How To Be A Widow

Sometimes running away is the only thing you can to do, especially when you come home and find your beloved husband lying dead on your bedroom floor. 


Our friends and family found my plans to go to Mexico so soon after Harry's death crazy, and many told me as much.        

          










I decided to run away and Mexico would be my run away destination.  Harry and  I had always found Mexico to be beautiful, deeply frustrating and mysterious.  I felt Mexico in all its complexity would be the perfect refuge for my grief which I found to also be deeply frustrating and mysterious.  
    

I have a deep connection with Mexico I cannot explain.  Harry and I moved from our home in the mid-west to Mexico in 2008.  I had accepted a teaching job I found on the Internet after retiring from a 32 year teaching career.  The job was teaching English at a posh school in San Jose del Cabo at the tip of the Baja peninsula.  One of my dreams had always been to teach in a Spanish speaking country and since we were both retired we decided to embark on a grand adventure. I had visited Mexico in my late twenties and always dreamed of returning.  The two of us lived in Mexico for two years, returning after Harry had a terrible accident which required surgery in the US.  
    
     I began substitute teaching when we returned from Mexico and nearly half a decade of lovely  years rolled by.  Until.... that day.  I came home from shopping on that unseasonably warm early spring day in March to find my beloved husband dead on our bedroom floor.  I had called Harry about three that afternoon just as I was leaving work, telling him I would be home shortly after a brief trip to the grocery store.  Our conversation was brief but I vividly remember how euphorically happy he sounded. Thinking back on our conversation I thought, what was he so damn happy about?   
    
     I arrived home at four and instead of finding Harry in the kitchen cooking dinner for the guest we had coming for dinner, I found him lying on our bedroom floor. I heard myself gasp and cry out as I dropped to the floor next to him thinking he had fallen and would get up with a little coaxing.  His head was resting gently on his outstretched arm and his eyes were open and glassy.  I touched his face and arms.  He felt warm in spots, but other parts of him were icy cold, a dead sort of cold.   I of course knew he was dead the minute I was on the floor next to him, but your mind won't allow you to comprehend that reality quickly.  
    
I remember getting up from kneeling beside Harry and going to the phone in the kitchen.  For some reason I was unable to pick up the phone and call for help.  Instead I went back into the bedroom briefly to cover him with a blanket and then I ran out into the hallway of my condo building.  I needed to connect with someone and there in the hallway, as fate would have it, standing in front of her condo next door to mine was my next door neighbor, Sandie.  She was with her dog unlocking her door.  I told Sandie I thought Harry was dead, not quite believing the words that had just come out of my mouth.  Sandie, a retired nurse, immediately went into our bedroom as I stood frozen in the kitchen adjacent to the bedroom.   She came out a few seconds later and told me that, yes,  he was gone.  Sandie called the fire department, my family and friends, many of whom came immediately.   The coroner arrived promptly, followed by the fire department and an hour and a half later they took Harry out on a wheeled gurney.   

   
I was awake for the next three days straight unable to eat or sleep. My daughter and son-in-law and grandson moved in with me.  Friends and family came and went bringing food and comfort.  At night I sat on the couch staring into the gas fireplace in my living room wrapped in a comfort quilt hand made and delivered by another dear neighbor, Ann, who also lives down the hall from me.  I used to joke with Ann that I didn't want to see her walking down the hallway to my door with one of those damn quilts she stockpiled in her bathtub ready to bestow upon people who had experienced the loss of a loved one.  We lived in a large 55 plus building so the demand for grief was pretty steady.  It never crossed my mind that I would qualify for a quilt.     

After two weeks, my kids went home, the memorial service was over, friends didn't call or come over so much.  I was alone. Not easy for a person who had only known married life, for better or worse, since she was twenty.  A few weeks after Harry's death,  I found myself on the couch at three am, wrapped in the comfort quilt reading one of the stash of "now that you are a widow" books given to me by friends.  I chose to read Diane Rehm's recent book about her journey into widowhood.  Just as I reached the last few pages of her best seller,  On My Own,  I found myself beginning to experience a full blown panic attack.      

I had been desperately hoping this renown Public Radio journalist would offer deep insight and wisdom about becoming a widow.  Instead, as I approached the final page of her memoir, I found myself spinning out of control with a full blown panic attack.  The long married author I felt was basically choosing to devote the rest of her days in a state of continual mourning for the loss her beloved husband who had died a slow painful death from Parkinson's disease.  She seemed quite happy and content with her choice.  I, however, found myself at the end of the book silently screaming inside wanting to launch myself out of my comfy chair and comfort quilt and my body and run out the door of my condo into the neighborhood streets screaming like a banshee.   A life of unending despair and mourning I knew was not something I could bear or choose to bear if at all possible.  I should have just taken one of the sleeping pills prescribed by my doctor which were sitting on the bathroom counter and gone to bed.    

Instead of a drugged sleep, I found myself  plunging into a bottomless pit of grief, despair and terror that went on for several hours until somehow I was able to stumble into bed about 8 am and fall asleep.  Thank goodness I somehow avoided the drama of running out of my 55 plus  building screaming.  Gossip about the crazy woman, now widow woman,  in #315 would have traveled fast.  I was already the topic of gossip in my building for many reasons and I didn't want to add to the story, at least not in that way.  

Diane Rehn clearly did not provide the comfort and inspiration and direction I was hoping for, but,  a day or so later, the universe was gracious enough to provide me with a strange unexpected message.   I was just waking up in the morning and about to open my eyes when I found myself in the backseat of a car crammed full of people I did not know.  Harry was driving the car and playing one of his favorite roles in life, other than a Shakespearean role of course, the role of tour guide.  The crowded car seemed to be floating in the clouds and just below us I could see the Roman Wall in the north of England, a place Harry and I had often been.  Harry was behind the wheel of the car pontificating and gesticulating about the history of the wall.  He turned round with an outstretched arm to point to a feature of the wall below when he suddenly saw me sitting directly behind him in the back seat of the car.  He smiled sweetly and I reached out impulsively and grabbed his gesticulating hand and kissed it.  Our eyes locked intently for a brief moment and he smiled at me with a look that carried a profound message I was only later able to really comprehend.  I opened my eyes and came down out of the clouds.   

I laid perfectly still in bed with my eyes open for several long minutes as a deep sense of peace and contentment washed over me.  Harry was obviously OK!  and doing one of the things he loved best in life: tour guiding.  Later I  severely chastised myself  for having opened my eyes so quickly instead of spending more time in the floating car with Harry.  I soon realized however that more time floating in the car was not important.  The message was Harry wanted me to move forward in my life.  He was happy, I could be happy too.  I have never since found myself on one of Harry's sky tours but Harry continued to continually guide me on my widow's journey. What I needed to do to for myself was not on the pages of a book.  What I needed to do do was about to take shape very quickly.    

  

Tomorrow I will be on my way to the beautiful city of San Miguel de Allende, a colonial-era city in the central highlands of Mexico.  I have been invited to house-sit for the month of August by a friend I met in Cabo eight years ago.  Harry and I loved this magical city of cobblestone streets, colorful buildings, nightly fireworks and church bells that ring unexpectedly at all hours of the day and night. 

I will be attending Academia Hispano Americana full days Monday - Friday to work on my Spanish and I have signed up for a grief group that is well known in San Miguel.  I feel sad and nervous and excited all at the same time about this opportunity.  Harry and I loved this city so much and it will be an experience full of memories.  I have decided it might be fun and therapeutic to blog again about this journey.  So...join me if you wish and comment on my posts, remembering I am flying without a net: no editor. 

Put a Hobby Room in your Condo Building

A cozy spot for weary hobbyists to sit.

It can be a great relief to give up all the unpleasant responsibilities that come along with owning a house: shoveling, raking, painting, getting ice dams off your roof, calling the exterminators to rid you of the bats who have made your attic their home - I could go on. Sitting in your condo easy chair watching as the snow piles up, knowing you will not be out shoveling, is a luxury, to say the least. You just sit and wait until the streets are plowed then descend to your underground heated garage and make your exit. 

Condo living simplifies many things but it comes with its own set of new challenges.  I know our next president, Hillary, taught us that 'it takes a village" but sometimes, the villagers you are forced to deal with in your building can be a real pain in the neck.  I owned a city house for over 25 years before committing to the condo life and I was never one who felt a need to know all the neighbors on my street.  Owning a home allows you the autonomy to choose how close you wish to be to your neighbors.  A smile and a wave was usually enough for me, although two families who lived on my block are still close friends after nearly forty years.  In a condo building with a common garage, elevators, corridors and other common spaces, "up close and personal" gains new meaning.  It's very uncomfortable not to at least know the name of the person you have ridden the elevator with at least 20 times.

Tables for all sizes of quilting/hobby projects

Residents in our building like to gossip about each other and fight about the common spaces: the party room, the patio, the corridors, the lobby, the exercise room, the garage and the hobby room.  Many residents, the majority being 55 plus types, seem to have one and only one understandable life goal: Thou Shalt Not Raise our Dues!  This is indeed a worthy goal but other worthwhile goals relating to our common spaces sometimes find themselves in direct conflict with this mantra.  The board members we elected tend to get carried away with their wish to micro-manage the lives of resident owners with regard to our public spaces.  

Case in point: very few people regularly used the hobby room in our building. The Hobby Room is relatively large space that the builders fitted out with a few low budget woodworking machines and nothing else. Harry and I loved the space and used it often, even though it was not very utilitarian.  I have made quilts in the room for our grand-girls in St. Louis and Harry has done a variety of woodworking projects including making them a dollhouse.  

The manly side of the room with a picture framer at work.

The full blown attack by some board members on the small number of hobbyists who use the room began while Harry was in England last September.  Harry's mother was dying and Harry forwarded me a hostile email sent by the board.  Things got really nasty, and looking back, we now think the board had other plans for the hobby room space.  What exactly they had in mind we may never know.  It seemed as though there were a group of people who believed they didn't use the space so no-one else should either. The aggressive campaign to make the hobby room look like no one ever used it escalated and I decided to fight back by forming a Hobby Room Committee.

The process of forming a committee, taking a building survey, designing the improvements, getting the funding approved for the improvements, buying, building, transporting, installing the improvements, fighting the nay-sayers, organizing an open house, took over six months.  I stepped up to lead the charge for both my own personal agenda and for others who I believed, if the room were improved, would use it.  Married people know that sometimes you need to get away from your beloved spouse, which can be hard when you live in a small condo. You can't escape to your attic or basement but you could go to the hobby room.  Single women, the majority of our residents, might enjoy a little social time as they work on a quilt or a scrapbook. The board is still at odds with the five member committee who had a vision for the hobby room, but we have held our ground and made our dream a reality.  Realtors now make a point of showing off the room to potential buyers. 

Hobby Room committee members will soon be teaching classes in the room: a beginners" quilting class and a "how to use the woodworking machines without cutting off you hand" class, as well as perhaps a framing class. As for me ... you will find me in the lovely new space busily quilting crib blankets for my grandson, Simon, my grand-niece, Olivia and for Archer's twin sisters.

Lastly I must give a special shout out to Hillary.  She would be proud to know the board and the Hobby Room Committee have signed a truce and we hope to live as a peaceful village.  I am pretty sure the treasurer and a couple others on the board are Republicans and the committee members are not so there may be future battles to blog about.  Better yet, I should someday write a blog about the wonderful new friends I have made in our building.        

Sea Otters as Pets

Teachers who don't retire when they should run the risk of getting a little crazy.  I should know.         

It all started innocently enough when, a few months back, I found myself browsing in a children's bookstore.  I caught sight of an adorable otter puppet on the shelf next to two books on otters.  Sea otters became one of my favorite animals when I saw them in action at the Monterrey Sea Aquarium years ago, and we have a poster from the aquarium on our bathroom wall.  I could not resist buying the puppet and the books.  I should have resisted.  

An old teacher needs her bag of tricks, her pink bag of tricks in this case.  I stuffed "Otto" into my bag one morning on my way to work.  The group of Kinder students I was teaching were getting a little noisy and I found myself saying, "Listen you guys, do you hear that noise coming from my pink school bag?" Suddenly they were all quiet, listening for the noise. 

I step out of my shower at home to be greeted by this. 

"Oh no!  I said, as I walked over to my bag and looked in. "Look who jumped into my school bag at home today when I wasn't looking, my pet otter, Otto."  I pulled Otto out of the bag, but not before I had put him on my hand. I told the kids Otto was very sensitive to noise and they must have woken him up. Otters, I told the adorable kinders, speak very quietly and Otto whispers in my ear, so I would have to tell them what he was saying.

After this "fun" had gone on for a few minutes one of the kinders called out:  "He's not real, Mrs. Baxter."  My response was to just roll my eyes as if the statement was absurd.  Then a true believer- type child called out: "He is too real, right, Mrs. Baxter?"  To that comment I just smiled and batted my eyes with approval.

This was just the beginning! Otto began jumping into my bag everyday, and not just on the days when I taught kindergarden.  Now, as I am going down the hallways at the Spanish Immersion School where I spend most of my subbing days, the kids call out, Mrs. Baxter, is Otto here today?"  The fifth grade classes told me last week that they wanted to know why Otto did not come to their classes?  I said I had no idea that they felt left out and I brought him they next time I subbed in 5th grade. The fifth graders lined up to give Otto a high five as they left for the day. 


One of Otto's books tells the story of the California sea otters' battle for survival.  One day a first grader asked if it was Otto and his mother on the cover of the non-fiction book.  That was all I needed.  I said yes, and that Otto's mother met her demise from the pollution, and that is why I now have Otto living at my house. I told the students Otto loves it when I put bath salts in my bath tub for him.  

So far I have not been fired. 

Even little children who visit and take naps at our house like to have Otto close by.


                                                               

The Dollhouse Kit

Harry bought a dollhouse kit on line many months ago to build for Eva, our granddaughter, who lives in St. Louis.  We were excited to make the dollhouse, but afraid to start because the plans looked so complicated.  Worse yet, we would need to use a hot glue gun according to the kit instructions.  Martha Stewart may have championed the glue gun but learning to use one is not as easy as Martha would have you believe.  

Florida: Dali, Chihuly, Ponce and The Baxters

 


This year was the 500th anniversary of Ponce de Leon's "discovery" of Florida.  Jeanne and Harry discovered Florida 12 years ago when Pat and Bill invited us down for Thanksgiving. We have come every year since staying with them in their  Sarasota home.  Pat and Bill take fashion seriously as you can see by their Thanksgiving dinner attire.  

We went to two museums in nearby Tampa; the Salvador Dali and the Chihuly glass museum.

This photo was taken at the entrance to the Dali in front of a small fountain claiming to be the infamous fountain of youth Ponce was looking for but never found. ( He died in Cuba from a nasty wound delivered by one of the Floridian natives.)  I sent this photo to a good friend of all of us and he commented that the water didn't seem to have the desired effect. 

Chihuly is an amazing glass artist from Washington state who does large glass installations in natural settings like parks and botanical gardens all over the world.  He works with large teams of people to create and display his art. 

And I thought my Fiat 500 was small!  We had lunch in Tampa at an Italian market/deli after seeing the museums.  Parked outside was this adorable old Fiat.  The green color of old, now considered retro, is the same color of my Fiat.    

We tried a turkey recipe published in the NY Times this year.  The turkey first had to sit in the fridge for three days after experiencing a dry rub of kosher salt, pepper and lemon zest.  Stuffed inside the bird were a lemon and some herbs.  Lastly, you pour cider and white wine in the bottom of the pan as the turkey roasts. Simple but very good!

Harry and I made Chicago- and  St. Louis-style pizzas for a group of Pat and Bill's friends on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  I encouraged Harry to have a cocktail after we finished making the pizzas.  We all drank good wine with the pizza and immediately after dinner Harry quickly disappeared. He tries, but he just cannot drink like his wife. The rest of of continued to drink and Harry had a nice long nap. 

Arkansas/Ozarks Road Trip

OK, OK,  a trip to Arkansas was not on my list of places to see before I die.  When Harry suggested we take a trip to Arkansas after visiting our kids in St. Louis, I reminded myself that a good marriage requires compromise.  I was not sure if I could easily place Arkansas on a map, nor have I ever felt a need to do so.  I refuse to feel embarrassed about this because people who live on the east and west coasts of the US often have no idea where Minnesota is.  But.... after exploring Arkansas for nearly a week this August,  I have become a huge fan of this lovely state and can now place it corretly on the map.

We stopped in Branson, Missouri on our way to the Ozarks, choosing to see the city's first and longest running show, called the Baldknobbers.  (Google that word for a surprising tale.)  One show and one overnight in Branson, fun as it was, was enough (at the least), and we headed for the Ozarks, choosing eventually to stay in four of the Arkansas state parks rather than in motels.  The state parks in Arkansas are first class and economical.  The accommodations include beautiful settings,  cute comfy cabins, scenic lodges with incredible views, excellent home-made (with an emphasis on fried) food, and friendly natives who give the term "Minnesota nice" a run for it's money.

The Ozarks are not the rocky jagged peaks of the Rockies, but tree-coated mounds of endless beauty.  The roads through the Ozarks, and the Ouachitas too, are good and not heavily traveled, at least not in August this year.  We often felt like we had the roads all to ourselves.  We decided it would be great to go back during the month of October to see the color change and perhaps try some fly fishing.  (Yes, on order are a couple DVDs from Amazon on the topic.)





The forests of the Ozarks are unusual in their mix of coniferous and deciduous trees.  This once common forest is now very rare in the US.










         
                                                                     
There are 51 state parks in Arkansas.   One we stayed at was called Petit Jean.  Petit Jean (I can only dream of her figure) was an 18th century woman who upon learning her fiance was off on an expedition to the Louisiana Territory, disguised herself as a cabin boy and sailed to the new world.  She survived the journey but died in Arkansas of a fever, never to see France again.

This beautiful cabin at Petit Jean State Park was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression.  The cabin was cozy, but the bed, which they claimed was brand new, was terrible, especially for old people with arthritis.  Wait a minute....do people with arthritis fly fish??????? Read us next year to find out!

CABO!!

See my new food, cooking and entertaining blog at phoebeinherkitchen.blogspot.com  

I had no idea how much I had missed Cabo!
From the second the wheels hit the tarmac, I could feel

The cleavage got burned that day!

myself taking a deep breath as if I were finally coming home.  For me, Cabo has it all in one small geographic package: the mountains, the ocean, the desert, and, most importantly, it has a group of people I love deeply. It started with reuniting with these friends in San Jose whom I had not seen in three years.  It felt like I had never left.  All of them seemed just the same but they were off on new life adventures.  I think that is why I love them all so much, because nothing about them changes yet they they are always reinventing themselves in creative interesting ways.

I stayed for three days total in San Jose at Laguna Vista, where we lived for nearly two years, and for three days in San Lucas with my friend Linda from Minneapolis who has a very rich relative who can afford presidential suites at Pueblo Bonito Sunset Beach.  (Thank you Linda for adopting me.)  In Los Cabos I ate the best and the healthiest of foods, did a little shopping, and just soaked in the beauty all around me.  The five-star resort was truly a once in a lifetime experience.  Linda and I enjoyed a tour of the resort and all its splendor and we sat by and swam in the infinity pool, eating fish tacos and sipping pina coladas. Our suite overlooked the beach, and the sound of the ocean waves lulled me to sleep.  We walked the beach up close to the famous arch and I took photos of what is supposedly the house of Bill and Melinda Gates.   Linda's family took me to dinner at one of my favorite restaurants on the beach in Cabo San Lucas called The Office.  I ate fresh shrimp and lobster with my feet in the sand and my eyes looking upon the Sea of Cortez and the Cabo arch.

Bill and Melinda did not appear to be home.   

Cabo San Lucas is as trashy as ever but the quaint little town of San Jose is really bustling!  Very different from the recession/H1N1 flu-scare years we spent there.  In a perfect world, Harry and I would spend a few months a year in this paradise, without teaching school.  And maybe the next time Linda and I walk down towards the the arch on the Pacific side, Bill and Melinda will invite us in for pina coladas and fish tacos! Remember, this would be in a perfect world!

Cabo San Lucas here I come!

It has been more than three years since I have been back to Los Cabos, our home for two years from 2008 to 2010, but now a teacher friend of mine from Minneapolis has asked me to join her on a family trip the first week of July. I hesitated for about a nano second then went on line to book my flight.  I am excited to go back to what has to be one of the most geographically beautiful places on earth, but my greatest joy is having the opportunity to see once again the dear friends I made there.

My life of late has been joyful and hectic.  Alexis and Curtis were married June 8th here in Minneapolis.  It all turned out so beautifully that we are still basking in the glow.  It truly took a village to make the wedding festivities such fun events.  I worked full time subbing in St. Louis Park and Edina most of March through May, ending the school year by being fired from Edina Public Schools (more on this story in a future blog).  Then last week, Harry came down with shingles.  He is suffering quietly, as is his way, and I have decided shingles is not something I ever want to experience.  I would not suffer so quietly, as we all know.

Our bizarre weather here in the northland has caused much havoc for people who became the victims of flooded basements, days of no power, and trees that uprooted and fell on cars and houses and garages. Our friends Brian and Vicki, and my sisters Julie and Ardee and their families all felt the brunt of three days of torrential summer rain, wind and hail.  They all used my mother's tired old phrase, "Well remember, things could always be worse," but things were pretty worse for all of them.  Our young friends with premature twins and a two year old have had their trials too.  Kristi and Tony are going through a very difficult stretch as they struggle to meet all the needs of their beautiful children.

So, with all this in mind, I am off to paradise.  Granted, a hot paradise.  The ten-day forecast for Cabo is in the mid to high nineties, but this time I will be lying on the beach, not standing outside on the hot pavement for 30 minutes each day in the scorching heat while loading rich, entitled children into $75,000 SUVs.  Our destination is a resort on the Pacific side of the peninsula called Pueblo Bonita.  Linda says George Clooney's and Bill Gates' digs are within view from our windows.  Can this really be true?  I will report from Los Cabos next week when the word hectic may no longer be part of my vocabulary.

Lean In ignites Mommy Wars

Some mommies are back in their bunkers again ready to rage war.  Sheryl Sandberg, the #2 Facebook executive, has been promoting her "leaning in" philosophy with her book published last month and some women are not pleased with the message.  Lean In is stirring up buzz similar to the buzz the book Tiger Mom did two years ago. Tiger Mom advocated for higher expectations and stricter boundaries in parenting. The Facebook #2 believes women are in part responsible for feminism's stall. The current Time magazine cover has a picture of Sandberg with the words "Don't Hate Her Because She's Successful." Even Maureen Dowd, New York Times' liberal, Newt-Gindgrich-hating, op-ed columnist, took her shots calling Sandberg a "Pom Pom Feminist in Prada Boots."  Ouch!

Tiger Mom was instantly disliked by many women.  Media portrayed its author as a tyrant who locked her daughter out on the cold porch for a few minutes because she refused to practice piano.  Both daughters of the Yale Law professor Tiger Mom are extremely accomplished young women who seem to be thriving without the need for therapy, so far at least.  Harvard MBA billionaire mom Sheryl Sandberg will never have financial problems but her children may struggle with entitlement issues in the future.  Do these women who generate such controversy really have anything valuable to say?   I would argue they do indeed, but then I like a little controversy that gets people upset enough to think about the status quo.   

Let's be honest, the vision Betty and Gloria had for women back in the seventies has yet to materialize: men still run the world.  Sandberg believes women themselves must re-boot feminism to get things going again.  Women over the past generation in our country certainly have more choices and women  have outnumbered men in college graduation rates for the past three decades.  This fact has not translated to women weiding equal amount of power in business and politics.  Women currently head 4% of Fortune 500 companies and run 17 out of the 195 countries in the world.  

Facebook grew from 70 million users in 2008 to a billion users today on the watch of Sheryl Sandberg, this driven mother of two.  Company revenues increased from 150 million to 1.5 billion in the same period.  Facebook stock is beginning to show growth after a poor start a year ago. In her book, Sandberg cites studies that companies with women on their boards are more successful than those with men only.  It is also true that American corporations structure their employee days around the idea that someone else is handling the home front responsibilities. Granted, Sandberg the billionaire leads a charmed life, but her observations about women and the workplace I believe are astute.

Oz The Great and Powerful

The first movie I remember loving and being scared by as a child was The Wizard of Oz starring Judy Garland.  Back in the 50's on Easter Sunday night one of the big networks would run The Wizard of Oz.  Our family tradition of watching this movie began when I was three or four.  We ate our Easter dinner at my grandparents house and then all us would crowd into the living room to watch the movie together.  It is one of my favorite memories.  My grandparents had a color television, we did not, so when Dorothy went from the black and white Kansas to the in-color Land of Oz it was truly magical.

I remember being terrified of the wicked witch, covering my eyes when she came on screen.  As the years went by I learned to deal with my fear of the Wicked Witch of the West, knowing she always got her just deserts in the end.   One of my college courses in the School of Education at the U of M required us to read a book by Austrian born child psychologist, Bruno Bettleheim, called The Uses of Enchantment.  Bettelheim believed that scary stories, like the ones compiled by the Grimm brothers, helped children grapple with fears in remote symbolic terms thus promoting emotional growth that prepared them for their future.

I remember loving being scared when my father read me the Tales from Grimm and my years teaching taught me most kids like being a little scared by stories and movies.  One year I read my first graders a series of scary mystery stories. A fluent reader in the class brought in the first book of the series telling me the class would love this scary book.  I decided to give it a try and the students did indeed love the the book.  They begged each day for me to read them a chapter and we eventually read several books from the series.   ( I can't for the life of me remember the titles or author of these books. They were sort of the Captain Underpants series of their day.)  There was one little girl however who found the stories too scary and she would sit and play or read by herself in the back of the classroom as I read aloud. The stories would often end on a comical note sending the kids into peals of laughter and the little girl eventually joined the group to listen to the books seeming as if she was proud that she had overcome her fear.

A few years back Harry and I went to see one of the Lord of the Rings movies and across the aisle from us was a six or seven year old with his parents.  The child spent most of the movie with his hands over his eyes.  My ex-husband and I took Alexis to see ET when she was three.  I remember she was transfixed by the movie but on the way out of the theatre she began to sob.  My daughter has no memory of the ET movie but she will tell you with relish how her mother scared her to death when she read repeatedly read her the story of Little Red Riding Hood.  I would knock on the fireplace wall behind the rocking chair we sat in together just as I got to the part where the wolf knocked on the grandmother's cottage door.  My terrified child would scream out when I did this even though she chose to have me read her Little Red Riding Hood night after night.  The scream eventually turned into both of us laughing and I remember after reading the book um-teen times, Alexis began knocking on the wall before I did.  She of course only remembers her mother terrifying her.

Some might argue after hearing these tales of what I read to first graders, how I took a child of three to see ET and those sound effects I added to Little Red Riding Hood is proof I did not acquire the sort of emotional growth Bettelheim hoped I would have.  Maybe the fact that my parents and grandparents let me watch The Wizard of Oz and listen to Tales From Grimm at such a tender age backfired.    

On Friday afternoon, the semi-retired person I now profess to be, found herself on the way to the movies.  I had high hopes that the new Oz would not disappoint at the ticket price of $11, but decided it best to go alone if it did.  When I got to the theatre at noon on Friday to see The Great and Powerful Oz  I looked forward being the only person in the theatre.  Instead I found myself in a long line of young teenagers also buying tickets for my movie.  I asked the young woman selling tickets why these kids were not in school and she said she had no idea.  The large group of kids filled the theatre's upper rows and I found myself a nice seat meant for the handicapped as far away from the group as I could before I put on my 3D glasses.  The  kids did talk their way through most of the movie but I found it rather fun to hear how much they were enjoying it, especially the scary parts.   The group was primarily black students and it ran through my mind that all the main characters were undoubtedly going to be white.  It turned out that wasn't entirely true, there were a few black, Asian and Latino munchkins in this version.  I guess an all white cast is nowadays scary to movie producers.  

If you have fond memories of The Wizard of Oz I think you will very much enjoy this prequel devoted to the telling of what happened before Dorothy arrived in Oz.  There are some very clever and humorous touches relating to the original film.  The cast is excellent and the special effects are not overblown but truly add more magic to this magical tale.  The movie is fun and scary, but not too scary.  I didn't even have to cover my eyes!

To Retire or not to retire....that is............

Slowing down is a scary thing especially for a person who has spent her entire life devoted to multi-tasking.  I came by this propensity honestly. I vividly remember as a child my mother whizzing by like the energizer bunny with a pile of dirty laundry under one arm while pushing a vacuum cleaner with the other.  She never seemed to sit down for more than five minutes at a time.  At dinner I recall her standing by the stove during dinner as the six of us sat in a small kitchen at a small table eating the meal she had quickly prepared after a full day cleaning other peoples houses.  The six at the dinner table each night included four children, an alcoholic husband, a live-in alcoholic grandmother so there wasn't much time for my mom to relax.  She worked full time and cared for others  when she got home for many years.   The children moved away, grandma died but my mom continued working until she died at 69.

My mom sent me out to work part-time when I was 15 and except for a four month maternity leave I have kept my working career going for nearly 50 years now.  When I retired from my job teaching in Minneapolis at age 55 I quickly learned I was not retirement material.  My mother's DNA was too hard to fight and I went back to work subbing in Saint Louis Park until Harry and I went to Mexico where I taught for two years.  I returned to subbing regularly since we returned from Mexico three years ago.

I find myself hitting the wall with regard to teaching.  The truth is I cannot imagine at my age of 62 working full time to age 66 as most people in this country must do.  I have had some minor health issues and have cut back to subbing a couple days a week finding those two days more than enough.  Lucky me, most people my age have to just keep going five days a week.  Not teaching so much feels so great right now.

So, I have been fashioning a new life of sorts and things are going pretty well.  A little blessing named Archer came in our door last week.  He is two years old and his parents and our friends, Krisit and Tony, need a little help as they had twin girls born prematurely at the end of January who are still in the NICU for another month. The girls are doing very well and they are hopeful to bring them home in April.   After Kristi and Tony left Archer with us last Saturday night he began unprompted to call us grandma and grandpa.  We decided not to correct him.  He came again Friday and will be coming for a few more weeks on a a regular basis.  We enjoy him so much!

Last week I was subbing in a second grade classroom in St. Louis Park and there was one of those words of wisdom calendars on the teachers' desk.  The calendar wisdom for the day was: "Retire when your sorrow at leaving the classroom is smaller than your joyful thirst for new adventures."  As a believer in fortune cookies I of course took this message very much to heart.

Massage Therapy

I can be a person of passionate enthusiasms, as my friends and family know all too well.  Some of my great enthusiasms have had a short lifespan, others went on life support and passed away quietly, and some remain robust and healthy.  This fall after reading the book Wheat Belly by William Davis, MD., I became obnoxiously  enthusiastic about fundamentally changing my diet and the diets of those in my household.  I found going gluten free very difficult because it required discipline and consistency, two disciplines I consistently lack.   I lasted gluten free for about a month, even though the diet made me feel great and I lost weight.  

My latest in a long list of health-related enthusiasms is massage, and it may be a passion with some staying power.  I had been suffering for many months with a painfully stiff neck and embarked on a journey to find some relief, involving my doctor, a physical therapist, a chiropractor, exercise, and pills of all sorts.  None of these roads led to Rome.  In desperation I signed a contract at Massage Envy in Edina for a year in order to get a bargain-priced massage once a month.  Some massage therapists at Massage Envy were good, some just ok; and then one day I got lucky.  I had explained to the woman at the desk that my neck was still pretty bad and she asked if I had had a massage with Gary Sarppo?

I realized immediately that Gary was not your average massage therapist. He was highly skilled and intuitive. The first time he gave me a massage  I had a bit of bruising on my back the next day, which he told me I should expect from deep tissue work.  I also felt a bit sick for a few hours after the massage and I  drank lots of water to rid my body of the toxins released by the massage.   I did not bruise on my second massage with Gary, but therapeutic massage is never pain free.  No pain, no gain.

After three massages with Gary I had a pain-free neck for the first time in over a year and the pain has not returned.  Gary left Massage Envy last summer, and with some minor subterfuge I discovered that he had opened his own practice in Roseville.  Though my neck was pain free, I continued regular massages with Gary because I began to experience other results I never anticipated.  Besides a bad neck I have  two chronic stress-related conditions which manifest themselves in my body on a fairly regular basis, even more regularly with advancing age.  With whole body massage these conditions have ceased to plague me.  Most surprising of all, I have stopped taking painkillers for my arthritic knee.  

Recently our friends Tom and Anne returned from a month long trip to Thailand.  They biked, hiked, and kayaked through the Thai countryside.  They also enjoyed  massages on the days they were not out adventuring.  I told Gary this and he said the tradition of massage in Asia dates back some 5,000 years.  I am grateful to the Asians and to Gary.    

Gary's website is:

Massage Rejuvenation in Roseville,Minnesota,Gary Sarppo ...

www.rejuvemass.massagetherapy.com/

Schedule an online appointment with Massage Rejuvenation

www.genbook.com

Schedule an online appointment with Massage Rejuvenation in Roseville, Minnesota

*I took a bad fall ice skating on New Years Day.  I saw my doctor, who said nothing was broken and I should heal in a few weeks.  The pain in my arm was excruciating for two weeks.   I went to Gary last week to see if he could help me.  He worked for an hour on my arm.  The massage hurt pretty bad because the muscles in my arm were a mess, but two days later the pain is nearly gone.  I'm wondering which body part to throw into a crisis next.

Lincoln, the film

I knew Lincoln was a film I wanted to see, Abe being one of my favorite historical figures, but I was not sure I had the courage. I knew the film would undoubtedly include Civil War battle scenes and I have been known to get up and leave the movie theatre when people begin killing people. This difficulty severely limits one's movie choices, and I know I have missed some great ones because of this aspect of my personality.

Many years ago, when Ken Burns came out with his award winning series on the Civil War, I had the same fear. Years went by and I never watched the acclaimed series. Then one weekend, having contracted strep throat, I was feeling pretty incapacitated; so I turned on PBS and collapsed on the couch.  As fate would have it, pledge week was in progress and the entire Ken Burns series was about to begin.  In those days we did not have a remote, and being too weak to get up I decided fate had spoken.  I was hooked after the first episode.

A friend in my building and I had recently made plans to see "a movie" together after New Year's.  She called and suggested we see Lincoln.  I knew it was either now or wait a few years.  I cheerfully told told her it was a great choice and that I wanted to see it too.  Within the first few minutes of the film a brief battle scene emerged, a scene that will forever burn in my memory. War is often romanticized but director Spielberg does not suffer such fools lightly. The scene was one of graphic horror, men waist deep in water killing each other with bayonets.

To say the rest of the film is a bit slow moving is an understatement, and this from a woman who loves nothing more than watching the BBC's Jane Austen video series.  Spielberg depicts the last five months of Lincoln's life with all its complexity using the best-selling book by historian Doris Kearns Goodwin, Team of Rivals, as his guide.  I taught Lincoln and the Civil War back in my middle school teaching days, but I was embarrassed to realize how little I really knew or remembered about the passage of the 13th amendment.

Spielberg's direction makes you feel as if you have unobtrusively moved into the White House to watch the intimacies of Lincoln's family life from January to April 1865.  The film portrays Lincoln for the savvy politician he was but more importantly it portrays the man he was.  Lincoln frequently and tenderly shows affection for his youngest son, often reading to him while cradling him on his lap.  Lincoln rides on horseback, top hat in hand, across a battlefield littered with hundreds of bodies.  An aide tells Lincoln it is not really necessary for him to do so.  Lincoln accepted the fact that some votes would have to be bought to ensure passage of the 13th amendment.  He uses a stroke of deceptive genius to move the amendment forward to a vote when its opponents find reasons for delay that would undoubtedly kill the amendment forever.  

There is an explosive, raw and painful argument in the film between the Lincolns concerning the death of their young son, Edward, in 1862.  Mary Todd refuses to let the elder son join the Union army.  Lincoln supports his wife in this decision, but he understands his son's rage and shame at not being allowed to fight. It is clear that both Abe and Mary Todd had formidable personalities.  Lincoln honestly tells his wife that she is the one in their relationship who has expressed all the emotional agony around the death of their son so he would not have to.  He  defends his threats to put her in an insane asylum as a rational response to her overwhelming and debilitating despair.  On a carriage ride the day before the assassination, Lincoln tells Mary they could try being a little happier in their marriage as they have been unhappy for so long.  The couple never got a chance to be happier.  I once read somewhere that after the assassination Mary Todd spent the remaining years of her life in bed. The nation spent the ensuing years without the leader whose gentle magnanimous spirit might have been have been able to put it back together properly.

It may seem incredible that so many members of congress opposed passage of the 13th Amendment,  but many did, and they did so with great senatorial oratory.  Just before the roll-call vote, one anti-amendment senator declares that passage of the 13th amendment will be the beginning of the end; the end being black men eventually obtaining the right to vote, which would inevitably lead, God forbid, to women voting. Mary Todd, whose family owned slaves, sits in the balcony of the house chamber with her black maid at her side as a large group of black men and women fill in the rows behind them.  They are welcomed by the speaker as he notes this is the first time blacks have been allowed into house chamber.

Lincoln is portrayed as a man who would listen attentively to people, especially to those who did not agree with him.  He frequently told stories with a message to give supporters and non-supporters a perspective he felt they lacked.  He told jokes when tensions were high and when it would be best for people to rein in their passions   Angry outbursts were not part of Lincoln's character but when he did get angry, sort of like Jesus in the temple, it was justified and people took note.  Lincoln tells his wife that he believes people are about as happy as they decide to be in life.  Quite a profound statement from a man who battled deep personal depression and bitter losses during his life without the aide of a prescription or a therapist.  In a moving scene he tells Mary Todd's black maid he has no idea how the two races will get on together after the war.

The film ends abruptly with the assassination, and as the lights came on, rather than the crowd moving  up and out quickly as usual, many in the packed theatre sat motionless for several minutes. As my teary eyes surveyed the crowd I noticed some people giving each other hugs.  The fact that you know how it's all going to end does not soften the devastation you feel as this movie ends.  Lincoln tells members of his cabinet just before he leaves for the play that evening that he would rather stay with them. We watch as he ambles slowly with that unmistakable walk out of the front door of the White House and into the history books.  We are spared seeing the gunshot to the head.  Instead we see Lincoln on his deathbed encircled by his cabinet as the doctor pronounces the exact time of his death.  The soundtrack suddenly goes silent and we are given a close-up of Mary Lincoln's face: no sound is necessary.      


We will never live in a country where liberty and justice for all, the pledge we all chant like robots as we salute the flag, is a reality.  But we do live in "one nation" that ended legalized slavery thanks to the Abolitionists and Abe Lincoln. Yes, it took some compromise and dirty tricks for sure, but Lincoln delivered.  The realities of this painful horrific history make it very hard to stomach some of today's Texans who recently resurrected their cry today for independence from the Union.  Lincoln knew the institution of slavery must end, no matter the economic consequences to the powerful and entitled.  A nation with the dream of liberty and justice for all comes with a great price, however.  To quote Lincoln: "The war, possibly divine punishment for slavery, might continue until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword."

In Love With a Fiat 500

Veronica's photo taken in the garage the day I brought her home.

After 15 years of a beautiful long-term relationship, I dumped the automotive love of my life, Fiona, my 1998 Volkswagen Beetle.  OK, I had had another long term love affair with my Honda named Holly back in the eighties.  Holly  came to a sudden, unexpected end when I was rear-ended on a freeway entrance ramp.  My heart, but not my bones, was broken in that accident, and I was hesitant to love again until I met Fiona.

The first several years that I drove Fiona, people would wave and smile at her everywhere I went.  It was hard to stay in a bad mood while driving Little Miss Sunshine.  Fiona may have a lot of years but she only has 78,000 miles on her.  The mechanic who tuned her up last said, "She will go forever."  Well, I did not give her that chance, because, I am ashamed to say, I fell in love with a Fiat.

I have kept my secret crush pretty quiet.  It started a year or so ago when I saw the commercial with Jennifer Lopez driving the white Fiat 500 convertible through the streets of her old neighborhood in the Bronx. I fell in love instantly, not with Jennifer, but with her car.  I had been faithful to Fiona for years, never thinking someone else would ever win my heart again, but it happened.  It just happened.

I had to have the white steering wheel!

I do feel guilty.  Fiona has been faithful to me all these years although she did need an engine replacement early on back in '99, which her parents paid for.  I felt a bit betrayed by that but I got over it.  But after seeing J-Lo drive that beautiful car, I found myself lusting after every Fiat 500 I saw.  I knew I should know better because my ex-husband and I owned a Fiat when we were first married in '71 and that Fiat was cute but it was a piece of junk. 

I found the new Fiat irresistible but I had to be sure.  I read up on it extensively, going to a variety of car websites.  I learned the 500 have been a big success in Europe since '07.  Sure they were smaller than most cars Americans drive, but they get incredible gas mileage.  They have wall to wall interior air bags ready to explode when you crash and risk being folded up like an accordion.  Then of course there is that cuteness factor.  

Some of the men who learned about my love affair with the Fiat 500 did not support me.  Men read Consumer Reports to decide which car to buy.  Women, as we all know, look to see what "Jenny from the block is driving."  After all, J-lo has made some excellent choices in her life of late.  She dumped that awful husband of hers and got herself a new man, a younger model who can really dance!  One of the critical men, who shall remain nameless,  gave me a hard time about buying this car now never misses a time to drive her. The only man who gave me support with this difficult transition was my friend Gordon in Florida.  In fact Gordon owns a black Fiat 500 and I had my first Fiat ride in his car in November.  The moment we pulled away from the curb I knew it was all over between Fiona and me.  I would be dumping the German born/Mexican made VW for a younger, pale green Italian.  I blame Gordon now, not Jennifer.

My daughter, who just moved home after living 13 years in NYC, totaled her car while I was in Florida.  Finally, I had the perfect excuse to consummate my affair -- I mean, buy the Fiat.   I gave Fiona to Alexis.  Fiona actually took my rejection of her pretty well.  I was surprised.  I think the fact that she is now being seen with a young, attractive driver 30 years younger than me helps her cope with the pain of our separation.  When Alexis was learning to drive a stick, she threw that lovely bouquet of flowers I always kept on the dash into the back seat, and Fiona could have cared less.  I thought Fiona loved those artificial flowers, which I would always update for the different seasons: tulips in the spring, roses in the summer, mums in the fall, holly at Christmas.  Maybe she felt those flowers made her look old, I don't know.  I put blond streaks in my hair, trying to look younger, so I guess I can't really blame Fiona.  I guess you really never know a person, I mean a car, like you think you do.

At the moment we are all living happily ever after.  Alexis loves Fiona and I love love love my new pale green, white dash, 5 speed Veronica.  Veronica even came with blue tooth.  I had no idea what that even was until my adorable 27 year old car salesman explained it to me.  I did test drive an automatic 500 thinking that with my arthritic knees I should give up on driving a 5-speed.  No way!  Driving a stick in this car makes me feel like Danica Patrick at the Indy 500.  I decided I can just take Advil on long road trips.

No, it's not me.  My Fiat is light green!

I must say however that I have found Italian woman to be rather temperamental and demanding.   Veronica told me on the way home from the dealership she wanted a moon roof installed as soon as possible.  I told her it was too expensive but I would buy her flowers for her dash.  She scoffed at me.  I do want her to be happy though so I may just have to buy her that moon roof.