jerks to make the world go round. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Over 20 years ago, aka Before My Boobs Got Their First Job, I graduated from West Virginia University with a degree in English, a department that has now lost its MFA in creative writing due to the recent cuts. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Let’s recall: The legit purpose of a liberal arts university is to provide courses in…wait for it…liberal arts. If you prefer schools that don’t offer degrees in silly things like writing or history or foreign languages, may I suggest a trade school. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">During college, I worked at the Blue Moose Cafe as a barista. One of my regular customers was a small, raven-haired 40-something woman who called herself a witch. Given my conservative, Baptist upbringing, I should have decided unequivocally that I should not serve her, since handing her a cup of coffee would clearly show my support for her witchy ways. Instead, I looked at her as simply another human being who, although having ways that were not my ways, was not harming anyone. Had she been, say, a known dog fighter or child predator, then I would’ve felt justified in taking a stand. Here’s the kicker: Despite my continual exposure to a witch, I managed to not become a witch myself. I blame being raised by parents who led more by example than by decree. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">My fire-and-brimstone loving parents are probably kicking themselves now for not telling me who I should be during my formative years, but the damage is done. What made the biggest impression was their habit of taking care of people, not only family but anyone in need. Sorry, Mom and Dad. You done raised a liberal without even trying. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Anyway, back to higher education. What I’ve gleaned from friends who are WVU professors: These cuts aren’t an act of austerity. Rather, it’s posturing that isn’t addressing the root causes: administrative bloat, misappropriation, and perhaps even malfeasance. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">I saw a list of the top ~30 salaries at WVU, and they’re astounding—from the 200s up to 4+ million. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">At the top of that list are WVU coaches. Complaints about coach salaries are a common refrain, but I don’t go there. Coaches make loads of money because sports bring in loads of money. If you don’t like it, good luck with telling people to stop having a good time their way. I’m not a big sports fan, but I can have a good time in the company of balls. As a mom of boys, I mean that literally and figuratively.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Let’s talk about other salaries: If lower enrollment is a reason for slashing programs, then why are professors taking the fall for it? Before the “Everyone Wants a Handout” crowd gets their caps lock key ready: This isn’t a matter of taking from the “rich” admins/coaches and giving to the “poor” professors. As far as I understand, a professor’s job is to teach and to enhance their value through continuing education, publication, research, sabbatical, etc. Enrollment, however, falls under the purview of university management. If they aren’t performing—and clearly they aren’t if the university has a $45 million shortfall—then shouldn’t they be held accountable? </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Also noteworthy is the fact that WVU is ranked among the top research colleges and universities in the country, with an R1 status. Among the many programs that got the ax is the doctoral masters program in math. R1 status is in part determined by the number of doctoral degrees a school offers. According to an article in the TimesWV, “The end of the graduate programs is especially bewildering for the math department, considering that it brings in over $7 million a year to the university through fellowships and other funding. It’s also the only one in the state.”</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Somebody make this make sense. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Anyway. It’s about time for my regularly scheduled cry over losing my canine life partner on Saturday, but before I go, allow me to show my age: These photos of WVU kids fighting back bring to mind a telltale drum intro and a dude with a bad perm and worse makeup job growling WE’RE NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMOOOOOORE. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(6, 6, 6); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: #060606; font-family: helvetica;">Give ‘em hell, kids. </span></p><div><br /></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-7907636891593766242023-07-28T17:29:00.009-05:002023-07-29T17:48:58.408-05:00Try That in a Small Mind<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Jason Aldean's new song finally got the best of my curiosity. So I went a Googlin'.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Aldean sings about life in a small town, an experience he didn't have growing up in the not-small city of Macon, Georgia. I'm not mad about that part. People like me get paid to be poseurs every day. Like today: I'm writing about private equity investing, even though not a dime of my vast freelance writer wealth has been invested in anything other than survival, miracle wrinkle creams, and vicious-breed dogs. </span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">"Try That in a Small Town" is the typical uninspired song on today's mainstream country radio, a product of four songwriters (not including Aldean) who may or may not be from small towns. I can't fathom why it took four minds to create lyrics that sound like a drunken conversation at a bar named after somebody’s grandpappy, but I salute them for turning it into a paycheck. On that note, if anyone in Nashville is reading: I’m available to write songs too. While I don’t do “aggro Americana,” my bag of tricks is otherwise full. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Like Hamburger Helper, "Try That in a Small Town" is great when you want to consume something that resembles the real thing but is faster, easier, and requires no thought. It will also make your insides angry, but you'll blame that on something else. Probably a liberal politician or the gays, since both are clearly the worst thing to happen to the American family since heterosexual divorce, addiction, and fatherless homes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The song is a battle cry for people who "take care of their own,” a notion inextricable from any discussion of small-town life. Having grown up in a small town in North Central West Virginia, I’d like to set the record straight: That’s not how it works. People in small towns don’t take care of their own any better than people in big cities. Some do it well. Others do harm.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The song also perpetuates the idea that people in small towns are unsophisticated, insular, and aggressive. For regions like Appalachia that already struggle with negative outside perceptions, this is both troublesome and accurate. Those qualities do accompany a tribalism particular to Appalachian culture, alongside its more alluring offerings like natural beauty, talented artisans, rich culinary traditions, a slower pace of life, and a lack of elitism. I held a similar position when JD Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy set liberals into a frenzy. While it’s debatable if his story is a reflection of his actual life experience, his depiction of Appalachia rings true. And what if we embrace it? It’s okay for Appalachians to own their tribalism the same way it’s okay for big-city dwellers to own their elitism. Both perceptions are based in reality and neither speaks to the fullness of the individuals who inhabit those places. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaOhKkekASM0pQiP64aKW4yqs16BJKL5L2jlV_REKVBvuFDKboLw4CJigNlrAFmsei1KxW608SEbC15YcUEDPzXoLtY-UMfYRIM3IilkB0aE9XjaSZz5wAkkTU2wfPnM6K1Vxk9GpSfkzTpL1SJfY4sLVd1MlPejPC9yW6GNTYpTVlYj4SWj1QXy9xj9p/s2199/pexels-pixabay-208698.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1053" data-original-width="2199" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRaOhKkekASM0pQiP64aKW4yqs16BJKL5L2jlV_REKVBvuFDKboLw4CJigNlrAFmsei1KxW608SEbC15YcUEDPzXoLtY-UMfYRIM3IilkB0aE9XjaSZz5wAkkTU2wfPnM6K1Vxk9GpSfkzTpL1SJfY4sLVd1MlPejPC9yW6GNTYpTVlYj4SWj1QXy9xj9p/w320-h184/pexels-pixabay-208698.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">“Try That in a Small Town” was predestined for success. There’s no such thing as bad press when you’re hyping up the culture wars. As for the allegations surrounding the song, I’m comfortable making just one claim: Jason Aldean is fully on board with its combative tone, or he wouldn’t have agreed to sing it. Since I’m not a fan of today’s angry patriotism or of mainstream country music in general, my solution is to continue not listening to Jason Aldean’s entire opus. </span></span><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">While I could take pleasure in assuming what kind of guy Jason Aldean is according to where he spent New Year’s Eves or how he wears boot-cut jeans, in real life I don’t draw those lines. Okay, I will judge you if you’re a guy who buys jeans at Buckle. Not sorry. But at least I can be reasonable on matters of more importance. Some of my dearest friends and family voted for That Guy, and we didn’t break up over it. Life is complicated. So is art (or in Aldean’s case, performance).<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-4245560499207528982023-06-27T18:54:00.010-05:002024-02-05T10:47:05.557-06:00Let the Light In <p>Inspiration is everywhere, if you're open to receiving it. I always welcome the light of beautiful ideas, possibly to a fault if I count how much it distracts me from whatever I'm supposed to be doing in the moment. </p><p>Since my work has married me to my laptop and my mind resists focus like it's my other job, I often find inspiration online as I bounce between work and whatever feels good. Last week, as I rewatched a TikTok of a baby mini-horse over and over, the mounting pressure of adorableness nearly imploded my heart. I put it on my Someday wishlist. Someday when I buy my own slice of almost heaven that's not too far from town and not too close, with just enough land for a mini horse, a garden, a couple of big dogs, and a few spins on my oldest son's 50cc dirtbike. Depending on how long it takes us to get there, he might outgrow that bike, but I never will. </p><p>I'm no stranger to equine adoration. I spent many glory days of childhood riding ponies that my cousins and I caught with buckets of grain in the holler where they still live to this day, their assortment of manufactured homes and double-wides erected alongside the ruins of a 1980s feral-child wonderland. At Aunt Kathy's hillbound homestead, I was enraptured by fuzzy muzzles, wiry manes, the <i>clip clop </i>of hooves on forbidden pavements, the knotty roots of trees like aged fingers guiding us through wooded paths. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchfSwjUEc5f0wKfZ7zZlXyBkXRdtDmyPmN1Hd7jDst1NS387vcrt9hibuu_fENCUHWZ-7ZxDum6jVu7PX9a-cyAZVMaJM3HCuhOTMeCjuP6O2d61m3p23OjmgkWvidu9QHoQOFw2_VD64a-SuyCBpuLlyIFi8CYMmzAiDNzpBrtTV4R1VtOjHYBFiqJYP/s2173/memorialday06%20022%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1349" data-original-width="2173" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchfSwjUEc5f0wKfZ7zZlXyBkXRdtDmyPmN1Hd7jDst1NS387vcrt9hibuu_fENCUHWZ-7ZxDum6jVu7PX9a-cyAZVMaJM3HCuhOTMeCjuP6O2d61m3p23OjmgkWvidu9QHoQOFw2_VD64a-SuyCBpuLlyIFi8CYMmzAiDNzpBrtTV4R1VtOjHYBFiqJYP/s320/memorialday06%20022%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>On hazy West Virginia summer evenings, a group of cousins, soiled with sweat and dirt from a hard day's play, would sit on the porch and sing along to Alabama's "Roll On 18-Wheeler," an homage to my ruggedly handsome truck-driving Uncle Fred, whose rig income eventually bankrolled his family's horse-racing business in the northern panhandle. In the morning, the order of events was eggs and pancakes, then grain buckets and pony-catching. <p></p><p>Just last week, en route to dinner in my hometown, I showed my two wide-eyed little boys the highway-adjacent valley where my cousins and I would emerge after riding bareback through the woods. It was a rare moment in which my children perceived me<i> </i>outside the constraints of dreaded schedules and rules (which I resent as much as they do, if they only knew) and saw the me who has actually savored freedom. As the valley began to disappear in my rear view, I promised myself to remember to savor it again, and again. </p><p>Three weeks from the day marking my 47th year of life, I'm an eager student of the girl I once was. When I couldn't have my own horse because I lived in the city, I didn't abandon my passion; I reimagined it. I drew horses. Daydreamed about them. Wrote about them. Ordered them from the JC Penney Christmas catalog. Devoured Misty of Chincoteague and The Black Stallion books. Treasured overnight stays at Aunt Kathy's where bridles and buckets lay waiting. </p><p>If we aren't careful, and most of us aren't, adulthood will convince us to believe lies about who we are and what we're capable of. Although my life's path has done a bang-up job of taking me away from the little girl who instinctively understood what was worth holding onto, her lessons are still within reach—if I accept what's at the heart of it. </p><p>On a recent workday distraction scroll, I came across this: <i>May you find a love that radically accepts the parts of you that you're still working on.</i> It might mean romantic love or it might mean autogenous love, or it might mean both. It's a morsel of light worth letting in. </p><div><br /></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-78646950177601562222023-06-10T19:03:00.013-05:002024-02-24T19:04:34.441-06:00Vintage and Vantage: A Saturday Story<div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div dir="auto"><span id="docs-internal-guid-72cab6cd-7fff-387b-434f-0eaa861805fb"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">I began the day at the farmers market, underwhelmed by the offerings but quickly reminding myself that every disappointment is one perspective shift away from satisfaction. I bought what I needed and didn’t find what I wanted </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: x-small; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">that I didn’t need in the first place</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"> and left at peace with the outcome. </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">At the art walk, I found a badass vintage suede jacket with fringe detail that fit.me.like.a.glove. A smooth, sexy glove that you wear with tight pants and a bad attitude. Although the price was right, my budget said Nope. Deep breaths. Walk away. Only to come upon a table full of vintage rings with chunky gems and turquoise. The kind I’ve been looking for. Budget was not budging. Same inhale-walk away-exhale scenario. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Walking away from vintage is like walking away from love. Both require a little bit of guts, a little bit of acknowledging one's own bare (financial or emotional) budget. As for how it goes down: One will sting precisely in the moment you stomp past the point of purchase, while the other is more of a dull ache. In both cases, you'll be okay. Because you'll never walk away from anything or anyone you can't live without.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">After I recovered from unrequited vintage love and walked boldly into Acceptance, I took Jezebel, my German Shepherd rescue, for a walk around the lake. Going into the water was a loud and clear <i>hell to the no</i>, but she did very well around some new people and new dogs. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;">Despite my complicated nature, it really doesn’t take much to make my heart happy — and 80 pounds of Very Good Girl did it today.</span></p><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></div></span></div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP__6YbfOfZntzCbwEr_4sbslEKYysAaOzzF9RUr1Qh65DDDOV9JzmApulAZao28VsihBRAO1iKP5AwmGapnlVR-8LL9JmEjgjYFGNhfd-X4xDn3N8bOIoDLLG51tPD7LJP5ExJ3C1RP083uESFslh8NCZQsLAZXpTLtWa8xVuVsRafTyFinlUtjH8LA/s519/IMG_8977.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="518" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP__6YbfOfZntzCbwEr_4sbslEKYysAaOzzF9RUr1Qh65DDDOV9JzmApulAZao28VsihBRAO1iKP5AwmGapnlVR-8LL9JmEjgjYFGNhfd-X4xDn3N8bOIoDLLG51tPD7LJP5ExJ3C1RP083uESFslh8NCZQsLAZXpTLtWa8xVuVsRafTyFinlUtjH8LA/s320/IMG_8977.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-2309380692410610262023-05-12T13:09:00.005-05:002023-05-12T16:48:35.539-05:00'My Angry Vagina' All Grown Up: Happy Mother's Day Edition<p>This is 10cm, aka fully dilated. As far as I know, this has happened to me twice, although only the lucky ones on the business end of my body actually witnessed this sci-fi situation. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedOx_pbVPZjp9LCR_L_VvxwmwIEQz7j39viJDx1fa7TJDpvxWOHxjrZ-awLBJ-S2XfAwYFdQXkAbfbpqEbjhCB1DgKMtYY-qBBvQ-IXGys6gr_NIy37yLEk2F_hSIcO05M9WHpkpQSeowrqLT__LLG6Pscvb1OqXcbMJTgG390OofWMifPHRrZ02nig/s634/12447356-6937621-image-a-64_1555612378658.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="634" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedOx_pbVPZjp9LCR_L_VvxwmwIEQz7j39viJDx1fa7TJDpvxWOHxjrZ-awLBJ-S2XfAwYFdQXkAbfbpqEbjhCB1DgKMtYY-qBBvQ-IXGys6gr_NIy37yLEk2F_hSIcO05M9WHpkpQSeowrqLT__LLG6Pscvb1OqXcbMJTgG390OofWMifPHRrZ02nig/s320/12447356-6937621-image-a-64_1555612378658.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>I had two c-sections. Both were unplanned, meaning I fully dilated and pushed but couldn't deliver. Basically, I experienced the pain of both types of birth. Pain for the sake of trying. Very me. </p><p>When I was carrying my first child, I had a midwife and planned an unmedicated vaginal birth. Life had a good laugh at that plan and then strapped me like a kidnapped snow angel onto an operating table in a room bright enough to blind Gabriel himself. </p><p>With my second son, I managed my expectations a bit better. The goal was simply a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). After I pushed for two hours, my doc—who'd been watching football in the background while occasionally glancing at my gaping crotch—called a forfeit, I ugly cried, and the nurses wheeled me and my since-dearly departed big boobs off to the OR where a kind anesthesiologist put me out of my misery and I woke up just in time to meet Baby Big Head. </p><p>I refused narcotics after both surgeries, not because I'm a hero but because 1. I have a historically high tolerance for BS, such as anxious ruminations, frenzied productivity, jealous and/or duplicitous "friends," and physical pain; and 2. I get big-time What Ifs about medication side effects. </p><p>Looking back, I no longer get the allure of unmedicated birth. I wanted it with my first baby because mostly What If, but also the internet said it’s a badge of honor. As far as badges go, I've been a Girl Scout with an unadorned sash, an Outback Steakhouse server sans boomerang pins, and an 18-year copywriting pro with no awards. I don't need the validation. </p><p>Childbirth is incredibly painful, and I don't see how fully experiencing that pain fits into a "beautiful experience." Women go through enough pain with periods, PMS, hormones, mammograms, pelvic exams, post-birth hemorrhoids and otherworldly constipation, sleep deprivation, and an endless list of exciting changes during pre- and post-menopause, not to mention enduring lifetime possession of an orifice that holds more power than the entire opus of male achievement yet historically has taken power away from us. So there's no good reason to add "delivery room warrior" to the list. Unless you really want to. Do you. </p><p>Last night, as I pried open my sleepy eyelids to scour the internet for Mother's Day brunch side dishes as I'd promised my mom, Resentment tapped me on the shoulder. Our conversation went like this: </p><p>R: Aren't you mad that you and your mom are cooking your own Mothers Day meal? </p><p>Me: Do we have to do this now? I'm not regular tired but spaced-out zombie tired. </p><p>R: I'll wait. </p><p>Me: Fine, whatever. No, it's not my favorite idea, but my mother will never get on board with my vision of a Mother's Day that puts the onus of planning and execution on someone else, be that a partner or a child or a restaurant with a menu whose empty carbs are like a lap dancer ruining the innocence of my clean diet. My mom is old fashioned when it comes to domestic roles, but she's Mike Tyson when it comes to defending her principles, and although her legs are a full foot longer than mine, her never-back-down genes are a perfect fit.</p><p>Resentment conceded the debate, and I went on to have something resembling a night of sleep, if by “sleep” we’re talking dozing off between bouts of existential angst, which I consider part of my charm, and if you don’t, I’ve got a book of matches for that bridge. Today, I awoke with the realization that it’s not me filled with ire about the tribulations of womanhood. It’s My Angry Vagina. </p><p>That’s not the one connected to my body but the one speaking in Eve Ensler’s 1996 play, The Vagina Monologues, which I proudly recited in my only acting class ever, at West Virginia University circa 2002. My Angry Vagina has had enough of women being held down, literally and figuratively. Me too, although I still very much enjoy men, sometimes even amidst the annoyance of their typical maleness. How could I not when I was raised by a father who is my hero? How could I not when I'm raising two boys? How could I not for the sake of being a human capable of critical thinking.</p><p>It feels strange to proclaim that I’m pro-woman, seeing as I’ve been a woman all of my life and, so, shouldn’t that be a given? Except it isn’t. Generational paradigms and cultural norms are powerful. As are the will and the voices of women like me. Rather than stay angry, I prefer to vent through essays and juicy conversations, living life on my terms, and helping younger women discover their voice. </p><p>Happy Mother’s Day, my friends. Take good care of you. </p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-9740481731088448362023-05-05T08:56:00.008-05:002023-05-05T10:46:34.307-05:00Dear America, It's Time to Turn the Channel<p><br /></p><p><i>Do you think this is bullying? </i></p><p>The message arrived in my DMs from an old friend. If my social media inboxes are any indication, my opinion is valuable to quite a few people, although all bets are off if I’ve given birth to you or dated you. I get it; I’m better in theory. It’s not a bad place to be good, especially if you can get paid for it. </p><p> The thing in question was a screenshot of a Facebook post by a man with whom I have three things in common: a hometown, a mutual family member, and an ugly disagreement. I don’t require anyone to agree with me, but I do expect tact and self-control. In his case, those qualities didn’t get the invitation to his genetic-makeup party, but it appears Irrational Aggression arrived early and stayed late. </p><p>His post that sparked my friend’s DM is a photo of what appears to be a young man dressed in women’s clothing at the local Target. While putting this young person in danger and making unfounded assumptions about their danger to women and children in bathrooms, he made sure to proclaim that he does not hate “these people.” Okay, easy peasy. I’ll go next: From here on out, despite the bills in my name, I proclaim that I am debt free. I’ll keep you posted on how that plays out. </p><p>Although I don’t think highly of my hometown compatriot, I’m not here to degrade him. He did a wrong thing, but he is no less loved by whomever loves him, and taking him down would be instant gratification to no productive end. For my purposes, he’s simply a reflection of this country’s current temperament.</p><p>There is no evidence that trans people are a menace to women and children. Yet millions of Americans believe it anyway because we digest our judgments like we do memes: face value, no context. How do we know when we see a weirdo? They look weird! Easy peasy. It’s much more convenient to point out a trans person than a straight man who is overwhelmingly a greater threat, as evidenced by stats on rape, pedophilia, sexual assault, serial murder, domestic violence, and mass shootings. It’s easier to point to the LGBTQ+ community as the ruination of the family than to look in the mirror at causes that have been around for eons, like sky-high hetero divorce rates, addiction, and absent fathers. </p><p>While I don’t believe trans women in women’s bathrooms pose a clear danger, I do believe the issue isn’t cut and dried. My urge to consider the complexity of our our socio-cultural paradigm shifts has earned me ire from both sides. Because I believe marriage is between whomever wants to be married, I’ve been degraded for being an ally. Because I’ve asked earnest, difficult questions about how we should arrange our world according to gender fluidity, I’ve been deleted for being “unsafe” to the LGBTQ+ community. Apparently I “offend everyone equally,” and while I don’t wear that description as a badge of honor as some do, I’m simply navigating the world in my own skin. If we are to accept people as they are, that includes me, whose thought process tends to straddle the line between empathy and reason. For label’s sake, I call myself a humanist, and to up the ante of complexity, a Christian humanist who exists on the fringe of her own faith. </p><p>As a Christian, I’m supposed to follow a list of rules, which can be quite long if all opinions count. Some of the rules reflect the life and times of a certain carpenter while others reflect the ego and fears of certain Christians. </p><p>Lists can be satisfying, if you’re me. I get a triple dose of dopamine from writing, organizing, and aspiring on paper (or a screen). If I’m not making the list myself, all I ask is for logic and brevity. My mind has squirrel-like reflexes, and one false move will send me straight up a tree. </p><p>My list as a Christian doesn’t include any rules about whom I should fear on Earth, such as a (possibly) trans woman minding their own business in Target. However, life on Earth being far from paradise, fear finds its way to all of us. For me, it embodies exactly one thing: men. Straight men, to be precise. It’s a fear all women live with, consciously or subconsciously, every day of their lives. Straight men are why we lock our doors. Why we can’t walk anywhere we want at any time we want. Why we can’t end relationships. Why apartment janitors with master keys are suspect. And so on, and on. It’s an inordinately long list that sends us all up a tree. </p><p>Fear should be used wisely. If I were making the list of what constitutes danger, it would not include the LGBTQ+ community, and while I'm at it, racial-sensitivity education and books. Yet millions of Americans have targeted all of the above with a life-or-death ferocity. </p><p>America has become a network playing all fear, all the time. It’s time to turn the channel. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzyW3KMuoeTXP7MKNG9FM1h6dEoouMDe4bT3mVxGhTNt12Tv8dRPWsOuGPeeDKCVYVTeL3yVWq_-s7qCh7iE_8LadVfXWFBKUoJZT4TsRl9e7UpWhXbh4gXewB3EvWR7I6FMcD4tWNYAPsygHHs7PtjAZQEvkL2ASritDNtshd_Hrspp35XRA2W2-sw/s6417/pexels-karolina-grabowska-5202927.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6417" data-original-width="4278" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzyW3KMuoeTXP7MKNG9FM1h6dEoouMDe4bT3mVxGhTNt12Tv8dRPWsOuGPeeDKCVYVTeL3yVWq_-s7qCh7iE_8LadVfXWFBKUoJZT4TsRl9e7UpWhXbh4gXewB3EvWR7I6FMcD4tWNYAPsygHHs7PtjAZQEvkL2ASritDNtshd_Hrspp35XRA2W2-sw/w310-h320/pexels-karolina-grabowska-5202927.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-68375166618468734032023-03-20T14:08:00.007-05:002023-03-21T08:12:56.999-05:00Gentle Parenting and Rogue Hippos: The Battles We Don't Choose<p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I bought Twinkies. The horror.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It's a first in my home. One of my children has never had a Twinkie and is perpetually frustrated about his friends' fun-filled cold lunches vs. his healthy box of misery.</span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">You know how hippos can't swim but can tear through a lake at top speed in pursuit of a tour boat? Most of the time, the hippo, although relentless by nature, decides that a fiberglass box full of dumb Americans isn’t worth its energy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I'm becoming that hippo. A little.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">So I assessed the value of my energy and bought the Terrible Twinks.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> To assuage my gag reflex, I made a rule. No Twunk-a-dunk shall be consumed in the house. They're for cold-lunch peer-pressure purposes only. </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Of all the creamy, dreamy desserts in the world, kids pick the ones that don't look good (what happened to eating with our eyes?), much less entertain the taste buds. I don’t get it.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I'm too good for a packaged chemical cake injected with whipped oil. Not sorry.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">My diet is 90% longevity, 10% let the good times roll. I want the the real deal when I'm eating "sometimes foods." I learned this term from a TikTok gentle parent who says we should not label foods as "healthy" or "unhealthy" because that creates bad associations in our children's minds, to which I retort, <i>Isn't that the point?</i><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Example</span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Snorting cocaine: unhealthy. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Drinking water: healthy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="Apple-converted-space">No? No?</span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">From my own archive of parenting experience, I suggest that it’s not certain words but certain personalities that determine our children's reactions. If a child is inherently oppositional, they'll build a dam. If a child is inherently laid back, they’ll hitch a ride with the next raft and go with the flow.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">There is such a thing as too much focus on healthy food. It's called orthorexia. I'm pretty sure I had it when I was a young, free, and unwrinkled 20-something. Then I realized it was holding me back from one of the simplest yet most fulfilling pastimes in my life: going out to eat with friends. So that was that, and 20-some years later, I became a mother who unapologetically talks about health with her children but does not begrudge them, or herself, of the occasional culinary indulgence. I recognize the value of discretion, but being expected to tiptoe around simple words like "healthy" and "unhealthy" is a bridge too far. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">It’s not that I’m against gentle parenting entirely. Do it when it makes sense. It doesn’t always.</span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The rules are conflicting.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Like so: Teach your children that bodily autonomy means they don’t have to hug anyone they don’t want to, not even Uncle Billy who’s super sweet even though he smells like ham and bean soup, but don’t dare tell them Twinkies are unhealthy, because nutritional terminology is too much for their developing prefrontal cortex.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Don’t I love it when a cultural trend makes a complicated woman like me look easy like Sunday morning.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I’m not suggesting we go back to the days when children were seen and not heard, when a child expressing an emotion was deemed “disrespectful,” when children were expected to fall in line or else. What I like about gentle parenting is that it’s a reality check. It reminds us that it is our reactions, not our children’s obedience, that determines the health of the household.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">The problem with gentle parenting is the problem with just about everything in this particular cultural moment in time: It goes too far. I see underpinnings of fear. It’s the MAGA maniac of parenting: “Do it this way or we’re all doomed!”</span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I’m in the Feel It Out crowd. That means if my kid kicks me, I’m more likely to give a consequence than a hug. It means that in one case, I might explain a decision to my child, but in another, my answer might be <i>When you pay the bills, you can make your own rules</i>.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">There are myriad ways to raise children with love.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Do your thing, gentle parents. I’ll be over here passing out Twinkies in exchange for hugs.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">Just kidding. Don’t come for me. </span></span><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">I might go rogue and eat your boat.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: trebuchet;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtgDL5KL1aNIBEM6EIZHDKFXvGIGRo9izWlKW9m6_XVToeDI-UMqEbHMF3IQ3nf29YKXyzOlXMEROArYyMZZO-dQETzpICFZoVOXN13xFEe8jDgucldLxnpLPbQpkrBwmNwGrGni5Sbz0W9DqHzkKOZJgltfyiaFz1ob24vGD4oJxUFbHS7AhHdqnUQ/s2900/pexels-pixabay-46540.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1985" data-original-width="2900" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMtgDL5KL1aNIBEM6EIZHDKFXvGIGRo9izWlKW9m6_XVToeDI-UMqEbHMF3IQ3nf29YKXyzOlXMEROArYyMZZO-dQETzpICFZoVOXN13xFEe8jDgucldLxnpLPbQpkrBwmNwGrGni5Sbz0W9DqHzkKOZJgltfyiaFz1ob24vGD4oJxUFbHS7AhHdqnUQ/w410-h219/pexels-pixabay-46540.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><br /><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: trebuchet;"><br /></span><p></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-31707422287990190752023-03-11T14:21:00.010-06:002024-02-19T10:51:07.844-06:00The Women Who Made MeThe nineteen-eighties. Two Catholic septuagenarians, sisters, lived together in Clarksburg, WV's own Little Italy, the Glen Elk neighborhood adjacent to the city's once-thriving downtown. Theirs was an average white-sided two-story house, skinny in structure yet stuffed to the brim with love and language. As a child, I spent many Saturday nights with Nanni and Aunt Philomena, aka Phyl, watching their rituals of Italian tradition, like baking fat galette cookies at Christmas or braiding loaves of Easter bread called <i>moo-cha-lah-ta, </i>and learning the dialect handed down from their first-generation parents fresh from San Giovanni in Fiore, Cosenza province, Calabria, Italy. <div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Ben-a-dee-kuh! Tu sei bella! </i>Nanni would exclaim while cupping my soft, pale face surrounded by tar-black curls.<i> Ohh zen-yoo-dah! </i>Aunt Phyl would utter in a low rasp when something was awry, which was often, although the degree of emergency varied widely. It could be a newly discovered speck of dirt in their home whose cleanliness was a testament to the "immaculate" in Immaculate Conception Church, which they attended each Sunday, my dutiful father playing taxi driver. Or it was the clamor of the beer garden next door, built like a dachshund, long and low to the ground and just as yappy.<div><br /></div><div>Next door to their left was another average white-sided two-story, its wide structure diametrically opposed to its slight occupant called Wild Fee, a bearded biker who went from feral to familial when it came to his teetotalling old-lady neighbors. Across the street was a defunct Coca-Cola factory that allowed enough room on the block for just one other building. Coca Cola's neighbor stood with its back to the soda plant and its face to the main thoroughfare where customers would enter the Italian version of a general store, dominated by garlic, capicola, and a squat, gap-toothed, wiry-haired grandmother: Miss Oliverio, whose bottom half on the stool beneath her resembled a mushroom cap overshadowing its stem.<br />
<br />
Until the skinny house between Wild Fee and the beer garden burned down, it was one of few domiciles dominating my early childhood. Another being my grandfather Dante's apartment just a few blocks away. Dante Costello was a small man with a big temper who excelled at grandfathering—he taught me to dunk anise-flavored biscotti in sugary, extra-creamy coffee; produced quarters from behind my ears and magically removed and replaced his own thumb; kept me and my brother in line with his invisible accomplice called <i>Foosh Navus </i>who, like Santa, kept a log of our behavior<i>. </i>Nanni lived with her hot-to-the-touch husband until she could live no more. By most measures, Mary Margaret (Oliveto) Costello was not a bold woman, yet she left her husband who did not respect her, an extraordinary act in those days. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how long Nanni had lived with Aunt Phyl before their home caught fire. It started in the bar next door and spread sideways, stopping short of Wild Fee's because even fire knew better than to mess with him. Nanni and Aunt Phyl never returned to the narrow house where I first learned that rosaries should hang from bed posts and that chamomile is pronounced <i>ga-ga-mee-la</i> if you're a proper West Virginia Italian.<br />
<br />Glen Elk, as well as the entire city of Clarksburg and neighboring cities of Bridgeport and Fairmont, is saturated with families of Italian lineage nearly universally traced to the same province in southern Italy. Most outsiders wouldn't know that, because a far more prominent narrative dominates the state, one that focuses not on our rich heritage but instead on the low-hanging fruit: grammatically challenged, overweight, under-educated, and easily manipulated, West Virginians have nothing to add to the national dialogue. While I lament the lack of progress and the tribalism in my home state, I also know another West Virginia: a place of moody hemlock forests and stout waterfalls, a homeland to heritage chefs, grassroots arts, and the kind of friends who will carry you through. </div><div><br /></div><div>Back in 2006, Governor Joe Manchin tried to lure newcomers to the state with new signage. "West Virginia: Open for Business" had about as much success as the horny hippie who tried to pick me up in a Memphis bar by telling me he had a snake in his pants, to which I replied, <i>I don't go out with pentecostals</i>. Both were cases of poor marketing. A catchy tagline will only get you so far. West Virginia consistently ranks as one of the top <i>worst </i>places for business. Great marketing doesn't create illusions; it makes connections. An impossible feat when people believe you don't have anything to offer. What's the fix? People who care, people with vision, people with collateral. I'm two of those three. There are others who are just like me. Show us the money. </div><div><br />A stone's throw from Glen Elk where my dad grew up, my mom's family occupied an old two-story farmhouse just outside city limits, on the wrong side of the tracks, aka East View. Mom was one of 20-some children born to my grandfather and 17 born to my grandmother. My granddad, Aubrey, was at least 20 years older than Grandma. He died when I was three; all I know of him comes from family recollections and photographs. Tall, lanky, stern, and hard-working, he owned a welding shop where his sons and then their sons tamed fire-breathing sticks to pay the bills. When Pap came home from a long day at work, his children were not permitted to bother him even though his wife had her own long day at home. His daughters weren't allowed to go to town without a brother as chaperone. All of his children inherited his pale blue eyes, and most of them the puffy bags beneath. </div><div><br /></div><div>My grandmother Helen was a small woman rounded off by a widow's hump and sharpened by an unfiltered tongue. She spent her life caring for and being cared for by various children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who called her farmhouse, dubbed "the green house," home for some period in their life, for over three decades. It wasn't easy to get close to Grandma Helen. She was a woman of few words; plus there were just so many people vying for her time. In her absence and in my own overstimulated-mom presence, I have questions: <i>Gram, did you want that many kids? Did you and Pap ever have fun together? Did you have dreams? </i>I can't fathom her answers. I doubt she'd have any. Neither Grandma nor Nanni was the confessional type. I think it's a generational thing, one that skipped even my parents' generation and then landed soundly on mine. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUY3gWvmQW2Ymd1DN97suzcDityihJx2Nc4o8tgSVzZRvFZ7Svpci4vscY8VoF2mAXWKWRehjAptaFo3zV6o_6G3y8oOlth0d0IGKT4d9OFxgySI35a8KPoc2VSfAGR-CW7uIFxuqQpLInVFSBK0vLH_iJNGqyVEsUy0XA2H_Lirg8fgoR8ism3fdVw/s1800/IMG_8181.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1202" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUY3gWvmQW2Ymd1DN97suzcDityihJx2Nc4o8tgSVzZRvFZ7Svpci4vscY8VoF2mAXWKWRehjAptaFo3zV6o_6G3y8oOlth0d0IGKT4d9OFxgySI35a8KPoc2VSfAGR-CW7uIFxuqQpLInVFSBK0vLH_iJNGqyVEsUy0XA2H_Lirg8fgoR8ism3fdVw/w239-h320/IMG_8181.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>When I think about my grandmothers' lives, it's hard to see past their circumstance to reveal the person. Who were they before they became somebody's wife? Before they became smaller under the dominance of men who couldn't do better because they didn't know better. Did their lives allow the luxury of self-reflection? Although I remember my Nanoo Dante very fondly, I'm still proud that Nanni Mary left him. I suspect it was more pragmatic than purpose driven, and that had to be enough for her. Grandma Helen was a study in the ties that bind. She took care of her husband in their home until he died, and her children took care of her, never leaving her side until she left them forever. </div><div><br /></div><div>Both of my grandmothers lived 92 years. Both stopped living in late winter, about five years apart. I don't know what they'd think of a woman like me, who has been dominated by purpose, not pragmatism; who is still learning how to tie a knot. Now an eternity apart from my grandmothers, I keep them close by telling their stories and mine. <br /></div></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-89671637280855157532023-02-09T14:13:00.011-06:002023-02-09T15:52:58.069-06:00Something To Chew On<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Last night I listened to Dax Shepard's Armchair Expert podcast, as I do most nights while cooking dinner, a meal that has designated me a reluctant short-order cook for children who approach the table as if being forced to walk the plank. Have I tried forcing them to take bites? Yes, for years. Have I made them sit at the table for up to 45 minutes? Yes. Have I also tried the gentle-parent route, like nonchalantly introducing new foods at the prescribed rate of, what is it, 20 times? Yep. Invite them to help with cooking? Indeed. Maybe "Make tasks fun!" works for your kids. Mine are too cynical, for which part of me salutes them.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRlUYB3Wml5tw9xBJ4bGrlwJO_AqC6d4llpjyztWaIvuUiI0ajS2yGYxq1p5F99lC-f_lgFZ-amYwcVA50ovzk-cR6W1EJwRioxxer-l6hwxYbFvcJuEKfbnHbxTNRQvyx9s3nU77tgfOwldQNcpBSqEjY8ZaQiTA-N9yYOzkUpDt0YdWudYyvVis6g/s4032/IMG_5187.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieRlUYB3Wml5tw9xBJ4bGrlwJO_AqC6d4llpjyztWaIvuUiI0ajS2yGYxq1p5F99lC-f_lgFZ-amYwcVA50ovzk-cR6W1EJwRioxxer-l6hwxYbFvcJuEKfbnHbxTNRQvyx9s3nU77tgfOwldQNcpBSqEjY8ZaQiTA-N9yYOzkUpDt0YdWudYyvVis6g/w240-h287/IMG_5187.jpg" width="240" /><br /></a></div></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Suffice it to say, trying all the tries at dinner time hasn't helped. So now I settle on cooking meals my boys are somewhat willing to eat or, in lieu, feeding them whatever soul-less victuals they'll happily chew on. If you run a tight ship where your kids eat what you cook without complaint, high five. I've decided that over here, we're pirates. And I'm the chaotic crew leader with the coolest outfit. </span></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On an unseasonably warm Wednesday eve, in my pirate mess hall deep in the hills of West Virginia, I listened to Dax as usual, while he went about being an intriguing mix of masculine, feminine, brainy, macho, insecure, and confident, as usual. I especially appreciate his confessional nature. The man isn't afraid to call himself out, not necessarily in the moment but certainly in hindsight. Am I romanticizing him? Of course. Calm down. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Know him or not, Dax Shepard is clearly a man willing to be vulnerable. I embrace it, not only when it comes from men but also anyone alive and endeavoring to be more fully so. Vulnerability tends to be a defining quality in the people I keep close.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"> </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlhOvHO3pvgVjWBfs_nBTYCOpLIgr17YcrsnwEoPwdIk-Hxa9grp5huw7MBLREWJiyMXln5-B_YQ0MYvA8hdiLd2XD23pgRtvO8jd6RdOtizoivZN3Hl1_ZIHQJ-7BpWvA4UJ7wsfULvZ8mo04DtPgHxl5hmsPLY8AlYQ95d5tbSgW02968JNedVNTA/s4032/IMG_6274.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYlhOvHO3pvgVjWBfs_nBTYCOpLIgr17YcrsnwEoPwdIk-Hxa9grp5huw7MBLREWJiyMXln5-B_YQ0MYvA8hdiLd2XD23pgRtvO8jd6RdOtizoivZN3Hl1_ZIHQJ-7BpWvA4UJ7wsfULvZ8mo04DtPgHxl5hmsPLY8AlYQ95d5tbSgW02968JNedVNTA/w240-h336/IMG_6274.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Culturally, we excoriate vulnerability, equating it with emotional fragility. But vulnerability isn't one-dimensional. There is confident vulnerability. It's in the way we talk about ourselves. It comes from matter-of-fact assertions, not self-defeating ones. It's owning our BS, not letting it own us. It's the ability to use our foibles not to center ourselves but to invite others to participate in a conversation. Dax does that well, one of many reasons I enjoy his podcast.<span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> </span></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: helvetica;">Cultural norms tell us to perceive reticence as confidence. I've fallen into that trap at times. Then better judgment rushes in to remind me that we all have concerns about our performance in life whether we talk about it or not.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While I understand that not all of us are designed to be expressive, I can't help but feel distrustful of people who don't open up.</span></div><p class="p2" style="font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On an older episode of Armchair Expert, the guest (a sociologist? psychologist?) said that the happiest people are those who maintain deeply connected relationships. In my travels from city to city and state to state from 18-34 years old, this proved painfully true. Not staying in one place for long, I didn’t have the opportunity to establish consistent bonds. Unbeknownst to me in the midst of my adventures, that inconsistency gave way to a big void once I settled down. What I know from my travels is that we all need people, whether we admit it or not. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Is it possible to maintain deeply connected relationships without opening up? At the helm of my domestic pirate ship, I see no reason to cross that sea. </span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-72950230635201623162023-01-29T15:00:00.012-06:002024-02-20T12:58:03.369-06:00Where No One Else Can See<p>I started back to in-person church a few weeks ago. I'm feeling sinusy today, so I watched at home. </p><p>The guest speaker came from California. He told stories, which is one of my five love languages. The other four are encrypted and I’ve lost the code. He said he was a wild child at a very young age, so much so that his parents kept him, and not his siblings, on a literal leash. Before I had kids, I'd roll my eyes at parents with kid leashes. Then I had kids and discovered that two arms are insufficient, so I joined the club. A kid leash eliminates that super-fun adrenaline rush of chasing your kid out of oncoming traffic, I get it, but I've always preferred my thrills in the form of naughty carbohydrates and men with puffy lips. </p><p>Guest Speaker said Christians should shine their light — not as in bashing people over the head with the Bible and the fires of Hell — but as in living lives of dedication and grace. Although he's not the pastor of my church, this morning he mirrored the vibe that has kept me there: funny, relatable, calm. </p><p>It's as if the pastors at my church know a lot about human nature: They understand that telling people how bad they are generally doesn't compel change. What does? Personal desire first. Then patience, kindness, information, and support. </p><p>At my church, ego doesn't rule. I think it does at many churches headed by men who believe it's their God-appointed duty to tell people all about how terrible the world is and who's out to get them and why we're all doomed. </p><p>"But we have to tell people about Hell!" </p><p><i>Okay, sure. But do you have to do it based on your personal perception of our world? I vote no. I don't trust you. </i></p><p>"But I've been given divine inspiration!"</p><p><i>Sounds great. Still don't trust you.</i> </p><p>When my pastor says God has spoken to him, funny how it's never about how liberals are evil and the government is trying to off us and the gays are trying to take over. It's merely — and monumentally — about a relationship with Jesus. </p><p>"Well, he's wrong! He's not delivering THE WORD."</p><p><i>Hmm. </i></p><p>So, I learned something during my evil liberal indoctrination in college, in literature courses that — close your eyes for this part, haters — expanded my aptitude for critical thinking: There are myriad ways to deliver a message. Some folks are drawn to the tidiness of flash fiction. Or the subtlety of poetry. The relatability of a nonfiction essay. And so on. Same goes for church messaging. </p><p>Unless dude is up there channeling Jim Jones or David Koresh or David Duke, then it seems reasonable to live and let live. God will take care of the rest. </p><p>From my perch high up on this Appalachian hill, I see angry rioting Christians consumed by their desire for control. Control being a favorite instrument of fear. Fear being a thing God doesn't want in our lives. I should know; my worrisome, busy brain loves nothing more than to hand me a list of things I should control. But God dropped a gift into the mix: I'm not freaked out about our world crumbling to pieces. We'll be okay. </p><p>What constitutes a "good" Christian? I'm talking about Christianity as in relationship with Jesus. I get that it can get weird. Some aspects of my chosen faith make me uncomfortable. Three weeks ago at church, a woman was up front doing the Jesus version of a stoner hippie dance. </p><p><i>Really, God? Not on my first day back. Also, Noah's Ark – it's a parable, not literal, right?</i> </p><p>My personal FAQ list to God aside, what keeps me in place is simplicity: I believe there's a higher power. I believe God is love and grace and peace. I know that doesn't explain why bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people. That’s a moot point anyway — “good” and “bad” are impossible to define. When we tell our stories of hurt or disappointment, the natural arc leads us to create a bad guy. I’m certain I’m the bad guy for somebody out there, even if my intentions, from my own protagonist’s view, were good. </p><p>Our personal narratives are complicated. The fixer in me wants peace with all of the people in my personal orbit, which is not only impossible but also the wrong way to look at it. Peace is not between me and another person; it’s between me and God. Intimacy has always been my cross to bear. I’m not talking sex here — I mean vulnerability between two people whether it’s romantic or platonic. I either get it really right or really wrong. Aside from the confusion and facepalm moments it causes, I do my best to exhale and accept that it’s part of who I am. And hey, I’ll take it over being caught up in conspiracy hysteria and rejecting my neighbor because of how they love or worship or look. </p><p>I don’t sweat the societal shifts of this world that I cannot control. Thanks for that, God. The packaging leaves something to be desired, but the gift keeps on giving. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5tVSD0AztTdhAO-M4bJgVWeThyeieaepCDyASP3tFoxMtUw6psEMWKnFXsbWL0LxBrqfv7kP2x8z1dhBFSB8chO9m8TFd8eJFfYIpsJKLFiC0cWXB133WDhgWFReFwT3xlhntsvCcruR3-vizO8bIN5ZMnNgjtgD60P3hamLpTjYKI0b33pBXmt3LQ/s6000/pexels-andrei-tanase-1271620.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5tVSD0AztTdhAO-M4bJgVWeThyeieaepCDyASP3tFoxMtUw6psEMWKnFXsbWL0LxBrqfv7kP2x8z1dhBFSB8chO9m8TFd8eJFfYIpsJKLFiC0cWXB133WDhgWFReFwT3xlhntsvCcruR3-vizO8bIN5ZMnNgjtgD60P3hamLpTjYKI0b33pBXmt3LQ/w247-h333/pexels-andrei-tanase-1271620.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>After today's sermon, I thought about what makes a good Christian. Is it adhering to legalistic standards that create the appearance of piety? Some people do a great job of that. It's not my thing, but good for them, really. That's their journey. We each have one. While many Christians want that journey to be a conveyor belt, I believe it's a meandering path through the wilderness. Speaking of the great outdoors, if you know me, you know isolation is a hard no. So high five to God for allowing me to go glamping. <p></p><p></p><p>Me, I'm a no-good outward Christian. I blast worldly music to wake up my kids for school; last week it was Mary J. Blige, Common, Spoon, The Replacements, Erykah Badu. When I listen to my favorite podcast and the kids go "Ahhh! He said a bad word!" I tell them, "It's just a word, and it's his word, not yours"... although sometimes I'll let them say a bad word for fun. I sip from a water bottle in church because I don't believe reverence precludes hydration. I believe that kneeling on a football field and loving God are not mutually exclusive. The list goes on.</p><p>So what's the measure of being good at Christianity? My answer: the meditations of our heart. Our internal dialogue with God, where no one else can see, is what guides us. We'll never reach purity, but we can learn to put a leash on the reckless parts of our humanity. Keep them safe until they've grown.</p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-9396585768384539652023-01-15T00:54:00.012-06:002023-01-15T08:53:18.726-06:00Where We Begin<p>Today was all brooding clouds, freshly sharpened air, and small-but-mighty snowflakes. My kind of moody winter day. I’ve been on the couch for an obscene number of hours, watching movies while ghostwriting a book and writing thought-leadership articles. <i>Thought leadership</i>. A newfangled marketing term that means people like me get paid well to write articles that will get little to no play unless the SEO monster is placated. SEO is the enemy of good writing, so I'm grateful when clients don't expect me to write like a robot, even though it's not good for their end of the deal. </p><p>Between alternating bouts of inspiration and bottlenecks, I clicked around my social media accounts for a distraction or twenty. On my most recent scroll, my mood went south as a friend shared photos of a senior dog in bad shape. My friend runs the shelter where the dog had originally been adopted. The owners had passed the four-page application with flying colors, she said — and now they're about to be charged with animal cruelty. </p><p>For me, animals are historically linked to happiness. I grew up around lots of them. My family had a beagle, Cujo, his name courtesy of my big brother. For a very hot minute, we also had a pup that my brother named Coda after a Led Zeppelin album, but our parents made us give him back to whoever was passing out puppies near my grandma’s. Or maybe we found him a new home. I don't remember little Coda's exact fate, but I know he had a cool name for at least one afternoon of his life. </p><p>At Grandma's, where I spent a big chunk of my idyllic childhood, there were multiple dogs over the years — also horses, cows, and chickens that tended to occupy the field's "main stage" where delighted children would gather to adore them, or run from them if their name started with R and rhymed with "booster." Pigs lived at the far end of the field in a pen reinforced with corrugated steel. Ducks convened in the puddle that formed between the small red barn and the spot where the field began to form a rolling hillside. A few stray cats. Once a billy goat. They say representation is everything, and Grandma’s just-outside-city-limits farm provided a fine array of God’s creatures. </p><p>As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to believe it’s crucial to have a means of communing with Creation. Not being an outdoorsy person, I don’t accept Nature’s invitation to explore her body of work, which is home to Things That Poison and Bite, including homicidal snakes. I like looking at snakes, but not the sneaky kind. I like my snakes carrying signs like they’re waiting for me to deplane at the airport. My version of communing with Creation is not under the forest canopy but at the seaside or in the company of animals that occupy farms and homes. </p><p>This evening, as Pvt. Joker and I ended our micro-walk, which is all his 13-year-old arthritic legs can handle, he stopped short at the top of the cement steps that lead down to my house. Entitlement is part of his old-dude schtick nowadays. He stops, looks up at me with his glaucoma eyes, and stares until I respond. In fact, that's his usual way of telling me what he needs. It's a shot of <i>lovesweetlove</i> straight to my persnickety heart. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYbFLtpRferZN7P9s1Y726HauzIAWIbjKCum5pv0X82uc5YsLjjJi8eADNFreOR-aWeZpeLXGrH8wJx71Sy5I5KGlShZTDyoZ_cXBl1SxusdZG6ZiDuWWJlqfEYL_erEjG1GxS4rCW9h8nv5vJurvRI30IFLSmH2IpY9nCHa0ByhLEn8rTAgxvegnTQ/s4032/IMG_7831.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYbFLtpRferZN7P9s1Y726HauzIAWIbjKCum5pv0X82uc5YsLjjJi8eADNFreOR-aWeZpeLXGrH8wJx71Sy5I5KGlShZTDyoZ_cXBl1SxusdZG6ZiDuWWJlqfEYL_erEjG1GxS4rCW9h8nv5vJurvRI30IFLSmH2IpY9nCHa0ByhLEn8rTAgxvegnTQ/w243-h320/IMG_7831.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>At the end of each walk, I get in the proper stance so I don't end up in a Bridget Jones-esque disaster involving a nasty fall, a nearby pile of dog crap, and a lumbar injury: Squatting, not bending at the waist, I prepare for lift off and pick up nearly half my body weight, steadily carrying him down eight steps, down the sidewalk, and onto the front porch. All things considered, my 46-year-old bod might not be as ripped as she once was, but she's still doing me a solid. <p></p><p>Asked no one ever: Danielle, why do you love dogs so much? </p><p>Me: Because I've experienced coexisting with an animal, or a few, during difficult phases of my adult life. They have never let me down. I have a list of everyone else who has. </p><p>That list happens to include me. Luckily, since I have to live with me, I've opted not to give myself the No. 1 spot. Instead, I’m at the bottom. If you’re down with Jesus, it’s called <i>giving grace</i>. If you’re a guru, it’s called <i>self-care</i>. Near the top of that list are some fine disappointers, like the goofy coward that I thought I'd properly vetted as <i>safe for human dating</i> or the "best friend" who pretended she didn't see me at a bar when she was with another friend who had decided to hate me. I don't know what I'd done to offend her, but the options are fewer than the dollars in my bank account back in those days. Very few. She could’ve given me some grace, but my guess is she didn't have enough to go around. I recognized her tough-girl facade early on. After all, I think it was obvious that my biggest “offense” was being a wanderer in search of community (albeit sometimes in the wrong places). Maybe it looked differently to her from the outside in. Maybe she didn’t care regardless, because self-preservation is a wily beast. </p><p>Each time I’ve disembarked from disappointment in this untamed life of mine, I’ve arrived back at my safe place: me and my dogs. </p><p>When I encounter an act of animal cruelty, I’m tempted to wonder why anyone would get a dog if they don’t love dogs. I already know the answer: Humans are a mess. There’s a seemingly uncountable number of people who’ll get a pet without actually caring about what happens to it. It's more like an accessory that looks cute today but will lose its appeal and end up discarded. And because I have exposure to rescue through my own volunteer work and a big handful of friends who do the real work — at shelters and in the trenches — I take animal welfare seriously. </p><p>There’s no perfect pet owner. Sometimes I forget to fill my dogs’ water bowl. I don’t walk them enough. They have tartar buildup. I don’t even practice affirmations with them or ask them about their feelings. What I do is provide a baseline of humane care with a sprinkle of conscientiousness, a dash of training, and a shitload of affection. If we could just get more people to do the first on that list, we’d spare a lot of grief for God’s creatures and the people tasked with rescuing them.</p><p>I don’t have all the answers for making a more humane world, but I have a feeling self-preservation isn't one of them. Internal grace is where we begin. </p><p><br /></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-32229249144366777052023-01-06T12:15:00.004-06:002023-01-06T12:16:27.395-06:00A Little Ditty On Joy<div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xdj266r x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I'm playing assistant writer/developmental editor with a fellow writer on a book about business leadership. The book will be officially authored by two men who own a consulting business. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">As we dig in to the project, I find myself with that familiar feeling of joy. I love working with people who share my passions. I love finding the words that paint the picture in my mind. I love seeing it all take shape.</div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzWIvpeUfEZjDsPI5YJpT8NGJDT3qxXFDJD01PqyKou21VuaMOcq2fL6TGqwaW9SbPTXwM_a0M91LjbEuK3UbWfu2jVQfqR7muojOnqrkdwXJ2K1cF636MN6YFX0rJi5H2Q1-_MOuNTo8w-53IahBDSUvE-xmW8v9BYrXt_RhkZZZLCNr6OCZsNEEoQ/s4256/pexels-oleksandr-pidvalnyi-1060498.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2832" data-original-width="4256" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmzWIvpeUfEZjDsPI5YJpT8NGJDT3qxXFDJD01PqyKou21VuaMOcq2fL6TGqwaW9SbPTXwM_a0M91LjbEuK3UbWfu2jVQfqR7muojOnqrkdwXJ2K1cF636MN6YFX0rJi5H2Q1-_MOuNTo8w-53IahBDSUvE-xmW8v9BYrXt_RhkZZZLCNr6OCZsNEEoQ/w341-h227/pexels-oleksandr-pidvalnyi-1060498.jpg" width="341" /></a></div>Life is so full of challenges, and what a gift it is to find one corner of your <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit;" tabindex="-1"></a></span>world in which you have full confidence in your purpose. And here's the plot twist: That gift is made fuller by its challenges. Even when your corner feels like it's caving in, when things aren't going your way, you don't lose your love for it. You still know you're in the right place. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This reminds me of a conversation I have over and over again with my oldest: A sure path to joy is to perfectly love an imperfect thing. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I struggle with unconditional love and life's imperfections, and so I'm grateful for my love of language — which I see as not simply a career path but truly a part of who I was made to be, and in that way, I'm able to embrace the joy that escapes me in other ways. </div></div><div class="x11i5rnm xat24cr x1mh8g0r x1vvkbs xtlvy1s x126k92a" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Find your joy and don't let go.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><br /><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-38804790509718184412022-11-15T14:05:00.003-06:002022-11-16T15:34:26.205-06:00Praise and Pranayama: When Mamma Gets Rich, We're Getting a Pool<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">You couldn't ask for a better view here in the hills of Morgantown, West Virginia. I'd keep it forever, if I could have ownership — of the house, that is. The sky belongs to God, who by the way does not appreciate my yoga practice that my little one is mimicking, according to better Christians who know you can't mix praise and pranayama. If you ask me, God knows the benefits of breath work for those of his children who struggle to exhale. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SBTjK9soezxG4xap3KsHvYJWQt7rtGllhvuXS3D_aM7M5-kLHUX0J-4VQn-bBXuNJGpveGT_gTOK1ZV7_jXyUuY2n_HniY-9lCyh1cBnKqWcGS5QfstjPc2bQLfyXHGLsZ25yVC9DX7RmbHJ3Am1UMq_nzCskjmz_lSvzFBxtjyyb1qzRax2u2b9zg/s3715/IMG_5774.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3715" data-original-width="2568" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6SBTjK9soezxG4xap3KsHvYJWQt7rtGllhvuXS3D_aM7M5-kLHUX0J-4VQn-bBXuNJGpveGT_gTOK1ZV7_jXyUuY2n_HniY-9lCyh1cBnKqWcGS5QfstjPc2bQLfyXHGLsZ25yVC9DX7RmbHJ3Am1UMq_nzCskjmz_lSvzFBxtjyyb1qzRax2u2b9zg/w287-h416/IMG_5774.jpg" width="287" /></a></span></div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">I've asked to buy this house multiple times, but my landlord grew up here and is Very Attached: Her late parents' furniture is still piled to the ceiling in the dry, unfinished basement where my two young boys fight over their turn to play Gorilla Tag on the Oculus in their makeshift man cave. Two years ago, the Realtor showing the property promised the furniture would be gone when I moved in, but that was a lie, or at least a misguided assumption, either of which earned her a commission and me a basement full of a thing that makes me itch: clutter. My landlord is very nice, which isn't quite a salve for the overflow of stuff but is a thing to note on Day 15 of November Gratitude. She says we can stay here as long as we'd like. Given the panoramic view of Appalachia’s lady lumps, it's a tempting offer. Or that’s what I’d call it if I actually had another option in a housing market posing as David shooting down the Goliath of my American Dream. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">My kids want a pool and a zip line. My two dogs want a big fenced yard. We could have all of that on this extra-large, semi-secluded corner lot, or another lot — if a deed had my name and my paychecks had another zero. I-F: I watch those lofty letters go up, up and away on the breeze that days ago carried the oppressive scent of smoldering leaves from my next-door neighbor’s burning pile that apparently became legal at 5p.m., an hour after the smoke started at 4.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">This morning, post daily prayer-slash-yoga session, I made a quick pass on Facebook Reels before waking up the kids for school. On an NYC street, the “Apartment Guy” approached Barbara Corcoran of Shark Tank and asked for a tour of her home. She told him she was once a messenger who made a delivery to the $11 million apartment she now owns, where she asked the homeowner, If you ever sell it, will you sell it to me? Twenty-six years later, she got the call. They say God’s timing is perfect. (If you don’t believe, substitute your deity of choice and be encouraged.)</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">As I digested Barbara’s motivational moment that proves social media isn’t all bad, a heart palpitation arrived to either remind me Rejoice, You’re Alive or Prepare for Maximum Doom; the interpretation always depends on my Anxiety Monster's level of rage. I’ve been having palpitations for many years on and off. So far, EKGs, echocardiograms, and Holter monitors say I’m alive. I’m grateful for the opportunity to keep the faith. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">After Reels but before my daily green tea, as I piled scrambled eggs onto grain-free toast so small that “slice” feels like a misnomer, a familiar daydream squirmed its way through the worrisome cluttered basement of my mind: all the things I’d do if my goals were to come true. Besides a deed with my name and a safe yard for children and dogs to roam free, there would be lots of giving. What a thrill to imagine making life better for friends, family, and animals in need. Over the years, I’ve decided that if life were fair, only people who intend to give lots of money away should have lots of money. In lieu of fairness, all we have is effort and chance. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">Just now on Rachael Ray, Billy Porter repeated a mantra: God has bigger plans for you than you could ever have for yourself. Amen and ohm. </span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-40308580943124948122022-10-30T11:55:00.033-05:002023-10-19T09:39:58.534-05:00Breakfast Blessings from Appalachia<p><br /></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Today’s breakfast, or the picture of its parts: homemade biscuits and gravy made with bacon drippings from organic pigs and A2 milk from heritage cows, or the bovine equivalent of heirloom tomatoes. Something like that. Although I don’t eat pork, or red meat for that matter, the busyness of mom life has </span><span class="s2" style="font-kerning: none;">tossed me like a bull baiter toward tolerance for foods flavored by animals whose flesh I won’t consume. I’m also a careful consumer of carbs, but a buttery biscuit with homemade love is surely a gift from God, and who am I to rebuke divinity at the breakfast table. I’ll do Emily Skye’s Grow Your Glutes workout later today to make up for it. I’m always making up for something.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-kerning: none;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-family: Calibri; font-size: 14.7px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2" style="font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s2" style="font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfHWO3SyRDfCbsN_A2islpR_FC6vSDeLfoMm4EbKOpYRySHI_k6K4CPpDuZOhWkQqsOfjPlTXhwtgBkJUIGtzrSlFGMuHa9KM0b2_cpPDZ08dO9sa8Vh02jh1T24HR0JYUwWO8jGCryyyZt88cRiEFel3jJNyVXPw713kgqzTBiUJJk1gqYJhu5f5mg/s4032/IMG_6940.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikfHWO3SyRDfCbsN_A2islpR_FC6vSDeLfoMm4EbKOpYRySHI_k6K4CPpDuZOhWkQqsOfjPlTXhwtgBkJUIGtzrSlFGMuHa9KM0b2_cpPDZ08dO9sa8Vh02jh1T24HR0JYUwWO8jGCryyyZt88cRiEFel3jJNyVXPw713kgqzTBiUJJk1gqYJhu5f5mg/s320/IMG_6940.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span class="s2" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;">When I was a child growing up in North Central West Virginia, breakfast was heavy on tradition, and dairy. While my mom likely churned homemade butter as a child at her family’s quasi farm just outside city limits, ours came straight from the stick. My mom’s standout breakfast was creamed eggs on toast, an homage to the standard breakfast plate of her father, a welder and primo progenitor. Pap died when I was three, and my only recollection of him is like a second stolen from a Super 8 reel: a quick flash of his large, pale, lanky frame laid up in the downstairs bedroom of the sea foam green farmhouse he shared with Grandma and the children he’d raised with her, 17 of the 21 he created, that we know of.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><p></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Maybe it was Grandma’s land where my fierce love of animals arrived in this world, wobbly on its new legs but destined for great strides. Many children of farm life, inured to the life and death cycle, develop an indifference to the welfare of God’s creatures. But I didn’t grow up on the farm; I was merely a frequent visitor who need not take part in the hanging of hogs or the forced altruism of chickens. The horses and cows had it best up on that little hillside where the air was perpetually ripped wide open by the chainsaw-revving of 50cc dirt bikes, the </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">thwunk</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> of BB guns, and the chorus screams of angry Appalachian mothers. I’m pretty sure the job of cows and horses was mostly ornamental, as objects of great affection by hordes of snot-nosed, honeysuckle-hunting, crab-apple crunching, dirt-smeared grandkids and cousins.</span><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span class="s1" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;">Not far from Grandma’s was the home of an all-time favorite among the cousins: Aunt Kathy. It could take you five or 25 minutes to get there, depending on whether you trekked through the shallow creek at the bottom of Grandma’s hill, rode bareback through the woods, clung to the narrow waist of a reckless cousin on a motorcycle, or walked. You might pass Uncle Rex’s or Uncle Mike’s or Uncle French’s along the way, but you wouldn’t stop because on the other side of Grandma’s hill was Glory Land. Aunt Kathy’s was where “city kids” like me became feral (a highly relative term, mind you, as my city, a mere 10-minute drive from Grandma’s country, was still parochial small-town West Virginia). There were no spoken rules at her home, but you stayed in line because if you paid attention — impossible not to given Aunt Kathy’s particular penchant for volume — you’d know her kids were continually threatened with a form of torture you never saw but always heard about: “Do it again and I’ll box your ears!”<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;">On the hill across the valley from Grandma’s, childhood was all front porches blasting Alabama at night and grain buckets to catch wily ponies in the morning — but not before a proper breakfast. Here is where I learned to eat scratch-made pancakes topped with fried eggs and a squirt of ketchup.</span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;">On days like today, in my kitchen I pay homage to my roots. I also mourn the wondrous childhood my children can’t have, having been born in the confines of one of West Virginia’s only progressive cities with barely a cousin nearby and without the freedom to roam, via one of many modes of country-kid transportation, pastures and barns and wooded hillsides. At the same time, I know I’m wistful for wistful’s sake, sharing a poetic longing that serves a purpose in time like the life cycle of a farm chicken. If my longing were more like Grandma’s billy goat who devoured everything in his path, I might have to reconsider relocation. As it is, we’ve landed in the natural nesting spot for a girl like me who left behind the child of hillsides and hollers for adventures in various cities up and down the East coast and a little to the left.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></span></p><p class="p4" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-family: georgia; font-kerning: none;">Just as my mother recounted for me and my brother tales of her own childhood on Grandma’s hill, I too will carry on the blessing of oral history.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-59088718714865243512022-10-12T12:05:00.005-05:002022-10-12T13:27:12.174-05:00Thanks for the Assurance, Sherri Shepherd<p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">This morning, the Sherri Shepherd show served as white noise while I vented with work friends about poor communicators and sorted through sent emails to recall just how many times I pitched a culturally relevant article about a progressive triumph in Appalachia that got precisely zero responses. As my vexation with uninterested magazine editors peaked, Sherri’s guest Adrienne Bailon caught my ear. In particular, it was a name she dropped: God.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Adrienne has a new baby. She wants him to know a relationship with God but doesn't want to raise him with the type of fears her upbringing in the church brought about. She mentioned this example: She's afraid to fly, in part because she thinks if she's not perfect, God will use that plane to take down her sinful ass.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">That struck a nerve, because, unfortunately, I understood completely what she meant. I've lived most of my life thinking I'll be punished for exploring life rather than sitting idle on the conveyor belt that churns out "good Christians."<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">To be clear, I'm aware that the rules of engagement for Christianity, particularly for the born-again crowd, are different from what the average person assumes. It's not simply "be a good person." If that were the case, we wouldn't need Christianity because anyone can be a good person. If you choose to follow Jesus, the Bible is full of Things Thou Shalt Not Do. Among them: drunkenness, sex before marriage, homosexuality, cursing, watching Harry Potter, celebrating Halloween.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">I’ve done all of those things aside from homosexuality. It turns out that despite my Smash the Patriarchy-type opinions, I’m a fan of men. Always have been.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>And certainly in ways that would put me on the fast track to hell. On that tip: Although I’m fairly liberal, I do respect the idea of waiting for sex, perhaps not as far as marriage but certainly for some sort of good love. It just makes sense, because when you don’t wait for good love and things go awry — and things absolutely will — then you’re left dealing with repercussions by yourself. I’ve done my fair share of By Myselfing. It gets heavy.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">The fire and brimstone of my childhood church did a number on me, whose genetics already dictate a predisposition for fear. This isn't an invective against the good people whose faith kept aglow that tiny white building in North Central West Virginia. Some people apparently find great hope in believing how rotten we are, how lost the world is, how nothing here on Earth matters. I do not. To each their own.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">At 46, I’m still working out this God thing, particularly in regard to which sins I need to work on and which are part of Cut Me Some Slack, I’m Only Human. It’s no surprise. When it comes to the parts of life that tend to be settled by our 30th decade, like assurance in one’s faith — along with a respectable amount of home equity; a well-diversified investment portfolio; and a divorce that didn’t happen because it’s better to be miserable with someone than pay bills alone —I’ve existed on a similar schedule to the desert’s own Queen of the Night, which resembles a dead bush until her trumpet-shaped flowers announce they’ve arrived. That happens precisely once each year.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Adrienne Bailon is now Adrienne Houghton since her marriage to a gospel musician with whom she has a beautiful partnership founded on mutual adoration and shared values. As she and her husband sat close on Sherri Shepherd’s couch this morning (and I mean Bud and Sissy in the pickup truck close), she described their philosophy on raising a child of God: faith based, not fear based. It’s similar to the advice given by my wise owl of a pastor, whom I now watch online instead of in person because I’m not the best Christian: Pray not because you need it to fix your problems but because communing with God is a form of peace.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 23px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); font-size: 18px; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1" style="font-kerning: none;">Faith over fear.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-61054708346724947892022-10-06T12:12:00.006-05:002022-10-06T12:43:41.140-05:00The Rebranding of a Real Man<p>This morning, I listened to two men on two different shows talk about making the world better, by raising boys to love themselves and by being men who do the same. <br /><br />I get high on seeing people fired up to make a difference. I especially appreciate it when men speak up about the problems inherent in our cultural perception of masculinity. <br /><br />This isn't about making men soft and weak. That's a big, fat fear-based reaction. Of all the things that could kill us, encouraging men to be fully human isn't among them. Maintaining reverence for the "strong, silent" man is a stupid game with stupid prizes.</p><p>As a woman who often speaks up about our patriarchal predicament, I'm subject to labels like "whiny" and "man-hater." Which brings to mind a phrase I've come across while editing investing articles: When a company has a product that isn't valuable or engaging, it's "not sticky." Same goes for labels tossed at women like me. </p><p>The truth is, I'm not above appreciating the typical qualities deemed Safe for Male Consumption: Men can be big and strong and bearded. They can take down the bad guys and pick up the heavy things. They can enjoy watching other men play with balls while scratching their own. They can have a deep voice and a shallow sense of humor. At the very same time, real men can express a range of emotions, handle rejection without vengeance, wear their hair in a bun, and pen a beautiful love song. I draw the line at Buckle jeans, bad pop country, and indifference to books, but to each their own bad taste. </p><p>When I tuck in my 10- and 7-year-old sons at night, we hold hands and say a prayer. In the morning drop-off line, we do the same. I tell them, Love yourself first, but be kind. Before my biggest boy exits the car, he kisses my cheek and tells me "I love you so much," and my littlest boy blows kisses as he walks down the sidewalk. I hope those moments see them through, especially in my less-poetic mom moments when I'm worn down and breathing fire. <br /><br />We're living in interesting times culturally. Paradigms are shifting. My reactions range from support to indifference (and a little eye rolling too — I'm fully human), but I don't assume my opinions are a mandate. <br /><br />A changing culture is something I don't fear. Between mammograms, Pap smears, laugh lines, and thigh gaps, I have enough to worry about. No time to spend being horrified by the thought of a world with men who don't eat nails for dinner or can't powerlift a monster truck. <br /><br />I'm encouraged by the number of men who are showing themselves to be multidimensional. That kind of man has existed since the beginning of time, by the way. It's just that now it's becoming acceptable to acknowledge it. <br /><br />In my day job as a copywriter (mysterious emphasis intended), I help brands be their best by defining their voice, style, mission. Sometimes they decide a rebrand is in order to elevate their presence. That feels right for where we are now culturally. We're rebranding manhood. I'm on board with this campaign. </p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-53033216827130086702022-10-04T12:39:00.010-05:002022-10-04T13:02:32.777-05:00Who Knew Dinnertime Could Suck So Hard: And Other Things They Don't Tell You Before You Become a Parent<p>Last night's dinner came courtesy of a favorite food blog, Half Baked Harvest. The reception at the dinner table was, as my Nanni used to say in regard to her state of existence, Fair to Middling. 10-year-old ate it and 7-year-old did not. This was expected, as 7 has been carrying on a food fight with me since he was 18 months old — or seven full years if you count breastfeeding difficulties. (I'm learning that each phase of motherhood comes with its own unique struggle and that each struggle has a half-life of at least five years.) <br /><br />For a long time, I believed this food fight was part of a war of attrition, but it appears 7 intends to stay the course. No surprise. Both of my children are headstrong to the teeth. As much as it exasperates me on the daily — since our days are full of Reasons I Need Them to Cooperate — it also gives me hope that eventually they'll learn to harness their power for good and not evil, aka be adults who can handle disappointment, rejection, and challenges because they are too resilient for anything less. <br /><br />I found this recipe over the weekend when, as most weekends, I made a menu for the week ahead. I try to keep it simple, but being Who I Am, that's a tall order for a short girl. So each weekend, I spend an hour or so combing the internet, the annals of my memory, and my recipe box for dinners that, if they could talk, would say, "Hey there, Sexy Home Chef, I'm reasonably healthy and at least one of your children will not make barf sounds or become a wet noodle of sadness upon meeting me." <br /><br />Given the dinnertime difficulties we've had for many years or perhaps AN ETERNITY, my children's motto is Junk Food Rules, Mom's Food Drools. It makes me wonder if I'm being punished for bucking the norm or if these healthy food-blogger moms I follow are full of absolute shit when they share photos of beautiful box lunches packed with whole foods that we're supposed to believe their crunchy children eat without protest. <br /><br />I exposed both of my kids early on to a plethora of flavors and textures. I talked about why it's important to eat healthy food. I allowed all the usual suspects — pizza, sweets, chips, etc. — on holidays, dinners out, and in moderation in our home. Still, when I try to keep it healthy, I am met with resistance matching the fury of a crazed Capitol riot. <br /><br />On weeknights, dinnertime is decidedly Not My Forte. I'm a decent cook, but I'm no longer the multitasker I once was. I'm usually rushed. Cooking in a tiny kitchen, like 4 square feet, with dogs underfoot and children playing "Mamma I Need..." on repeat. Juggling one dinner for Most of Us and another dinner for the Rest of Us (a practice I have fought for years, so please, spare the advice about refusing to be a short-order cook). Dishes piling up. Me Time dying a quick death. (Contrary to popular belief, working from home, while super awesome, is not the same as Me Time.) <br /><br />Each night I wonder, Is it just me or would any woman feel slightly crazy amidst this madness? I'm pretty sure it's the latter, although the former doesn't help seeing as compartmentalization is also Not My Forte. <br /><br />Anyway. I enjoy Tieghan from Half Baked Harvest's blog. I enjoy cooking. I enjoy my dogs. My little home. My kids. I don't enjoy all of them all at once on weekday evenings. Rather than punish myself for channeling Gary Busey (do I need a new reference? Is that aging me?) at dinnertime, I endeavor to transcend these harried moments and remember I'm still a good mom and a fun person that people like to be around. My father once told me in a Mother's Day card, "You are a conscientious mother," a huge compliment in my book; however, if you too are conscientious, you know it comes with baggage, as in Perpetual Awareness of Everything. <br /><br />It's not easy being me. Or being you. All we can do is our best and forgive ourselves for feeling as if we've fallen short, over and over. <br /><br />Tonight I'm making another recipe from the blog, including homemade beer bread. I might even eat a slice and forgive myself the empty carbs. To all my fellow home chefs, I send you a hug and the other half of the sour beer I won't finish this eve. </p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-50452445124461195192022-09-28T09:00:00.005-05:002022-09-30T11:38:56.811-05:00Good Morning to Everyone Except Violent Men<div class="m8h3af8h l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This morning, my Twitter feed struck a nerve. Not the usual petty politics nerve but the legitimate kind. It was a news story about a man who had murdered his ex-wife and abducted their daughter. My thoughts began to mount up. <i>Do I write about how hard it is to be a woman, knowing that fools will excuse male violence as something only cowards do?</i> Indeed, they're cowards of some variety. But they're not the fringe. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">When people say we live in a sick world, my instinct is to counter that: It’s not so bad. However, when it comes to being a woman, that “sick world” statement seems more fitting. </span></div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I did a little digging and came across stats that say around three women are murdered every day by a current or former partner. I have to ask: Is violence simply built into the male psyche? </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I read an article in the New York Times Magazine a few days ago about a young woman who was murdered by her police officer husband because she was divorcing him. And then there’s the recent story of Eliza Fletcher in Memphis, murdered by a stranger because she was out running early in the morning.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">These stories get to me. I’ve never been the victim of violence, but as a woman who has lived alone for most of her adult life and as the mother of boys, I’m deeply concerned about the safety of women. </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">When you look at the big picture of being a woman, merely existing is rife with challenges: periods, hormonal shifts, mammograms, pregnancy, childbirth, postpartum depression, menopause, Pap smears, child rearing, unrealistic beauty standards. And the constant concern of male violence. </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This is probably part of why I push back when men say women don’t have it that hard. You really have no idea.</div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">As fathers do, mine has made a lasting impression. He has set the tone for what a "real man" is. My dad is a gentle man. That doesn't mean I grew up unaware that he had a cabinet full of guns. It doesn't mean that when a convicted sexual predator exposed himself to me and my friends, my dad didn't grab a club and go after him. It does mean that my father set the tone: Do no harm but take no shit. With that example burned deep into my psyche, I wrestle with the reality that so many men don't have the restraint and discernment of my father. </div></div><div class="l7ghb35v kjdc1dyq kmwttqpk gh25dzvf jikcssrz n3t5jt4f" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, "system-ui", ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It's not a sick world. And then again, sometimes it is.</div></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-74292369522430351762022-09-27T13:56:00.007-05:002022-09-28T09:04:30.186-05:00It Can't Hurt to Ask <p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">In the early 90s, I began my campaign of asking. A small-town West Virginia girl, I wasn't born and bred for the worldly curiosities that consumed my heart and mind, but it was a done deal. So I did what came naturally: I expressed myself. From letters to MTV and E! to cold-calling modeling agencies in South Beach and NYC, I took shots in the dark better than a college kid in an underground bar. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> Since I'm a writer and not a TV host, you can see some of it didn't work out. I did get hired as an agent's assistant by a South Beach modeling agency after persistently asking for an internship and then showing them what I was made of (that being a strong work ethic with a side of attitude). When the agency director from NYC came to visit, he decided I was big-time material and whisked me away to their offices on Gansevoort Street in the meatpacking district. My journey from the hills of West by God to the grid of NYC culminated in a fine salary and a title: Junior Agent. My big-city glory died a quick and relatively painless death, but my motivation lived on. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> After the city chewed me up, I landed like a spitball back in my second hometown, Morgantown, West Virginia, to finish college. A couple of years later, I graduated with honors: BA, English, creative writing concentration. I don't mean graduated as in "wasted money on a cap and gown and spent a whole afternoon sitting in an uncomfortable chair at the WVU coliseum." I skipped that and got my diploma in the mail. It was the least I could do as a burgeoning iconoclast. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"> A few years passed. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><i>Where to?</i> asked The Salty Barista who spent her days behind the counter sparring with halitosis-wielding political junkies, coffee-guzzling tech nerds, Guiness-sipping professors, and lawyers lunching over egg salad bagels. So I closed my eyes and said a prayer. “For some strange reason it had to be. He guided me to Tennessee.” And there I was in Memphis.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">A new acquaintance hooked me up to interview with the president of a big theater downtown. A big, tall, older gentleman, he was either a tyrant or a delight depending on who you ask. For me it was the latter. We respected each other’s fire. However, my fire for assistant work fizzled out quickly. With no experience, I applied for a copywriter job at a B2B agency. Aced the writing sample. Salary and benefits, signed on the dot. This job was where I met my first rooftop lounge and my first Apple computer. I felt very fancy with the agency playlist on iTunes as I wrote copy for international shipping and medical device companies. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">Days in the office started to stretch too long, and I felt that familiar urge to ask. Ask for more. This time, I was asking myself — for permission to leave stability behind. So I did. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><i>What now? </i>asked the writer, the runner, the pitbull lover, the single woman creating a life far from home. <i>Be your own boss. </i></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">My agency experience was a springboard. I soon became a regular presence in agencies around the city, writing tri-fold brochures and proofreading printed design drafts that are done digitally these days. My experience at one agency was particularly formative, leading me to a job as the copy editor of a regional health and fitness magazine. Along with handing over clean copy, I asked for more, like improvements in our publishing process, eventually resulting in a new title: managing editor. Our small team was led by two women channeling a combination of Thelma and Louise and Laverne and Shirley, and so I functioned as the voice of reason in the group. Which goes to show that everything is relative. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;">I managed a magazine and freelanced on the side for a number of years. All the while nurturing big dreams of bylines in magazines and books. Until the stork made a surprise delivery. Since then, coming upon 11 years ago, plus one more stint in the delivery room, I’ve been asking bigger and harder than ever before. </span><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue";">The sheer number of letdowns — as unkept promises, un-implemented contracts, unanswered emails — could crush the spirit of Thich That Nhan himself. Yet the wins keep coming. A new client here. A publication there. It's enough. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><i>It can’t hurt to ask</i>. My mom’s favorite phrase of encouragement has held fast to my heart for many years. I ask because I’m my mother’s daughter. Because I’m my children’s mother. Like anyone who chooses the path to Fulfilment, I never stop asking. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.9); background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue;"><i>What's next?</i> asks the 46-year-old woman who can’t help but believe. </span></p><div><br /></div>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4729371570671739825.post-14027248062159958602022-09-14T21:41:00.002-05:002022-09-14T21:46:14.408-05:00If Cover Letters Were Lanternflies <p>If cover letters were lanternflies, I’d smash them. And I do. I write a mean cover. Lately I’ve been at it with a vengeance trying to fill a gap in my client roster. </p><p>My days consist of paid work followed by lots of unpaid work writing cover letters. Each inquiry must be tailored. No template will do. If you write it, they will come. So knock it out of the park.</p><p>Although I wish you the very best, the above does not translate — not in the Queen’s English or Esperanto or The Five Love Languages — to “I want to write cover letters for you.” Your writer friends, like your MD friends, have chosen a specialty, and it isn’t cover letters. </p><p>I excel at writing my own covers not because I enjoy it but because the potential reward includes things like homeownership, midcentury furniture, vintage Harley Davidson shirts, more dogs, and Things That Keep My Children Alive.</p><p>However, if you’ve already done the grunt work, then I'll be happy to edit your cover letters and make them extra shiny. Bonus: If your dog is spayed/neutered, I’ll give you a friend discount. If you don’t like dogs, then you need more help than I can give. </p><p><br /></p>d.mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07235794123395206698noreply@blogger.com0