Selasa, 30 Desember 2008
New Year's Resolutions
Year after year people make commitments on New Year's to lose weight, but very few people actually reach their goals.It starts with unrealistic beliefs about exercise and weight loss. Then when they don't meet those ideals - they quit completely.They take the "ALL or NOTHING" approach to weight loss. They either workout everyday and eat from a restricted menu, or they are back to their old
Killing a Proverbial Possum
Last night, when my husband Larry took the dogs outside for their last romp of the day, big, hairy, passive, lovable Cooper - our flat-coated retriever - brought along his little stuffed hedgehog squeaky toy. Larry was feeling better (he caught the bug shortly after me) so he was happy to throw a few rounds with his favorite dog.
There are no lights that shine in our backyard at night. The back porch light only goes as far as the edge of the deck. Larry threw the hedgehog into the dark backyard and our black dog went chasing after it. A few seconds later, Cooper returned with what Larry thought was the hedgehog, and they began to play tug of war, as they always do.
Before long, Larry thought, Gee, this is much bigger than his hedgehog. Warmer, too. That's when he realized Cooper had brought him a dead possum! Not only a dead possum, but a possum Cooper killed with one bite to the neck, all within a few moments in the dark. Cooper made no sounds and the possum probably didn't know what hit him.
Larry wrapped the body in bags and put it out with the garbage and tried to wash the ooginess off his hands when he came in. But all the while he kept shaking his head and saying, "I can't believe Cooper did that!"
We nicknamed Cooper "Killer."
I don't believe Cooper killed the possum for the thrill of killing something. Perhaps he was following some latent instinct, but my guess is he confused the possum for his hedgehog and grabbed it before he realized it wasn't his squeaky toy. Either way, Cooper did something he'd never done before. And unlike the other two dogs who got spooked and ran away into the house, Cooper didn't drop the possum and run away. He brought it to Larry in hopes they'd continue their game.
In hopes that I'm not stretching the analogy too far, successful weight loss is like accidentally killing a possum. You run into the darkness to retrieve what you think is your goal only to come back with something unexpected.
I am a product of New Year's Resolution 2005: sh*t or get off the pot. I decided Jan. 1 I was going to lose weight and weigh 190 pounds again. 190 was a weight that felt familiar, a weight that made me feel less insecure and more emotionally available to the outside world. To go any lower would be futile since all the other times I'd gone below 190 before I just bounced right back up in a matter of months, so it was (emotionally) safer to settle for 190.
But a funny thing happened when I ran into that weight-loss darkness (for the gabillionth time). Somewhere between 300 and 190, I learned to *gasp* trust myself and trust in time. I developed *double gasp* instincts. I *in a near faint* began to love the person losing weight and committed to doing everything I could to protect her.
I surprised a lot of people when I kept going down the scale, past the familiar 190 pounds when people started saying, "You're not going to lose any MORE are you?" And I've surprised a lot of people now that two years later, I haven't gained anything back. I surprised a lot of people, namely me, when I killed that proverbial possum of a goal and came back with so much more. Something more than settling for the same old familiar fears and insecurities.
If you're making a resolution to lose weight in 2009, be bold, be fearless. Run into that darkness and find what you're really made of. Resolve NOT to revert back to old thinking and old strategies. Resolve to trust yourself. Resolve to trust time. (Newsflash: weight loss doesn't happen overnight. One pound lost in two weeks is one less pound you have to lose the rest of your life. Or, to put it another way, you can't lose ten., twenty or a hundred pounds unless you lose the first one.)
Resolve to do something you've never done before.
There are no lights that shine in our backyard at night. The back porch light only goes as far as the edge of the deck. Larry threw the hedgehog into the dark backyard and our black dog went chasing after it. A few seconds later, Cooper returned with what Larry thought was the hedgehog, and they began to play tug of war, as they always do.
Before long, Larry thought, Gee, this is much bigger than his hedgehog. Warmer, too. That's when he realized Cooper had brought him a dead possum! Not only a dead possum, but a possum Cooper killed with one bite to the neck, all within a few moments in the dark. Cooper made no sounds and the possum probably didn't know what hit him.
Larry wrapped the body in bags and put it out with the garbage and tried to wash the ooginess off his hands when he came in. But all the while he kept shaking his head and saying, "I can't believe Cooper did that!"
We nicknamed Cooper "Killer."
I don't believe Cooper killed the possum for the thrill of killing something. Perhaps he was following some latent instinct, but my guess is he confused the possum for his hedgehog and grabbed it before he realized it wasn't his squeaky toy. Either way, Cooper did something he'd never done before. And unlike the other two dogs who got spooked and ran away into the house, Cooper didn't drop the possum and run away. He brought it to Larry in hopes they'd continue their game.
In hopes that I'm not stretching the analogy too far, successful weight loss is like accidentally killing a possum. You run into the darkness to retrieve what you think is your goal only to come back with something unexpected.
I am a product of New Year's Resolution 2005: sh*t or get off the pot. I decided Jan. 1 I was going to lose weight and weigh 190 pounds again. 190 was a weight that felt familiar, a weight that made me feel less insecure and more emotionally available to the outside world. To go any lower would be futile since all the other times I'd gone below 190 before I just bounced right back up in a matter of months, so it was (emotionally) safer to settle for 190.
But a funny thing happened when I ran into that weight-loss darkness (for the gabillionth time). Somewhere between 300 and 190, I learned to *gasp* trust myself and trust in time. I developed *double gasp* instincts. I *in a near faint* began to love the person losing weight and committed to doing everything I could to protect her.
I surprised a lot of people when I kept going down the scale, past the familiar 190 pounds when people started saying, "You're not going to lose any MORE are you?" And I've surprised a lot of people now that two years later, I haven't gained anything back. I surprised a lot of people, namely me, when I killed that proverbial possum of a goal and came back with so much more. Something more than settling for the same old familiar fears and insecurities.
If you're making a resolution to lose weight in 2009, be bold, be fearless. Run into that darkness and find what you're really made of. Resolve NOT to revert back to old thinking and old strategies. Resolve to trust yourself. Resolve to trust time. (Newsflash: weight loss doesn't happen overnight. One pound lost in two weeks is one less pound you have to lose the rest of your life. Or, to put it another way, you can't lose ten., twenty or a hundred pounds unless you lose the first one.)
Resolve to do something you've never done before.
Minggu, 28 Desember 2008
If Only I'd Listened...
I wasn’t hungry on Friday. Not one bit. I had five Points leftover for the day, and it would have been more if I’d not forced myself to eat some popcorn before going to bed so I wouldn’t wake up hungry in the middle of the night. God forbid.
But wake up I did, only not because I was hungry. Let’s just say I’ll be buying new bathroom rugs and a few new pairs of pajamas after the mess I created with the “stomach bug.”
Not only did I spend 18 hours getting intimately acquainted with my bathroom (and the path from the couch to said bathroom), I had time to think about how my body talks to me about food and how much of it I actually hear.
If I’d done what I was “supposed” to do, which is to eat all my daily Points allowance, if I’d stuck five more Points of food in my piehole before going to bed, forget new bathroom rugs and pajamas. I’d be on the phone with the EPA.
I was busy on Friday (see last blog entry), but nothing sounded good. I ate because, well, that’s what I do. Never mind that my stomach wasn’t feeling quite right or that I felt full all day and didn’t really feel like eating. I stuffed (good) stuff in my mouth, like I do every day.
Somewhere between the chills and the fever yesterday I wondered, When did eating become so rote, so predictable? The answer is, when I stopped really tuning in to what my body wants and needs. I’ve learned how to eat healthy and exercise to the point that I tell my body what it needs. I no longer ask it what it needs.
Of course the exception to that rule is when you don’t want to drink water because it will make your stomach hurt, but if you don’t, you’ll dehydrate and have to go to the emergency room. I got all tough love on my body about that yesterday. But aside from that, there won’t be many occasions when I need to force anything down the esophagus.
Whether I ate anything Friday or not wouldn’t have stopped the stomach bug. But it might have made the experience a little less harsh and I might have salvaged that second pair of pajamas.
This morning, as I laid awake in bed, I asked my body what it wanted to eat. My head was saying, “Eggs and toast! Eggs and toast!” But the rest of me was saying “Bland vegetable soup.” So I got up, took a shower (it was imperative that I scrub the plague off my body before I did anything else), and made a very mild soup with vegetable broth, celery, carrots, a small potato, green beans, zucchini, spinach, onions, garlic, and a pinch of barley, pepper, thyme, oregano, sage, rosemary and marjoram. So far so good. Except for my head, nothing else hurts. Looks like I’ll live.
You know I’m a crusader for mindful eating, but as I discovered yesterday, mindful eating goes beyond just being aware of the food you put in your mouth. It also means being mindful of what your body (not your head or eyes) needs. If your body begs you to not eat, don’t eat! You just might save yourself a visit from men in hazardous waste suits.
But wake up I did, only not because I was hungry. Let’s just say I’ll be buying new bathroom rugs and a few new pairs of pajamas after the mess I created with the “stomach bug.”
Not only did I spend 18 hours getting intimately acquainted with my bathroom (and the path from the couch to said bathroom), I had time to think about how my body talks to me about food and how much of it I actually hear.
If I’d done what I was “supposed” to do, which is to eat all my daily Points allowance, if I’d stuck five more Points of food in my piehole before going to bed, forget new bathroom rugs and pajamas. I’d be on the phone with the EPA.
I was busy on Friday (see last blog entry), but nothing sounded good. I ate because, well, that’s what I do. Never mind that my stomach wasn’t feeling quite right or that I felt full all day and didn’t really feel like eating. I stuffed (good) stuff in my mouth, like I do every day.
Somewhere between the chills and the fever yesterday I wondered, When did eating become so rote, so predictable? The answer is, when I stopped really tuning in to what my body wants and needs. I’ve learned how to eat healthy and exercise to the point that I tell my body what it needs. I no longer ask it what it needs.
Of course the exception to that rule is when you don’t want to drink water because it will make your stomach hurt, but if you don’t, you’ll dehydrate and have to go to the emergency room. I got all tough love on my body about that yesterday. But aside from that, there won’t be many occasions when I need to force anything down the esophagus.
Whether I ate anything Friday or not wouldn’t have stopped the stomach bug. But it might have made the experience a little less harsh and I might have salvaged that second pair of pajamas.
This morning, as I laid awake in bed, I asked my body what it wanted to eat. My head was saying, “Eggs and toast! Eggs and toast!” But the rest of me was saying “Bland vegetable soup.” So I got up, took a shower (it was imperative that I scrub the plague off my body before I did anything else), and made a very mild soup with vegetable broth, celery, carrots, a small potato, green beans, zucchini, spinach, onions, garlic, and a pinch of barley, pepper, thyme, oregano, sage, rosemary and marjoram. So far so good. Except for my head, nothing else hurts. Looks like I’ll live.
You know I’m a crusader for mindful eating, but as I discovered yesterday, mindful eating goes beyond just being aware of the food you put in your mouth. It also means being mindful of what your body (not your head or eyes) needs. If your body begs you to not eat, don’t eat! You just might save yourself a visit from men in hazardous waste suits.
Jumat, 26 Desember 2008
Organization Is My Middle Name (and the stick up my bum)
My husband calls our house an RV because I utilize every square inch of storage space our little house offers. Organized to the nines, I store stuff up, under, behind and overhead.
When my house is organized, I am organized. My life can be in total chaos, but when I can find a hammer or batteries or the remote to the CD player without any thought simply because it’s where it should be, I can handle anything.
Being organized helped me lose weight. Being organized keeps me between 128-130 pounds. Organization is my emotional compass. If my house is a wreck, my desk strewn with papers, I guarantee you won’t want to engage me in conversation.
The antithesis of organization is clutter. I hate clutter**** (please read the **** footnote clarification at the end of this blog). I hate clutter more than trans fats, fake maple syrup, and Culture Club. Clutter makes my right eye twitch. And man, was it twitching this morning when I came downstairs and saw my new food processor, hand mixer and box of eco-friendly food storage containers waiting for me on the dining room table. I was fully aware they were there when I went to bed last night, but my mind was still processing the day of family, presents, too many carbs (damn you puppy chow!) and the Mel Brooks movie “To Be Or Not To Be.”
But in the light of dawn, nothing wakes me up quite like clutter.
By 7:30 a.m., I’d mapped out a strategy. The new food processor would go where the old one was and the hand mixer would fit nicely in the third drawer next to the stove. The new storage containers posed a bit of a problem since I have no extra space in my kitchen. Something had to go, either moved to the basement, the garage or Goodwill. I wasn’t sure what.
So, I started at the most logical place. The dogs’ water dish.
Our dogs’ water dish sits between the microwave cart and the long counter that accommodates our sink. It’s always in the way and is 7 feet away from their food bowls in the dining room. I can’t remember why we put it there, but it obviously made sense at the time. In order to find space for the new storage containers, the dish would have to move. I know, it makes no sense whatsoever in anyone else’s mind, but in mine, it’s pure genius.
So, after completely changing our dogs’ eating and watering ensemble (they are now using different bowls in a different location – don’t ask), my next step(s) in finding room for the eco-friendly food storage containers was to:
· Take everything out from lower cupboards and microwave cart
· Vacuum cupboards and microwave cart
· Reorganize every fry pan, baking dish, roaster, casserole and cookie sheet by order of frequency of use
· Put everything back in different places
· Bring unused pots to basement
· Notice cobwebs in stairwell
· Move mixer to where the old food processor used to be
· Move new food processor where the mixer used to be
· Move old food processor to basement
· Notice more cobwebs
· Vacuum basement stairs and rearrange items on stairway shelves
· Vacuum rest of kitchen
· Notice grime on the bottom vent of the refrigerator
· Clean out entire refrigerator
· Notice mold growing on block of cheddar cheese in crisper
· Cut off mold; shred cheese with new food processor
· Wash food processor
Finally, at 11:00 a.m., I opened the box of new containers and put them in their new home on the microwave cart. (Peter Walsh, if you’re reading this, you are my hero and I’m pretty sure we could be BFF.)
I now have cheese slices organized in a small plastic container in the crisper (no more slippy sliding all over the cheddar and Laughing Cow), all the Jello-O puddings neatly arranged in a long plastic container (no more toppling over and making Lynn curse), and I can retrieve a cookie sheet without breaking a wrist bone.
Now it’s time to listen to the Cowboy Junkies. I’m feeling organized and can now listen to the music without thinking I have to rearrange a pot or appliance. In addition to the aforementioned items, I also got fun stuff for Christmas, Trinity Revisited among them. It’s a seriously good CD/DVD combo. Trust me.
I hope you are enjoying some R&R, that you’re eating well and working out, and finding peace in the ways that are unique to you. Here are a few photos from my holiday. Talk to you all again real soon.
I'm so proud :)
Claire helps Grammy Lynn cook brunch (as long as I've got bony hips and a free hand, I can whip up anything)
Claire and Grammy eat an English muffin (she pretty much ate my entire egg-white omelet, too, but she did NOT get my mimosa)
Without daughter Cassie and SIL Matt, Claire and new baby in May wouldn't be here. Thanks guys!
**** I am clutter blind outside my own house and vehicle. I only hate my own clutter. I seriously, honest-to-god don’t notice or care about anyone else’s clutter.
When my house is organized, I am organized. My life can be in total chaos, but when I can find a hammer or batteries or the remote to the CD player without any thought simply because it’s where it should be, I can handle anything.
Being organized helped me lose weight. Being organized keeps me between 128-130 pounds. Organization is my emotional compass. If my house is a wreck, my desk strewn with papers, I guarantee you won’t want to engage me in conversation.
The antithesis of organization is clutter. I hate clutter**** (please read the **** footnote clarification at the end of this blog). I hate clutter more than trans fats, fake maple syrup, and Culture Club. Clutter makes my right eye twitch. And man, was it twitching this morning when I came downstairs and saw my new food processor, hand mixer and box of eco-friendly food storage containers waiting for me on the dining room table. I was fully aware they were there when I went to bed last night, but my mind was still processing the day of family, presents, too many carbs (damn you puppy chow!) and the Mel Brooks movie “To Be Or Not To Be.”
But in the light of dawn, nothing wakes me up quite like clutter.
By 7:30 a.m., I’d mapped out a strategy. The new food processor would go where the old one was and the hand mixer would fit nicely in the third drawer next to the stove. The new storage containers posed a bit of a problem since I have no extra space in my kitchen. Something had to go, either moved to the basement, the garage or Goodwill. I wasn’t sure what.
So, I started at the most logical place. The dogs’ water dish.
Our dogs’ water dish sits between the microwave cart and the long counter that accommodates our sink. It’s always in the way and is 7 feet away from their food bowls in the dining room. I can’t remember why we put it there, but it obviously made sense at the time. In order to find space for the new storage containers, the dish would have to move. I know, it makes no sense whatsoever in anyone else’s mind, but in mine, it’s pure genius.
So, after completely changing our dogs’ eating and watering ensemble (they are now using different bowls in a different location – don’t ask), my next step(s) in finding room for the eco-friendly food storage containers was to:
· Take everything out from lower cupboards and microwave cart
· Vacuum cupboards and microwave cart
· Reorganize every fry pan, baking dish, roaster, casserole and cookie sheet by order of frequency of use
· Put everything back in different places
· Bring unused pots to basement
· Notice cobwebs in stairwell
· Move mixer to where the old food processor used to be
· Move new food processor where the mixer used to be
· Move old food processor to basement
· Notice more cobwebs
· Vacuum basement stairs and rearrange items on stairway shelves
· Vacuum rest of kitchen
· Notice grime on the bottom vent of the refrigerator
· Clean out entire refrigerator
· Notice mold growing on block of cheddar cheese in crisper
· Cut off mold; shred cheese with new food processor
· Wash food processor
Finally, at 11:00 a.m., I opened the box of new containers and put them in their new home on the microwave cart. (Peter Walsh, if you’re reading this, you are my hero and I’m pretty sure we could be BFF.)
I now have cheese slices organized in a small plastic container in the crisper (no more slippy sliding all over the cheddar and Laughing Cow), all the Jello-O puddings neatly arranged in a long plastic container (no more toppling over and making Lynn curse), and I can retrieve a cookie sheet without breaking a wrist bone.
Now it’s time to listen to the Cowboy Junkies. I’m feeling organized and can now listen to the music without thinking I have to rearrange a pot or appliance. In addition to the aforementioned items, I also got fun stuff for Christmas, Trinity Revisited among them. It’s a seriously good CD/DVD combo. Trust me.
I hope you are enjoying some R&R, that you’re eating well and working out, and finding peace in the ways that are unique to you. Here are a few photos from my holiday. Talk to you all again real soon.
I'm so proud :)
Claire helps Grammy Lynn cook brunch (as long as I've got bony hips and a free hand, I can whip up anything)
Claire and Grammy eat an English muffin (she pretty much ate my entire egg-white omelet, too, but she did NOT get my mimosa)
Without daughter Cassie and SIL Matt, Claire and new baby in May wouldn't be here. Thanks guys!
**** I am clutter blind outside my own house and vehicle. I only hate my own clutter. I seriously, honest-to-god don’t notice or care about anyone else’s clutter.
Rabu, 24 Desember 2008
Food Interruptus
A funny thing happened on my finger’s third adventure around the edge of the bowl of soon-to-be-truffles goo yesterday: I couldn’t lick. My head was saying, “You reserved the Points! Eat it!” But my stomach was saying, “Put that sugar crap in me and I promise you’ll be seeing it again real soon.” So I rinsed my finger(s) and made the truffles and washed the bowl without another taste.
It’s 9:15 and I’m still in my pjs. I plan to still be in my pjs when I head to the kitchen in a minute and make a batch of Peanut Blossom Cookies and Puppy Chow, both laden with chocolate and peanut butter, but both way too sweet (like the truffles) to really tempt me. I do plan to have for dessert later a piece of Hungry Girl’s 1-Point fudge with a scoop of Breyer’s double-churn fat-free vanilla ice cream.
Also on the menu tonight: ham and scalloped potatoes. My food strategy this year seems to be to mostly make stuff I don’t like or no longer eat. It was not something I did intentionally, but it’s working like a charm. Besides, there will be enough cheese, almonds and homemade bread to make me squirm in my seat later. Ya’ll know how I love me some cheese, almonds and bread more than chocolate and peanut butter (except PB2) any day.
While making the truffles yesterday, I had a moment where I really missed the days of mindless eating. When eating a truffle or two was nothing more than a precursor to the real dessert. When unwrapping Hershey Kisses for the cookies was a “one for the bowl, two for me” game. When cheese, crackers, nuts, and bread would just “hold me over” until dinner. I was lost in these thoughts when the UPS man delivered the sweater I ordered from Macy’s, a very clingy cardigan that I thought would look nice with my gray leggings and black boots. I took it out of the package and tried it on. Yup. It was clingy alright. Hugged, and I mean hugged, every inch of my mid section and butt.
As I looked at my body in the mirror, I realized I could miss the days of mindless eating all I wanted, but I was never going back there. I’d rather eat light and look like I look now than eat whatever I want and hide under layers and layers of clothing. Food doesn’t make me happy. A strong healthy body that accommodates a clingy cardigan does. (Just so we're clear, I really am wearing a camisole under the sweater. I'm not THAT daring :))
It’s 9:15 and I’m still in my pjs. I plan to still be in my pjs when I head to the kitchen in a minute and make a batch of Peanut Blossom Cookies and Puppy Chow, both laden with chocolate and peanut butter, but both way too sweet (like the truffles) to really tempt me. I do plan to have for dessert later a piece of Hungry Girl’s 1-Point fudge with a scoop of Breyer’s double-churn fat-free vanilla ice cream.
Also on the menu tonight: ham and scalloped potatoes. My food strategy this year seems to be to mostly make stuff I don’t like or no longer eat. It was not something I did intentionally, but it’s working like a charm. Besides, there will be enough cheese, almonds and homemade bread to make me squirm in my seat later. Ya’ll know how I love me some cheese, almonds and bread more than chocolate and peanut butter (except PB2) any day.
While making the truffles yesterday, I had a moment where I really missed the days of mindless eating. When eating a truffle or two was nothing more than a precursor to the real dessert. When unwrapping Hershey Kisses for the cookies was a “one for the bowl, two for me” game. When cheese, crackers, nuts, and bread would just “hold me over” until dinner. I was lost in these thoughts when the UPS man delivered the sweater I ordered from Macy’s, a very clingy cardigan that I thought would look nice with my gray leggings and black boots. I took it out of the package and tried it on. Yup. It was clingy alright. Hugged, and I mean hugged, every inch of my mid section and butt.
As I looked at my body in the mirror, I realized I could miss the days of mindless eating all I wanted, but I was never going back there. I’d rather eat light and look like I look now than eat whatever I want and hide under layers and layers of clothing. Food doesn’t make me happy. A strong healthy body that accommodates a clingy cardigan does. (Just so we're clear, I really am wearing a camisole under the sweater. I'm not THAT daring :))
So take that cheese and almonds and bread and truffles! I’ll try you, taste you, enjoy you in small bits for short moments, but I’ll enjoy my sweater for a long, long time.Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Joyous Kwanzaa everyone! Eat smart. Be well. May you be surrounded by peace and love this evening and always.
Selasa, 23 Desember 2008
Temporomandibular Disorder
My jaw has not been able to close for over a week. The right side very painful. I can't chew. So I finally went to the doctor yesterday, and was diagnosed with Temporomandibular Joint (TMJ) Disorder.Basically the little disc between my jawbone to my skull is inflamed.I have to take 600 mg of ibuprofen with every meal. (1800 mg a day!) for the next 2 weeks and eat only "soft foods." Then I go
Warning: Sappy Sentimentalism Inside
I hope you don’t mind a little extra stevia with your blog reading today. Christmas brings out my schmaltzy sentimental side, at least more than other times of the year.
Every year at this time, I exchange the gift of a hug with a particular friend and it makes me all warm inside, warmer than a cup of Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride tea.
We don’t see each other much anymore; our parallel and busy lives keep us apart. Email is good, but seeing each other in person is a rare treat, a delicious gift of catching up and thinking back. There’s no one else I’d rather talk to about snow-packed mountains, distractions and turkeys, the decadence of eating strawberries in March, and which I-80 truck stop makes the best shoo fly pie. There are some things no one else would get and I couldn’t possibly explain.
He was never my boyfriend, my husband, or my boss. We simply met in a windowless room in a building on the campus of our local university and found each other interesting enough to become very good friends. I’ve known him longer than my husband, who isn’t jealous of our relationship so I make no apologies for it. I stopped trying to understand what it was we felt about each other years ago. It is what it is and whatever that is makes me happy.
I know he loves chocolate and lemon poppy seed muffins. If he doesn’t agree with me he says so. If I ask for his advice, he gives it without prejudice, bias or fear of saying something I don’t want to hear. His honesty is refreshing, as is his laugh and beautiful smile. I would be content to just sit near him, not saying a word. Of course if we were to try this we’d probably bust out laughing. We do that well.
I can’t compare our hugs goodbye to any other embrace I’ve known. It’s not fatherly or brotherly; it’s not that of a lover or gay friend. He’s a man I’ve thought about on so many levels that there’s no way to nail down one precise familiar relationship everyone would understand. And so I just call it unique. We had two very long, very loving unique embraces yesterday and his warmth and kindness will keep me smiling into the new year.
Now if I could just get my friends from Minnesota, California, Texas, England, Ohio, Iowa, Nebraska, Florida, Oregon, New York, Connecticut, Wisconsin, Canada, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Arkansas, Colorado, New Mexico and I know I’m missing a state together for a big old hug like that…
Every year at this time, I exchange the gift of a hug with a particular friend and it makes me all warm inside, warmer than a cup of Sugar Cookie Sleigh Ride tea.
We don’t see each other much anymore; our parallel and busy lives keep us apart. Email is good, but seeing each other in person is a rare treat, a delicious gift of catching up and thinking back. There’s no one else I’d rather talk to about snow-packed mountains, distractions and turkeys, the decadence of eating strawberries in March, and which I-80 truck stop makes the best shoo fly pie. There are some things no one else would get and I couldn’t possibly explain.
He was never my boyfriend, my husband, or my boss. We simply met in a windowless room in a building on the campus of our local university and found each other interesting enough to become very good friends. I’ve known him longer than my husband, who isn’t jealous of our relationship so I make no apologies for it. I stopped trying to understand what it was we felt about each other years ago. It is what it is and whatever that is makes me happy.
I know he loves chocolate and lemon poppy seed muffins. If he doesn’t agree with me he says so. If I ask for his advice, he gives it without prejudice, bias or fear of saying something I don’t want to hear. His honesty is refreshing, as is his laugh and beautiful smile. I would be content to just sit near him, not saying a word. Of course if we were to try this we’d probably bust out laughing. We do that well.
I can’t compare our hugs goodbye to any other embrace I’ve known. It’s not fatherly or brotherly; it’s not that of a lover or gay friend. He’s a man I’ve thought about on so many levels that there’s no way to nail down one precise familiar relationship everyone would understand. And so I just call it unique. We had two very long, very loving unique embraces yesterday and his warmth and kindness will keep me smiling into the new year.
Now if I could just get my friends from Minnesota, California, Texas, England, Ohio, Iowa, Nebraska, Florida, Oregon, New York, Connecticut, Wisconsin, Canada, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Arkansas, Colorado, New Mexico and I know I’m missing a state together for a big old hug like that…
Minggu, 21 Desember 2008
Where Does Your Food Come From?
Just a quickie this morning as I digest some yogurt and strawberries before hitting the workout.
I got to thinking about this blog entry after reading the label on my strawberries. By now we’re all good at reading food labels for nutritional information and ingredients (You DO read labels before buying and/or eating, right?), but do you ever read where the product comes from? The label from the strawberries I bought yesterday is marked “Product of Mexico.” Seems reasonable. We can’t grow strawberries in the snow so of course we’d import them from Mexico or other Central and South American countries. Ditto on bananas, coffee, sugar and other food items.
The tea I drink is “blended” by Celestial Seasonings in Boulder, but the ingredients come from all over the world. Curious about their importing philosophy, I did a quick Internet search and was heartened to read the company’s ethical trade statement online: “We’ve had relationships with many growers around the world for more than 30 years, and it’s very important to us that workers are treated fairly and with respect, and that farming techniques support environmental health and economic growth. The growers are our partners, and together, we ensure the botanicals Celestial Seasonings purchases are collected or harvested with minimal impact on the environment, while local jobs and businesses are nurtured.”
I’m pretty sure that’s not a policy readily embraced by Chinese (or even some U.S.) manufacturers. Given the propensity for profits over the health of pets and babies, I am extremely wary of goods imported from China.
Take garlic powder. The McCormick brand is almost $2 more than the Wal-Mart house brand. The McCormick company has a commitment to sustainability and social responsibility and their product is clearly marked “Product of USA.” The Wal-Mart brand is marked “Product of China.” I pony up the $2 in hopes that McCormick truly is committed to the health of its consumers over profit.
I realize it’s nearly impossible to avoid food products made in China, particularly the frozen and processed varieties. But by staying informed (read the Washington Post story “Tainted Chinese imports Common”, for instance), I’m trying to be more aware of where my food comes from. Labels aren’t always marked, and in the case of food made with several ingredients, it’s impossible to know where each of those ingredients came from.
Think about it: we put a lot of trust in the people who grow, manufacture, import, and inspect our food. Aside from the produce and meat I buy from local and regional farmers, I don’t know the people who grow and pick and make my food. Kind of creeps me out a little.
Nothing like a little paranoia on an early Sunday morning. Sorry about that. I’m curious, though: Do you read labels? Do you know where your food comes from? Any strategies for learning more?
I got to thinking about this blog entry after reading the label on my strawberries. By now we’re all good at reading food labels for nutritional information and ingredients (You DO read labels before buying and/or eating, right?), but do you ever read where the product comes from? The label from the strawberries I bought yesterday is marked “Product of Mexico.” Seems reasonable. We can’t grow strawberries in the snow so of course we’d import them from Mexico or other Central and South American countries. Ditto on bananas, coffee, sugar and other food items.
The tea I drink is “blended” by Celestial Seasonings in Boulder, but the ingredients come from all over the world. Curious about their importing philosophy, I did a quick Internet search and was heartened to read the company’s ethical trade statement online: “We’ve had relationships with many growers around the world for more than 30 years, and it’s very important to us that workers are treated fairly and with respect, and that farming techniques support environmental health and economic growth. The growers are our partners, and together, we ensure the botanicals Celestial Seasonings purchases are collected or harvested with minimal impact on the environment, while local jobs and businesses are nurtured.”
I’m pretty sure that’s not a policy readily embraced by Chinese (or even some U.S.) manufacturers. Given the propensity for profits over the health of pets and babies, I am extremely wary of goods imported from China.
Take garlic powder. The McCormick brand is almost $2 more than the Wal-Mart house brand. The McCormick company has a commitment to sustainability and social responsibility and their product is clearly marked “Product of USA.” The Wal-Mart brand is marked “Product of China.” I pony up the $2 in hopes that McCormick truly is committed to the health of its consumers over profit.
I realize it’s nearly impossible to avoid food products made in China, particularly the frozen and processed varieties. But by staying informed (read the Washington Post story “Tainted Chinese imports Common”, for instance), I’m trying to be more aware of where my food comes from. Labels aren’t always marked, and in the case of food made with several ingredients, it’s impossible to know where each of those ingredients came from.
Think about it: we put a lot of trust in the people who grow, manufacture, import, and inspect our food. Aside from the produce and meat I buy from local and regional farmers, I don’t know the people who grow and pick and make my food. Kind of creeps me out a little.
Nothing like a little paranoia on an early Sunday morning. Sorry about that. I’m curious, though: Do you read labels? Do you know where your food comes from? Any strategies for learning more?
Jumat, 19 Desember 2008
Your Thoughts Really ARE Worth a Dime! Give One Now (a thought, that is)
If you’re not already a fan of MizFit (and if you don’t know who I’m talking about, you’re new to my blog, aren’t you? Welcome!), get on over to her site today and post a comment on the blog entry “MizFit’s Halfassed Friday Rhyme. (subtitle: Im emptying the wallet, People, & need your help.).” Miz is donating a dime to Safeplace, a domestic violence shelter in Austin, Texas, for every comment posted to that entry from now through Christmas Eve. The only thing it costs you is a few minutes. Besides, isn’t it fun to spend someone else’s money, especially when it’s going to a good cause?
Domestic violence was a part of my life back in the mid 1980s. Still is to some degree since fear never really goes away. It lingers in the back of my mind sometimes as a “what if…”
Anyone who’s experienced violence in their life knows it’s not the actual violence that’s the worst part. It’s the anticipation and the not knowing when it will happen next that is the hardest to live with because it’s all consuming. Fear changes how we do things and how we structure our days and even our sentences. God forbid you say the wrong thing, or anything at all.
By donating to a domestic violence prevention agency, any DV agency anywhere in the country, you’re helping people like me who learned through the kindness and patience of shelter staff and volunteers how to live within and eventually leave a violent relationship. DV knows no socio-economic barrier and it doesn’t belong to one race or creed. I’m sure many of you reading this are nodding your heads because you’ve been there or you know someone who has.
So click on over to MizFitOnline and give a little comment. I personally appreciate it very much.
Domestic violence was a part of my life back in the mid 1980s. Still is to some degree since fear never really goes away. It lingers in the back of my mind sometimes as a “what if…”
Anyone who’s experienced violence in their life knows it’s not the actual violence that’s the worst part. It’s the anticipation and the not knowing when it will happen next that is the hardest to live with because it’s all consuming. Fear changes how we do things and how we structure our days and even our sentences. God forbid you say the wrong thing, or anything at all.
By donating to a domestic violence prevention agency, any DV agency anywhere in the country, you’re helping people like me who learned through the kindness and patience of shelter staff and volunteers how to live within and eventually leave a violent relationship. DV knows no socio-economic barrier and it doesn’t belong to one race or creed. I’m sure many of you reading this are nodding your heads because you’ve been there or you know someone who has.
So click on over to MizFitOnline and give a little comment. I personally appreciate it very much.
Rabu, 17 Desember 2008
I Simply Remember My Favorite Things, And Then I Don't Feel So Bad
I heard “My Favorite Things” while shopping for Christmas cards at Hallmark the other day and thought, When did that become part of the Christmas carol canon? I looked it up on Wikipedia, which offered this: “The wintertime imagery of some of the lyrics has made ‘My Favorite Things’ a popular song during the Christmas season, and it often appears on holiday-themed albums and compilations, although in the show and movie it is sung during a summer thunderstorm.”
Snowflakes and mittens make me think of winter, not Christmas, but whatever. I know, bah-humbug, right? Wrong. I’m in a good mood, actually. Stress levels have come down to manageable levels and my elliptical repair man will be here tomorrow. What more could a girl want?
Stress can be a teacher and fortunately I allowed it to help me to look inside and not away from the stressors. In doing so, I realized there were many favorite moments and discoveries this year, old and new, frivolous and serious. My list is nothing like Oprah’s favorite things, and there are no freebies hidden under your seat as you read this, although if I could, I’d give you all, dear readers, a jar of hearts of palm and an ionized hair dryer. You’ll understand further down the page.
So, in no particular order, here are my Favorite Things of 2008:
1. Fennel. I was introduced to fennel at The Ivy restaurant in Los Angeles when I was in California in March. My friend Michael took me there for lunch, and while we didn’t see any celebrities (at least none that we recognized), we did see a LOT of silicone. Oh my. Anyway, fennel. It was tossed into my $28 Ivy salad and I fell in love at first bite. I’m not a black licorice fan, but I do like anise and fennel has a hint of anise. It reminds me of the anise candy we got for Christmas every year when I was a kid. Fennel is a little sweet and very crunchy, and the best part is that I think of Michael every time I eat it. Love that guy.
2. Hearts of Palm. I was technically introduced to hearts of palm two summers ago while visiting my friend Heather in Chicago. She put some in our dinner salads. I didn’t buy my first jar until last week, so I’m counting it among this year’s favorites. The canned palms are in brine so they’re tangy and a little on the high sodium side, but I found a jar of palms with lower sodium at Trader Joe’s. Slice them up and put them in your salad for a nice little bite. Like the fennel, I have happy friend memories when I eat them. Which reminds me, I really need to get back to Chicago to see her.
3. My new haircut. All my life I’ve tried to find the right haircut. I had short wavy hair in the 70s, curling iron-hairspray bangs in the 80s and early 90s, and crazy out-of-control curly hair until this past March. Ashley, the most fabulous hairstylist ever, thought maybe I ought to try an Annette Bening style. Sure, why not, I said. And it worked! Finally, I have a hairstyle that in 20 years I won’t look back on and cringe.
4. My ionized hair dryer. When my old dinosaur of a hairdryer finally died last month, I bought an ionized one. I have no idea the technical details of ionization and I don’t care. All I care about is that my hair is not frizzy and it dries faster. I like this thing a LOT.
5. Mary Kay Time Wise products. The woman who helps me clean my house, Tammy, is also a Mary Kay consultant. Having been a Clinique girl since WAY back, I’d never tried MK before. When my skin starting breaking out last winter and nothing Clinique offered helped, Tammy suggested I try the Time Wise line of cleansers and moisturizers. Within two weeks my skin was clear. Since then, I’ve fallen in love with Mary Kay mascara and gotten my husband hooked on the men’s line. Given me some time and I will be the reason Tammy earns a pink Cadillac.
6. Blackberry Pearl. For a woman who just learned how to old school text message last year, the Blackberry was quite a step up with it’s fancy QWERTY keyboard. My Blackberry is pimped out with modem capabilities and with it I took photos in the balloon room at the Andy Warhol Museum. I can check my email, the weather AND the news in bed, and can call all my siblings for free. Of course, this requires me to turn it on, something I forget to do most of the time.
7. My Pampered Chef chopper. Makes my cooking life much easier. It can also take quite a beating. Seriously…when I chop, I REALLY chop.
8. NPR. I’ve dabbled in National Public Radio here and there. I’m a huge fan of “Prairie Home Companion” and “Wait, Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” but I’ve never ventured beyond that. Thanks to many trips to Pittsburgh this past year (a 70-minute drive each way), I’ve become an NPR junkie. “News and Notes,” “Radio Times,” “Talk of the Nation,” “The Diane Rehm Show,” “Forum,” “Tell Me More”…my heart is all a flutter. I recognize every news anchor’s voice, and I think Carl Kasell and Peter Sagal are sexy.
9. The gift of old friends. Visiting Minnesota this past summer, I saw people I haven’t seen in 20 and 30 years. What a treat to ride in a parade on the back of a wagon with my fifth- AND sixth-grade boyfriends. I cried as I watched my former choir director (now in his mid-80s) direct the choir in my old church. Such beauty that. I got to hug the parents of my friend Tammy who was murdered in Lubbock in 1986. We’ve stayed in touch every Christmas but I’d not seen them since the funeral. I saw every member of my wedding party (the first wedding), and I got to introduce my late husband’s beautiful daughter to many of his friends, including the woman she is named after. Life doesn’t get much better than that.
10. This blog. While I’d kept an online journal of my weight loss, I’d not blogged about weight issues on a regular basis until I started this blog in March and launched Refuse to Regain with another “favorite thing,” my blogging partner Barbara Berkeley, in May. The best part about this blog is you. I have learned more, laughed more, and grown more as a person because of getting to know so many of you through your comments and your own blogs.
And so with that, I offer you my most sincere thank you and my warmest wishes for a health-filled holiday and 2009. I leave you with my favortist thing of all, my granddaughter Claire, dancing so happy she had to get naked:
Snowflakes and mittens make me think of winter, not Christmas, but whatever. I know, bah-humbug, right? Wrong. I’m in a good mood, actually. Stress levels have come down to manageable levels and my elliptical repair man will be here tomorrow. What more could a girl want?
Stress can be a teacher and fortunately I allowed it to help me to look inside and not away from the stressors. In doing so, I realized there were many favorite moments and discoveries this year, old and new, frivolous and serious. My list is nothing like Oprah’s favorite things, and there are no freebies hidden under your seat as you read this, although if I could, I’d give you all, dear readers, a jar of hearts of palm and an ionized hair dryer. You’ll understand further down the page.
So, in no particular order, here are my Favorite Things of 2008:
1. Fennel. I was introduced to fennel at The Ivy restaurant in Los Angeles when I was in California in March. My friend Michael took me there for lunch, and while we didn’t see any celebrities (at least none that we recognized), we did see a LOT of silicone. Oh my. Anyway, fennel. It was tossed into my $28 Ivy salad and I fell in love at first bite. I’m not a black licorice fan, but I do like anise and fennel has a hint of anise. It reminds me of the anise candy we got for Christmas every year when I was a kid. Fennel is a little sweet and very crunchy, and the best part is that I think of Michael every time I eat it. Love that guy.
2. Hearts of Palm. I was technically introduced to hearts of palm two summers ago while visiting my friend Heather in Chicago. She put some in our dinner salads. I didn’t buy my first jar until last week, so I’m counting it among this year’s favorites. The canned palms are in brine so they’re tangy and a little on the high sodium side, but I found a jar of palms with lower sodium at Trader Joe’s. Slice them up and put them in your salad for a nice little bite. Like the fennel, I have happy friend memories when I eat them. Which reminds me, I really need to get back to Chicago to see her.
3. My new haircut. All my life I’ve tried to find the right haircut. I had short wavy hair in the 70s, curling iron-hairspray bangs in the 80s and early 90s, and crazy out-of-control curly hair until this past March. Ashley, the most fabulous hairstylist ever, thought maybe I ought to try an Annette Bening style. Sure, why not, I said. And it worked! Finally, I have a hairstyle that in 20 years I won’t look back on and cringe.4. My ionized hair dryer. When my old dinosaur of a hairdryer finally died last month, I bought an ionized one. I have no idea the technical details of ionization and I don’t care. All I care about is that my hair is not frizzy and it dries faster. I like this thing a LOT.
5. Mary Kay Time Wise products. The woman who helps me clean my house, Tammy, is also a Mary Kay consultant. Having been a Clinique girl since WAY back, I’d never tried MK before. When my skin starting breaking out last winter and nothing Clinique offered helped, Tammy suggested I try the Time Wise line of cleansers and moisturizers. Within two weeks my skin was clear. Since then, I’ve fallen in love with Mary Kay mascara and gotten my husband hooked on the men’s line. Given me some time and I will be the reason Tammy earns a pink Cadillac.
6. Blackberry Pearl. For a woman who just learned how to old school text message last year, the Blackberry was quite a step up with it’s fancy QWERTY keyboard. My Blackberry is pimped out with modem capabilities and with it I took photos in the balloon room at the Andy Warhol Museum. I can check my email, the weather AND the news in bed, and can call all my siblings for free. Of course, this requires me to turn it on, something I forget to do most of the time.
7. My Pampered Chef chopper. Makes my cooking life much easier. It can also take quite a beating. Seriously…when I chop, I REALLY chop.
8. NPR. I’ve dabbled in National Public Radio here and there. I’m a huge fan of “Prairie Home Companion” and “Wait, Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” but I’ve never ventured beyond that. Thanks to many trips to Pittsburgh this past year (a 70-minute drive each way), I’ve become an NPR junkie. “News and Notes,” “Radio Times,” “Talk of the Nation,” “The Diane Rehm Show,” “Forum,” “Tell Me More”…my heart is all a flutter. I recognize every news anchor’s voice, and I think Carl Kasell and Peter Sagal are sexy.9. The gift of old friends. Visiting Minnesota this past summer, I saw people I haven’t seen in 20 and 30 years. What a treat to ride in a parade on the back of a wagon with my fifth- AND sixth-grade boyfriends. I cried as I watched my former choir director (now in his mid-80s) direct the choir in my old church. Such beauty that. I got to hug the parents of my friend Tammy who was murdered in Lubbock in 1986. We’ve stayed in touch every Christmas but I’d not seen them since the funeral. I saw every member of my wedding party (the first wedding), and I got to introduce my late husband’s beautiful daughter to many of his friends, including the woman she is named after. Life doesn’t get much better than that.
10. This blog. While I’d kept an online journal of my weight loss, I’d not blogged about weight issues on a regular basis until I started this blog in March and launched Refuse to Regain with another “favorite thing,” my blogging partner Barbara Berkeley, in May. The best part about this blog is you. I have learned more, laughed more, and grown more as a person because of getting to know so many of you through your comments and your own blogs.
And so with that, I offer you my most sincere thank you and my warmest wishes for a health-filled holiday and 2009. I leave you with my favortist thing of all, my granddaughter Claire, dancing so happy she had to get naked:
Senin, 15 Desember 2008
Stress Sucks
Stress is the sneakiest thing, isn’t it? It disguises itself in all kinds of ways – pain, doubt, hunger, lack of hunger, the shakes, the sweats, the mood swings. I know we can’t escape it, but damn, doesn’t it knock you for a loop sometimes?
I think what makes stress so sneaky is that the cause isn’t always apparent. It’s usually not one big thing but a million little things. Here’s what I mean. Christmas shopping? Not a problem. Write a blog? Not a problem. Write another blog? Fine. Write a book? Sure. Cook, clean, take dogs to the vet, prepare for a visit by the stepsons, balance food and exercise, and keep up with emails, research, friends, my kids and extended family? I can do those things with my eyes shut. But this past week, when everything needed (and still needs) my attention, I feel like I’m cooking pudding with avocados and bran muffins. I like pudding, avocados and bran muffins, but separately. Together, they’re disastrous.
Unfortunately, stress welcomes my old nemesis: anxiety disorder. I’ve been prone to it since my first anxiety attack in 1986. And while I’ve learned a lot about it over the years and have learned ways to manage this disorder, when it plops itself in the middle of my busy life, it seems to take over everything and I forget how to say, “No! I’m in charge, not you!”
Thus, I’m not feeling real in charge right now. I have to remind myself to breathe, to not run away from the feelings, to prioritize and do what I can, all the while not beating myself up for this “flaw.” Everyone gets stressed out, I tell myself. Why can’t you handle it? Then, for the millionth time in 22 years, I remind myself that I’m not “everybody” and that I am merely a person who has issues with anxiety disorder. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t do anything to cause it. It’s just a part of who I am.
99 percent of the time, anxiety doesn’t control my life. I control it. But when I’m smack dab in the middle of huge stressors that trigger the heart skips, the shallow breathing, the anticipation of dread and fear, it’s not easy to just drop to the mat and start meditating. I have to slowly wade through my thought processes, decide what’s important and what’s not, and to remember that I can’t do everything and that it’s OK to say no or ask for help. This takes the kind of patience isn’t readily available in the middle of the shakes and what feels like knives in my stomach. I have to step outside the physical sensations and realize they are manifestations of too much work and too much emphasis on perfection (like you didn’t know I’m an anal retentive perfectionist who posts to-do lists in my office, kitchen and bedroom).
I’d like to wish it all away, but wishing isn’t action. And sometimes taking action is the most painful part of reducing stress. One thing that helps me to step outside and think is, as I mentioned, meditation, but also writing. Just in the time it’s taken to write this blog my head has calmed a bit. I’ve cleared some space in there so I can actually work through the list of things and people who “need” me. Hmmm…there seems to be one less knife in my gut right now. One less twitch in my eye. I’m not shaking. I’ll take it.
Stress is sneaky. It’s a pain in the ass. Stress is knocking me for a loop right now and I’m not going to feel completely on my game for awhile. However….and I say this taking a deep breath…. that’s OK. I don’t have to be.
I think what makes stress so sneaky is that the cause isn’t always apparent. It’s usually not one big thing but a million little things. Here’s what I mean. Christmas shopping? Not a problem. Write a blog? Not a problem. Write another blog? Fine. Write a book? Sure. Cook, clean, take dogs to the vet, prepare for a visit by the stepsons, balance food and exercise, and keep up with emails, research, friends, my kids and extended family? I can do those things with my eyes shut. But this past week, when everything needed (and still needs) my attention, I feel like I’m cooking pudding with avocados and bran muffins. I like pudding, avocados and bran muffins, but separately. Together, they’re disastrous.
Unfortunately, stress welcomes my old nemesis: anxiety disorder. I’ve been prone to it since my first anxiety attack in 1986. And while I’ve learned a lot about it over the years and have learned ways to manage this disorder, when it plops itself in the middle of my busy life, it seems to take over everything and I forget how to say, “No! I’m in charge, not you!”
Thus, I’m not feeling real in charge right now. I have to remind myself to breathe, to not run away from the feelings, to prioritize and do what I can, all the while not beating myself up for this “flaw.” Everyone gets stressed out, I tell myself. Why can’t you handle it? Then, for the millionth time in 22 years, I remind myself that I’m not “everybody” and that I am merely a person who has issues with anxiety disorder. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t do anything to cause it. It’s just a part of who I am.
99 percent of the time, anxiety doesn’t control my life. I control it. But when I’m smack dab in the middle of huge stressors that trigger the heart skips, the shallow breathing, the anticipation of dread and fear, it’s not easy to just drop to the mat and start meditating. I have to slowly wade through my thought processes, decide what’s important and what’s not, and to remember that I can’t do everything and that it’s OK to say no or ask for help. This takes the kind of patience isn’t readily available in the middle of the shakes and what feels like knives in my stomach. I have to step outside the physical sensations and realize they are manifestations of too much work and too much emphasis on perfection (like you didn’t know I’m an anal retentive perfectionist who posts to-do lists in my office, kitchen and bedroom).
I’d like to wish it all away, but wishing isn’t action. And sometimes taking action is the most painful part of reducing stress. One thing that helps me to step outside and think is, as I mentioned, meditation, but also writing. Just in the time it’s taken to write this blog my head has calmed a bit. I’ve cleared some space in there so I can actually work through the list of things and people who “need” me. Hmmm…there seems to be one less knife in my gut right now. One less twitch in my eye. I’m not shaking. I’ll take it.
Stress is sneaky. It’s a pain in the ass. Stress is knocking me for a loop right now and I’m not going to feel completely on my game for awhile. However….and I say this taking a deep breath…. that’s OK. I don’t have to be.
Jumat, 12 Desember 2008
Mary Lou's Weigh Product Review AND A Lefse Update
I want to send a big thank you out to the folks at Mary Lou’s Weigh for asking me to try out their new “weigh platform” scale. Actually, it’s not really a scale. It’s a kind of motivating keeper of secrets.
First, you step on the platform and it records your starting weight, only it doesn’t tell you what it is. Then you step on it again in a day or two and it will tell you if you are higher or lower than you’re starting weight. If you’re lower, music starts playing and the blue and green colored buttons light up. I admit I was a little startled the first day that happened. I mean, I’m half awake, naked and cold in my bathroom at 6 a.m. – hardly the moment I’m expecting to hear Mary Lou Retton’s voice congratulating me on losing a half a pound! It made me laugh, though, and even happier to know that I’d lost a half pound. If you gain weight, it will tell you how much and Mary Lou offers you some helpful tips in her trademark peppy voice.
The platform is spot-on accurate because I’d weigh myself on my actual scale before getting on Mary Lou’s Weigh. I’d gained a few pounds during November (a tale I’ll tell after the holidays) and so I’d been working to lose that weight. Lose them I did and I was glad to have Mary Lou cheering me on.
I admit, though, that I’m a numbers girl. Have been for nearly four years. Having said that, I would probably have opted for this platform type of weighing in when I started losing weight because seeing numbers on a regular basis kind of messed with my head after awhile. The platform is in keeping with my philosophy of “10 pounds at a a time,” meaning I concentrated on losing 10 pounds and then the next 10 pounds and so on.
For anyone who wants to get out of the “numbers game,” I highly recommend this product. It comes with a good “how-to” book packed with solid nutritional advice. The Mary Lou’s Weigh website is very helpful, too. Check it out if you’re in the market for a new “scale.”
Roni over at Roni’s Weigh also received a Mary Lou platform and thought it was “GENIUS!” Roni is in maintenance and isn’t looking to lose 10 pounds, so she decided to give hers away to someone who’d benefit more from the “scale’s” approach to weight loss than she would. I agreed and offered mine for giveaway, too. Congrats to Deidre from Clever, Missouri (what a great name for a town!) for winning my platform! I hope it reflects great success for you.
***********
Well, my girls and I made lefse yesterday. And what a day it was! Carlene and Cassie had never made lefse before so watching them perfect their rolling skills was quite amusing.
Here’s Cassie’s first attempt:
And Carlene rolled a round that looked like Jay Leno. We thought about selling it on eBay.
Here’s a comparison shot from the first time I made lefse (nearly 300 pounds) and yesterday (128.3 pounds). I think I notice a bit of difference in the face, don’t you? LOL Actually, the biggest difference for me personally was that I stood for nearly three hours without back pain. The first time I made lefse, I had to sit frequently.
And of course, the highlight of my day was seeing g-baby Claire. Here we are, with my hands covered in flour and getting it all over Claire, but she doesn’t care. She kept Carlene, Cassie and me amused all afternoon. Amazing the fun she has with Tupperware and wooden spoons.
Happy 24th birthday to my own baby girl (and mother of Claire and g-baby #2 on the way), Cassie! You make me so happy, honey. You were, and remain, the best surprise ever.
First, you step on the platform and it records your starting weight, only it doesn’t tell you what it is. Then you step on it again in a day or two and it will tell you if you are higher or lower than you’re starting weight. If you’re lower, music starts playing and the blue and green colored buttons light up. I admit I was a little startled the first day that happened. I mean, I’m half awake, naked and cold in my bathroom at 6 a.m. – hardly the moment I’m expecting to hear Mary Lou Retton’s voice congratulating me on losing a half a pound! It made me laugh, though, and even happier to know that I’d lost a half pound. If you gain weight, it will tell you how much and Mary Lou offers you some helpful tips in her trademark peppy voice.
The platform is spot-on accurate because I’d weigh myself on my actual scale before getting on Mary Lou’s Weigh. I’d gained a few pounds during November (a tale I’ll tell after the holidays) and so I’d been working to lose that weight. Lose them I did and I was glad to have Mary Lou cheering me on.
I admit, though, that I’m a numbers girl. Have been for nearly four years. Having said that, I would probably have opted for this platform type of weighing in when I started losing weight because seeing numbers on a regular basis kind of messed with my head after awhile. The platform is in keeping with my philosophy of “10 pounds at a a time,” meaning I concentrated on losing 10 pounds and then the next 10 pounds and so on.
For anyone who wants to get out of the “numbers game,” I highly recommend this product. It comes with a good “how-to” book packed with solid nutritional advice. The Mary Lou’s Weigh website is very helpful, too. Check it out if you’re in the market for a new “scale.”
Roni over at Roni’s Weigh also received a Mary Lou platform and thought it was “GENIUS!” Roni is in maintenance and isn’t looking to lose 10 pounds, so she decided to give hers away to someone who’d benefit more from the “scale’s” approach to weight loss than she would. I agreed and offered mine for giveaway, too. Congrats to Deidre from Clever, Missouri (what a great name for a town!) for winning my platform! I hope it reflects great success for you.
***********
Well, my girls and I made lefse yesterday. And what a day it was! Carlene and Cassie had never made lefse before so watching them perfect their rolling skills was quite amusing.
Here’s Cassie’s first attempt:
And Carlene rolled a round that looked like Jay Leno. We thought about selling it on eBay.
Here’s a comparison shot from the first time I made lefse (nearly 300 pounds) and yesterday (128.3 pounds). I think I notice a bit of difference in the face, don’t you? LOL Actually, the biggest difference for me personally was that I stood for nearly three hours without back pain. The first time I made lefse, I had to sit frequently.
And of course, the highlight of my day was seeing g-baby Claire. Here we are, with my hands covered in flour and getting it all over Claire, but she doesn’t care. She kept Carlene, Cassie and me amused all afternoon. Amazing the fun she has with Tupperware and wooden spoons.
Happy 24th birthday to my own baby girl (and mother of Claire and g-baby #2 on the way), Cassie! You make me so happy, honey. You were, and remain, the best surprise ever.
Rabu, 10 Desember 2008
Sometimes Food = Love
Food gets a bad wrap this time of year. While we worry about how we’ll say no to or refrain from eating too much dessert and stuffing and duck and turkey and potatoes and everything else that’s put out, served, given, and offered us between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, it’s easy to forget the rich traditions engrained in many of the holiday foods we make and offer others. I’d hate to see us lose perspective.
Yes, food can be a head game, but food can also be a manifestation of love and tradition. It can bring stories to the table of, “I remember Grandma always making…” or “Tasting that reminds me of…”
For Christmas, my Grandma Signe always made Aunt Sally cookies (with an empty Spam can, just like this recipe link calls for) and Norwegian flatbread, which never came out flat. My mom made date nut squares and Russian teacakes. And Grandma Katinka made the goddess of all holiday food: lefse.
At holiday family dinners, lefse was the main course, or at least it was to me. Lefse is rolled out very thinly and put on a griddle to produce large rounds. My mother always cut the rounds in half before serving and we kids were only allowed to take a half and no more until everyone at the table got some. There was usually enough for seconds, but rarely ever thirds. I would spread a thin layer of butter and sprinkle a little sugar on it before rolling it into a tube. The small dark bubbles formed by the griddle opened up under my tongue, the sugar ground softly then dissolved between my teeth, and the taste of potatoes and butter and sugar brought me to what I can only describe as a food orgasm.
Lefse was our ambrosia, a family tradition brought here from Norway. The women in our church (which was known as the Norwegian Lutheran Church even though it wasn’t formally called that, but it made the distinction between us and the German Lutheran Church, which wasn’t really named that either) used to spend an entire day making hundreds of lefse to sell at the annual church bazaar. Like customers camping outside Best Buy to purchase the latest Wii, people lined up outside our church well before the bazaar started just to buy lefse. It always sold out within minutes.
While my mother never learned to make it, I never worried about having lefse at Thanksgiving and Christmas because Grandma always came through. But when grandma got too old to make lefse, we had to rely on the generosity of one of my aunts to provide our fix. We were often reduced to buying lefse at the store, which, no matter how “hand-rolled” it was, tasted only faintly of the potatoey goodness my grandma produced. It was never “Plenty good” as my great-uncle George would say.
This went on for years. After I moved to Pennsylvania in the early 90s, Dad would ship me lutefisk from from Minnesota and I’d order lefse from a bakery in Wisconsin. (Lutefisk is one food that didn’t take a back seat to lefse, but is one that, alas, I won’t be consuming this year due to my vegetarianism; for more info, read last year’s blog, “The Lutefisk is Here! The Lutefisk is Here!”) The lutefisk was good, but it would have been better with Grandma’s lefse. Then in 2004, Aunt Shirley came to the rescue. No, she didn’t give me lefse. She taught me how to make it.
Give a woman lefse and she eats for a day. Teach her how to make lefse, and she’s the most popular member of her immediate family.
I remember that day well, particularly since I use the photo of me making lefse as my representative “before” photo on my original website, Lynn’s Journey. I had to stand to roll out the dough and I remember my back hurting me so much that I had to take frequent breaks. I denied that it hurt because I was morbidly obese. I blamed it on heredity – Dad has a bad back so naturally I did, too.
Anyway, I can stand for what feels like forever now which is good because tomorrow, my daughters and granddaughter are coming to Clarion and we’re making 100 lefse which will be distributed to my four siblings, my parents and kids.
I make lefse with pride and love. I am happiest when I can give my family the gift of memories of our holiday dinners, and if its via food, so be it. While we’re all scattered across the country and often see things from varying points of view, lefse is one of our familial binders, that something we all have stories about, a common denominator, so to speak.
To me, lefse embodies love. Most foods don’t. But at this time of year, I hope you’ll think about how food and love intersect in your life. Yes, there’s a lot of food out there right now, but which ones mean more to you than empty calories and heartburn?
Yes, food can be a head game, but food can also be a manifestation of love and tradition. It can bring stories to the table of, “I remember Grandma always making…” or “Tasting that reminds me of…”
For Christmas, my Grandma Signe always made Aunt Sally cookies (with an empty Spam can, just like this recipe link calls for) and Norwegian flatbread, which never came out flat. My mom made date nut squares and Russian teacakes. And Grandma Katinka made the goddess of all holiday food: lefse.
At holiday family dinners, lefse was the main course, or at least it was to me. Lefse is rolled out very thinly and put on a griddle to produce large rounds. My mother always cut the rounds in half before serving and we kids were only allowed to take a half and no more until everyone at the table got some. There was usually enough for seconds, but rarely ever thirds. I would spread a thin layer of butter and sprinkle a little sugar on it before rolling it into a tube. The small dark bubbles formed by the griddle opened up under my tongue, the sugar ground softly then dissolved between my teeth, and the taste of potatoes and butter and sugar brought me to what I can only describe as a food orgasm.
Lefse was our ambrosia, a family tradition brought here from Norway. The women in our church (which was known as the Norwegian Lutheran Church even though it wasn’t formally called that, but it made the distinction between us and the German Lutheran Church, which wasn’t really named that either) used to spend an entire day making hundreds of lefse to sell at the annual church bazaar. Like customers camping outside Best Buy to purchase the latest Wii, people lined up outside our church well before the bazaar started just to buy lefse. It always sold out within minutes.
While my mother never learned to make it, I never worried about having lefse at Thanksgiving and Christmas because Grandma always came through. But when grandma got too old to make lefse, we had to rely on the generosity of one of my aunts to provide our fix. We were often reduced to buying lefse at the store, which, no matter how “hand-rolled” it was, tasted only faintly of the potatoey goodness my grandma produced. It was never “Plenty good” as my great-uncle George would say.
This went on for years. After I moved to Pennsylvania in the early 90s, Dad would ship me lutefisk from from Minnesota and I’d order lefse from a bakery in Wisconsin. (Lutefisk is one food that didn’t take a back seat to lefse, but is one that, alas, I won’t be consuming this year due to my vegetarianism; for more info, read last year’s blog, “The Lutefisk is Here! The Lutefisk is Here!”) The lutefisk was good, but it would have been better with Grandma’s lefse. Then in 2004, Aunt Shirley came to the rescue. No, she didn’t give me lefse. She taught me how to make it.
Give a woman lefse and she eats for a day. Teach her how to make lefse, and she’s the most popular member of her immediate family.
I remember that day well, particularly since I use the photo of me making lefse as my representative “before” photo on my original website, Lynn’s Journey. I had to stand to roll out the dough and I remember my back hurting me so much that I had to take frequent breaks. I denied that it hurt because I was morbidly obese. I blamed it on heredity – Dad has a bad back so naturally I did, too.
Anyway, I can stand for what feels like forever now which is good because tomorrow, my daughters and granddaughter are coming to Clarion and we’re making 100 lefse which will be distributed to my four siblings, my parents and kids.
I make lefse with pride and love. I am happiest when I can give my family the gift of memories of our holiday dinners, and if its via food, so be it. While we’re all scattered across the country and often see things from varying points of view, lefse is one of our familial binders, that something we all have stories about, a common denominator, so to speak.
To me, lefse embodies love. Most foods don’t. But at this time of year, I hope you’ll think about how food and love intersect in your life. Yes, there’s a lot of food out there right now, but which ones mean more to you than empty calories and heartburn?
I told you this years ago!
Yesterday an article was published to WebMD about "Cash Diets." And that is Cash - as in money - not "crash diets" which are unhealthy.Basically the article was about researchers who bribed people with money to lose weight and the surprising success rate they had.This was no surprise to me since I have used bribery for years to reach my weight loss goals!Here is the link to the full article
Senin, 08 Desember 2008
November Success
November was another successful month for my weight loss! I started the month at 196, and finished at 194. Two pounds gone! This is really amazing considering I went on Vacation to San Francisco for Thanksgiving. (Sorry for the long break) My knees are doing well. However the last day we were in San Francisco they started to bother me. My host then drew me a hot bath with salts to soak in.
A Little of a Lot Goes a Long Way
Which do you prefer: eating a full portion of one thing or eating small portions of several things? Or are you like me and it depends on what day it is, how creative you’re feeling, and what foods you must use up in the fridge before they grow legs and walk away?
This morning for breakfast, in keeping with my “veggies for breakfast” pledge, I “fried” up the last of my shredded butternut squash (ala Hungry Girl’s recipe, sans the cumin and with minced garlic and a side of ketchup and mustard – you know me and my condiment love), threw the remaining half-cup of strawberries with the remaining half a small container of Greek yogurt, and sliced half a small banana into ¼ cup light vanilla soy milk and 20 grams of Shredded Wheat n’ Bran.
Looking back at my food journals, I see this as a growing pattern. Except for my big salad, I eat several little things all day. (And really, isn’t a salad just a conglomeration of a bunch of little things?) When I learn a serving of something has in excess of three Points, I get a little nervous. Four or more Points is a lot to spend on one thing. I mean, I like spinach manicotti very much, but one tube is four Points. One little tube! And it’s made with fat-free ricotta and everything! It’s not much food for the Points.
When I think of food I think of time. I like to eat slowly and in volume. How long will it take me to eat that soup or salad or to drink that latte? It takes me two minutes at most to eat a tube of manicotti, and that’s savoring it. It takes me 15 to 20 minutes to eat my big salad. Same number of Points and much more time playing Scrabble with the computer (I confess, I like to play when I eat).
When people ask why I became a vegetarian, I tell them it’s because I get to eat more. I’ve also cut way back on my starch consumption lately, which I did for several reasons. But near the top of the reasons list is because I don’t get as much food/Points time with an English muffin as I do with a big ass bowl of fruit and yogurt and a side of zucchini. And at the end of the day, by eating more I’ve eaten less and I feel better.
After four years of weight loss and maintenance, you’d think I’d have this food thing down to a science. But yet, I’m still a newbie, still learning, still messing around to see what works. It sometimes depends on what’s in the fridge, but if it doesn’t have staying power, it’s not making its way on to my plate these days. I prefer a little of a lot to a lot of a little. Say that three times real fast.
This morning for breakfast, in keeping with my “veggies for breakfast” pledge, I “fried” up the last of my shredded butternut squash (ala Hungry Girl’s recipe, sans the cumin and with minced garlic and a side of ketchup and mustard – you know me and my condiment love), threw the remaining half-cup of strawberries with the remaining half a small container of Greek yogurt, and sliced half a small banana into ¼ cup light vanilla soy milk and 20 grams of Shredded Wheat n’ Bran.
Looking back at my food journals, I see this as a growing pattern. Except for my big salad, I eat several little things all day. (And really, isn’t a salad just a conglomeration of a bunch of little things?) When I learn a serving of something has in excess of three Points, I get a little nervous. Four or more Points is a lot to spend on one thing. I mean, I like spinach manicotti very much, but one tube is four Points. One little tube! And it’s made with fat-free ricotta and everything! It’s not much food for the Points.
When I think of food I think of time. I like to eat slowly and in volume. How long will it take me to eat that soup or salad or to drink that latte? It takes me two minutes at most to eat a tube of manicotti, and that’s savoring it. It takes me 15 to 20 minutes to eat my big salad. Same number of Points and much more time playing Scrabble with the computer (I confess, I like to play when I eat).
When people ask why I became a vegetarian, I tell them it’s because I get to eat more. I’ve also cut way back on my starch consumption lately, which I did for several reasons. But near the top of the reasons list is because I don’t get as much food/Points time with an English muffin as I do with a big ass bowl of fruit and yogurt and a side of zucchini. And at the end of the day, by eating more I’ve eaten less and I feel better.
After four years of weight loss and maintenance, you’d think I’d have this food thing down to a science. But yet, I’m still a newbie, still learning, still messing around to see what works. It sometimes depends on what’s in the fridge, but if it doesn’t have staying power, it’s not making its way on to my plate these days. I prefer a little of a lot to a lot of a little. Say that three times real fast.
Sabtu, 06 Desember 2008
Just a Steel Town Girl on a Saturday Night
Oh yes, oh yes, it’s the return of the leg warmers. Wind-chill factors in the single digits returned to western PA in earnest this weekend and I’m bundling up. I’m 45 and I don’t care what I look like. Well, at least when it comes to staying warm.
When I bought my leg warmers last year (I found them in Macy’s of all places), I was teased mercilessly last year by a certain Californian as well as a hearty Minnesotan, who I thought would understand. But I stood my ground and wore my leg warmers on every frigid day and my body thanked me.
And it’s thanking me again right now as I sit typing in my living room, just as it thanked me this morning on a quick trip to the post office when I wore a hat, a fleece, a coat, a big white scarf, sweat pants over workout pants, and thick gloves. I looked a fright, but I was warm.
I’m hate being cold. It makes me cranky. But I’m thankful I have a coat and a scarf and gloves and leg warmers. So many people don’t, or what they have is inadequate. I’m sure as you’ve lost weight or once you got to goal, you had lots of clothes you donated to charity or gifted to someone in your family who needed them. But it’s easy to forget the seasonal clothes that you store in other closets, those places you don’t into very often. I forgot about a coat I had in the back of my closet last year. I saw it by chance and dug it out to give to our local coat drive. Do you maybe have an extra coat you forgot you had lurking in the back of your closet? An extra pair of mittens, perhaps? Just wondering. There are a lot of folks out there who’d be happy to take it off your hands.
Just a little PSA from your humble Steel Town Girl. Hope you are all warm and happy this Saturday night. Or maybe you’re out dancing in your leg warmers. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.
“She’s a maniac, maniac on the floor…” That song’s been in my head all day. Did I successfully lodge it into your head, too? hehe Sorry about that.
When I bought my leg warmers last year (I found them in Macy’s of all places), I was teased mercilessly last year by a certain Californian as well as a hearty Minnesotan, who I thought would understand. But I stood my ground and wore my leg warmers on every frigid day and my body thanked me.
And it’s thanking me again right now as I sit typing in my living room, just as it thanked me this morning on a quick trip to the post office when I wore a hat, a fleece, a coat, a big white scarf, sweat pants over workout pants, and thick gloves. I looked a fright, but I was warm.
I’m hate being cold. It makes me cranky. But I’m thankful I have a coat and a scarf and gloves and leg warmers. So many people don’t, or what they have is inadequate. I’m sure as you’ve lost weight or once you got to goal, you had lots of clothes you donated to charity or gifted to someone in your family who needed them. But it’s easy to forget the seasonal clothes that you store in other closets, those places you don’t into very often. I forgot about a coat I had in the back of my closet last year. I saw it by chance and dug it out to give to our local coat drive. Do you maybe have an extra coat you forgot you had lurking in the back of your closet? An extra pair of mittens, perhaps? Just wondering. There are a lot of folks out there who’d be happy to take it off your hands.
Just a little PSA from your humble Steel Town Girl. Hope you are all warm and happy this Saturday night. Or maybe you’re out dancing in your leg warmers. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.
“She’s a maniac, maniac on the floor…” That song’s been in my head all day. Did I successfully lodge it into your head, too? hehe Sorry about that.
Jumat, 05 Desember 2008
Stuff That Won't Be In The Book - Part 7
OK, this is it, the last of the Stuff That Won’t…posts. Thanks for reading them and sharing your own stories of grief and loss. While we process it in our own unique ways, grief is a universal feeling. A woman mourning the death of her child or husband is not very different than a grieving woman in Ethiopia or Canada or Costa Rica. In coming to terms with my own grief, I realized how much more difficult it was for me to lose weight, let alone maintain what weight I had lost. I’d like to think that if, god forbid, I’m faced with another difficult loss that I would maintain the weight I’ve lost, but I don’t know that for sure. I hope I never have to know.
Part 7:
Along with prescribing Paxil, my doctor insisted I see a therapist and I didn’t resist. Slowly, as the medication took hold and I was able to think without smacking my head into a brick wall, I accepted grief for what it is: a malleable presence that never goes away, but can become a teacher. I was able to work through my feelings rather than dance around them, to stop demanding I “get over it.” Everything I knew about Bruce – his life and his death – would forever be a part of my life.
True to my life pattern, I was still unable to work on tough emotional issues and my weight issues at the same time. In the last few months of Carlene’s project, I’d put my body on the back burner as the antidepressant made me numb to the scale. Food became a comfort, both eating it and cooking it. I still bought water-packed tuna, but I ate the whole can with mayonnaise, dill pickles and hearty bread. Macaroni and cheese and au gratin potatoes found their way back into my diet. I scoured cookbooks and learned to make pot pie and homemade bread and my own chicken and turkey broth. I became a very good cook.
By April 2000, I was back over 200 and stayed there through June, when the world lost another Bruce.
Cassie was in California visiting my sister Emily and Carlene was sleeping in her room in the basement on that sunny June morning. The phone rang. It was Carlene’s friend Cheryl.
Without saying hello, she asked if she could talk to Carlene.
“She’s sleeping,” I said. “Can I have her call you back when she wakes up?”
“It’s really important, Lynn,” Cheryl pleaded. “Can you wake her up?”
Important to a 17-year-old girl is different than important to a 36-year-old woman, but I figured I’d let Carlene chew out Cheryl for waking her up. I went downstairs, woke up Carlene and handed her the phone.
A few minutes later, Carlene came upstairs, pale as a sheet, and asked if I’d heard the sirens earlier that morning. I had, but that wasn’t anything new in our town. We were immune to the sirens. They wailed for the volunteer fire department any time a traveler on I-80 went off the road or there was a fender bender along the curve on 5th Avenue by the grocery store.
“Cheryl heard Tony was in an accident and was killed,” she said.
My heart sank. Rumors like this were almost always true, especially in small towns.
Tony was Cassie’s and Carlene’s and everyone’s best friend. He graduated from high school a few weeks earlier and had been accepted to Penn State for the fall. He’d been in my kitchen a few days earlier, eating my food and calling me “Mom,” like he always did.
“I’ll call the paper and see what they know,” I said. My hands shook as I dialed the phone.
“Hey, Tom, it’s Lynn. I heard there was an accident this morning. Do you know anything?”
Carlene watched me nod my head.
“So it was Tony.”
More nodding.
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Oh my God,” said Carlene. “Mommy…”
After learning more details of the accident over the next few hours, my next step was to call California. Just as my mother had to tell me my husband was dead, I had to tell my 15-year-old daughter, on the phone and 2,000 miles away, that her best friend was dead. If there’s a feeling more helpless or more heart-wrenching than hearing your daughter sob on the phone and there’s not a damn thing you can do to comfort her, I don’t ever want to know it.
In the days and months that followed, Carlene realized she was no longer on the outside looking in at her senior project. She understood first hand what James, Darcy, Mary, Rick, David, Mr. Jones, Mrs. Anderson and everyone else tried to tell her in their letters and emails and pieces of Bruce. When someone you love dies, you feel unimaginable things and you can never be the same person you were the minute before.
“When my father died, the whole town went into mourning,” Carlene wrote in her project essay. “That wasn’t hard for me to imagine, because the day Tony died, I fully understood the devastation of losing someone close to you. Something clicked in my head and it all made sense. Tony was so dear to me. He knew everything about me, inside and out. Tony was a friend to everyone. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t love him. His accident shook the whole community and his memory still makes me cry. I get so sad some days and wonder why something so horrible had to happen. In so many ways, Tony’s death was like my father’s.”
Life at 200 pounds turned into the same turbulent place it had been all the times before, and I did nothing to stop the numbers rising on the scale. Not a damn thing.
Part 7:
Along with prescribing Paxil, my doctor insisted I see a therapist and I didn’t resist. Slowly, as the medication took hold and I was able to think without smacking my head into a brick wall, I accepted grief for what it is: a malleable presence that never goes away, but can become a teacher. I was able to work through my feelings rather than dance around them, to stop demanding I “get over it.” Everything I knew about Bruce – his life and his death – would forever be a part of my life.
True to my life pattern, I was still unable to work on tough emotional issues and my weight issues at the same time. In the last few months of Carlene’s project, I’d put my body on the back burner as the antidepressant made me numb to the scale. Food became a comfort, both eating it and cooking it. I still bought water-packed tuna, but I ate the whole can with mayonnaise, dill pickles and hearty bread. Macaroni and cheese and au gratin potatoes found their way back into my diet. I scoured cookbooks and learned to make pot pie and homemade bread and my own chicken and turkey broth. I became a very good cook.
By April 2000, I was back over 200 and stayed there through June, when the world lost another Bruce.
Cassie was in California visiting my sister Emily and Carlene was sleeping in her room in the basement on that sunny June morning. The phone rang. It was Carlene’s friend Cheryl.
Without saying hello, she asked if she could talk to Carlene.
“She’s sleeping,” I said. “Can I have her call you back when she wakes up?”
“It’s really important, Lynn,” Cheryl pleaded. “Can you wake her up?”
Important to a 17-year-old girl is different than important to a 36-year-old woman, but I figured I’d let Carlene chew out Cheryl for waking her up. I went downstairs, woke up Carlene and handed her the phone.
A few minutes later, Carlene came upstairs, pale as a sheet, and asked if I’d heard the sirens earlier that morning. I had, but that wasn’t anything new in our town. We were immune to the sirens. They wailed for the volunteer fire department any time a traveler on I-80 went off the road or there was a fender bender along the curve on 5th Avenue by the grocery store.
“Cheryl heard Tony was in an accident and was killed,” she said.
My heart sank. Rumors like this were almost always true, especially in small towns.
Tony was Cassie’s and Carlene’s and everyone’s best friend. He graduated from high school a few weeks earlier and had been accepted to Penn State for the fall. He’d been in my kitchen a few days earlier, eating my food and calling me “Mom,” like he always did.
“I’ll call the paper and see what they know,” I said. My hands shook as I dialed the phone.
“Hey, Tom, it’s Lynn. I heard there was an accident this morning. Do you know anything?”
Carlene watched me nod my head.
“So it was Tony.”
More nodding.
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Oh my God,” said Carlene. “Mommy…”
After learning more details of the accident over the next few hours, my next step was to call California. Just as my mother had to tell me my husband was dead, I had to tell my 15-year-old daughter, on the phone and 2,000 miles away, that her best friend was dead. If there’s a feeling more helpless or more heart-wrenching than hearing your daughter sob on the phone and there’s not a damn thing you can do to comfort her, I don’t ever want to know it.
In the days and months that followed, Carlene realized she was no longer on the outside looking in at her senior project. She understood first hand what James, Darcy, Mary, Rick, David, Mr. Jones, Mrs. Anderson and everyone else tried to tell her in their letters and emails and pieces of Bruce. When someone you love dies, you feel unimaginable things and you can never be the same person you were the minute before.
“When my father died, the whole town went into mourning,” Carlene wrote in her project essay. “That wasn’t hard for me to imagine, because the day Tony died, I fully understood the devastation of losing someone close to you. Something clicked in my head and it all made sense. Tony was so dear to me. He knew everything about me, inside and out. Tony was a friend to everyone. There wasn’t anyone who didn’t love him. His accident shook the whole community and his memory still makes me cry. I get so sad some days and wonder why something so horrible had to happen. In so many ways, Tony’s death was like my father’s.”
Life at 200 pounds turned into the same turbulent place it had been all the times before, and I did nothing to stop the numbers rising on the scale. Not a damn thing.
Rabu, 03 Desember 2008
Poverty and Exercise
I watched an eye-opening segment on NBC Nightly News about Latino women in Phoenix who joined a local fitness program. It covered, briefly, several aspects of why Latino women have a higher-than-average obesity rate in this country, including their traditional roles as caregivers and their traditional diets. But what struck me most was the part about exercise. The women interviewed lived in poor neighborhoods and didn’t feel safe walking for exercise. Instead, they went to places like Big Lots or WalMart and walked around the store’s parking lots.
Wow. Slap me in the face.
I didn’t realize until that moment how much I take exercise for granted. And shame on me. Shame, shame on me. I pissed and moaned this morning – in my office which doubles as my exercise room – that I didn’t have the energy to work out. I was “tired.” I didn’t “feel like it.” I was behaving like a spoiled brat. My desk sits next to an elliptical machine and stationary bike. My hand weights are stacked against the wall, as is my barbell. But still….wahhh! Big baby me didn’t “feel” like exercising.
Poverty and obesity are separate subjects and yet interconnected. Obesity rates among the those living in poverty is substantially higher than middle- and upper-class families. Eating right and exercise is the least of their concerns, and yet the women in Phoenix were changing their way of thinking and behaving. It’s just that the odds were stacked against them. The things I take for granted are beyond their reach and yet, they persevere.
I found Poverty News Blog tonight as I searched for more information on this phenomenon. The statistics regarding statewide childhood obesity rates was particularly alarming in the blog entry “Poverty Fuels Obesity Rates.” Children and adults need access to affordable and safe exercise opportunities. We can’t solve our country’s obesity problem, particularly in light of this economic crisis, if the poorest among us don’t have the opportunity to move, to feel not only the physical but the psychological affects of exercise.
As more fast food restaurants and fewer grocery stores invade the poorest of neighborhoods, how do we stem the tide of obesity? This is all off the top of my head, a reaction to a news story, so I don’t have any answers, only questions, and I’m asking you for your input. In this season of giving, we might not have a lot to give, but where can our resources best be utilized, those of us who believe fitness should be accessible to everyone? I’d appreciate any feedback you have.
As for me and my whining about exercising…I’m still ashamed, but I’ll use the energy of it to spur me into action and a new way of thinking.
Your thoughts?
Wow. Slap me in the face.
I didn’t realize until that moment how much I take exercise for granted. And shame on me. Shame, shame on me. I pissed and moaned this morning – in my office which doubles as my exercise room – that I didn’t have the energy to work out. I was “tired.” I didn’t “feel like it.” I was behaving like a spoiled brat. My desk sits next to an elliptical machine and stationary bike. My hand weights are stacked against the wall, as is my barbell. But still….wahhh! Big baby me didn’t “feel” like exercising.
Poverty and obesity are separate subjects and yet interconnected. Obesity rates among the those living in poverty is substantially higher than middle- and upper-class families. Eating right and exercise is the least of their concerns, and yet the women in Phoenix were changing their way of thinking and behaving. It’s just that the odds were stacked against them. The things I take for granted are beyond their reach and yet, they persevere.
I found Poverty News Blog tonight as I searched for more information on this phenomenon. The statistics regarding statewide childhood obesity rates was particularly alarming in the blog entry “Poverty Fuels Obesity Rates.” Children and adults need access to affordable and safe exercise opportunities. We can’t solve our country’s obesity problem, particularly in light of this economic crisis, if the poorest among us don’t have the opportunity to move, to feel not only the physical but the psychological affects of exercise.
As more fast food restaurants and fewer grocery stores invade the poorest of neighborhoods, how do we stem the tide of obesity? This is all off the top of my head, a reaction to a news story, so I don’t have any answers, only questions, and I’m asking you for your input. In this season of giving, we might not have a lot to give, but where can our resources best be utilized, those of us who believe fitness should be accessible to everyone? I’d appreciate any feedback you have.
As for me and my whining about exercising…I’m still ashamed, but I’ll use the energy of it to spur me into action and a new way of thinking.
Your thoughts?
Senin, 01 Desember 2008
B is For Beets…and Breakfast
I had strawberries and Greek yogurt and beets for breakfast this morning. Don’t worry, they weren’t all in one bowl.
I woke up this morning thinking about the beets I made last night. I had every intention of eating them for dinner, but after my soy crumbles/pasta sauce/sautéed mushrooms/butternut squashgasm, I was satisfied and didn’t want to eat any more. OK, maybe “didn’t want to eat” isn’t true, but I chose not to eat them because my stomach said I didn’t need to. And my stomach is much smarter than my brain.
I think I’ll start more mornings with beets. I was awake at 4:15 for no reason and finally dragged my butt out of bed at 6:15. I thought for sure I’d be dragging by 8 and want to take a quick nap, but no. My body was full of energy and I completed a full workout. Could it have been the beets? Hmmm…
I went in search of information about this yummy root vegetable and found The World’s Healthiest Foods website. What a gem! It features a food of the week, cooking tips, in-depth nutritional information and even healthy menus. I also signed up for their free newsletter. By the way, today’s food of the week is crimini mushrooms. Where has this website been all my life?
Anyway, back to beets. According to WHF, “Beets are an excellent source of the B vitamin, folate, and a very good source of manganese and potassium. Beets are a good source of dietary fiber, vitamin C, magnesium, iron, copper and phosphorus.” Eating them can help prevent colon cancer, birth defects and inflammation. One cup of beets is only 74 calories. I never thought to grate raw beets into salads before or to roast them. So many options! I’ve also never eaten beet greens before, but I will try them now that I know what to do with them.
Tonight I’m cooking up Brussels sprouts and will make enough to have for breakfast tomorrow. I’ve decided to incorporate a veggie into every breakfast, even on non-omelet days. I know it wasn’t simply eating beets that kept my energy level high this morning (although I know beets have a high sugar content, I’m pretty sure my energy came from my scale number which was down and that made me very happy and when I’m happy, I’m energized), but eating veggies at every meal is my new goal. I’ll just have to be very careful not to confuse them for the fruit I put in my yogurt or on oatmeal or Shredded Wheat ‘n Bran. I’m pretty sure asparagus in light vanilla soy milk wouldn’t be very appetizing. Although, green beans in warm milk was a staple while I was growing up. Mmmmm…now I want green beans.
My mind is a scary place sometimes.
I woke up this morning thinking about the beets I made last night. I had every intention of eating them for dinner, but after my soy crumbles/pasta sauce/sautéed mushrooms/butternut squashgasm, I was satisfied and didn’t want to eat any more. OK, maybe “didn’t want to eat” isn’t true, but I chose not to eat them because my stomach said I didn’t need to. And my stomach is much smarter than my brain.
I think I’ll start more mornings with beets. I was awake at 4:15 for no reason and finally dragged my butt out of bed at 6:15. I thought for sure I’d be dragging by 8 and want to take a quick nap, but no. My body was full of energy and I completed a full workout. Could it have been the beets? Hmmm…
I went in search of information about this yummy root vegetable and found The World’s Healthiest Foods website. What a gem! It features a food of the week, cooking tips, in-depth nutritional information and even healthy menus. I also signed up for their free newsletter. By the way, today’s food of the week is crimini mushrooms. Where has this website been all my life?
Anyway, back to beets. According to WHF, “Beets are an excellent source of the B vitamin, folate, and a very good source of manganese and potassium. Beets are a good source of dietary fiber, vitamin C, magnesium, iron, copper and phosphorus.” Eating them can help prevent colon cancer, birth defects and inflammation. One cup of beets is only 74 calories. I never thought to grate raw beets into salads before or to roast them. So many options! I’ve also never eaten beet greens before, but I will try them now that I know what to do with them.
Tonight I’m cooking up Brussels sprouts and will make enough to have for breakfast tomorrow. I’ve decided to incorporate a veggie into every breakfast, even on non-omelet days. I know it wasn’t simply eating beets that kept my energy level high this morning (although I know beets have a high sugar content, I’m pretty sure my energy came from my scale number which was down and that made me very happy and when I’m happy, I’m energized), but eating veggies at every meal is my new goal. I’ll just have to be very careful not to confuse them for the fruit I put in my yogurt or on oatmeal or Shredded Wheat ‘n Bran. I’m pretty sure asparagus in light vanilla soy milk wouldn’t be very appetizing. Although, green beans in warm milk was a staple while I was growing up. Mmmmm…now I want green beans.
My mind is a scary place sometimes.
Sabtu, 29 November 2008
Because I Said So
Back when the Season of Food began (aka Halloween), my friend Shari was struggling with food and was feeling deprived that she “couldn’t” eat some of her favorite foods while losing weight. It was an emotional struggle and we talked about it at length. A few days later, she read the blog I posted about my own difficulty with Halloween candy, and sent me this email: “Ah, Halloween candy. I bought mostly stuff I don't like...with the exception of M&M's. I thought I'd be safe as long as I didn't open the bag... and I was... until one day when I thought, ‘Just one fun size package would really make me feel better.’ Four days and many fun size packages later, you saved me with a visit that pulled me out of my funk. I haven't touched them since. :) Thanks, buddy.”
You’re welcome, Shari, but as you and many of my readers know, I don’t always practice what I preach. Good advice I dole out to friends doesn’t always get through my own dense thinking.
Over at Refuse To Regain, I wrote in my last blog about how my knee (which subsequently turned into “knees”) went out and I was unable to work out like I wanted to so I could have a little extra T-day food. When I wrote the blog on Tuesday, I really thought I’d wrapped my head around it and accepted that I’d need to be careful with my choices on Friday (we had a delayed T-day this year) since I didn’t have the buffer of a huge cardio workout.
On Thanksgiving Day, first daughter and I cooked for six hours and I didn’t pick or taste test anything except the new cranberry sauce recipe I tried (which was fabulous by the way – click here to see it). I patted myself on the back, solidly convinced that since I cooked the meal without being tempted, I’d be just dandy the next day when we bought it all down to second daughter’s house to eat it.
What derailed me was the scale. (*Insert big eye roll and sigh*) I stepped on it while getting ready to go to second daughter’s house and wouldn’t you know it? I was up a few pounds. After posting a rant to my online maintenance group about it, I thought I would just move on, let it go, deep breath, all that s*it.
But that scale number sat there in the back of my head all day, gnawing at my good sense and sanity. I kept thinking, ‘What happened to what I wrote on RTR?’: “I forget that I really do know what I’m doing. Pilots are trained to fly in inclement weather. I, too, have been trained to maintain when these physically turbulent times arise. I just need to trust myself, continue to fight, and utilize the tools I’ve honed over the last four years. Yeah, so, I gain two pounds. Doesn’t mean I’ll gain 170.”
What happened was that I didn’t fully embrace my own words. I still, after nearly two years in maintenance, don’t fully trust that I know what I’m doing or that I won’t throw it all away in some mad potato/stuffing/pumpkin pie craving and dive head first into each one as they pass from the person on my left to the person on my right.
*Insert additional eye roll*
As we played The Game of Life (a T-day tradition), I ate a few baked pita chips and salsa and sampled the artichoke dip (as I had planned). I drank a glass of wine, picked up G-baby Claire at least 20 times because she wanted up (I can never say no) and made the green beans and checked the meal warming in the oven. But still, that ever-nagging, “Why me? Why can’t I eat all the potatoes and stuffing I want? Why? Why? Why?” wouldn’t go away. Finally, I retreated to the bathroom and got all mom on myself. While I can’t say no to G-baby Claire, Child Lynn had to be told to suck it up. She had to hear, “Because I said so.”
Parent Lynn compromised with Child Lynn and allowed her to have a taste of the stuffing and the potatoes. Not a face-full, but a taste. And a taste sufficed. In fact, a taste made me remember why I don’t eat “party” potatoes or stuffing (the real stuff. The kids banned “diet” stuffing this year). Rather than eating more than a taste, I had a few extra string beans with almonds and another bite or two of sweet potatoes and Child Lynn was really happy.
Today, I am back to clean eating and (mostly) clean thinking. I stepped on the scale (sorry, Sondra, I just had to) and I was down a pound, which made me realize that other factors beside food and no exercise contribute to the scale number (like water retention in my melon-sized knees, maybe?) and that I do, probably, know what I’m doing. Wait. Scratch that. I don’t actually “know” what I’m doing all the time. Weight-maintenance Nirvana will take a little longer, I’m afraid. But I trust the learning process. I (almost) trust myself.
You’re welcome, Shari, but as you and many of my readers know, I don’t always practice what I preach. Good advice I dole out to friends doesn’t always get through my own dense thinking.
Over at Refuse To Regain, I wrote in my last blog about how my knee (which subsequently turned into “knees”) went out and I was unable to work out like I wanted to so I could have a little extra T-day food. When I wrote the blog on Tuesday, I really thought I’d wrapped my head around it and accepted that I’d need to be careful with my choices on Friday (we had a delayed T-day this year) since I didn’t have the buffer of a huge cardio workout.
On Thanksgiving Day, first daughter and I cooked for six hours and I didn’t pick or taste test anything except the new cranberry sauce recipe I tried (which was fabulous by the way – click here to see it). I patted myself on the back, solidly convinced that since I cooked the meal without being tempted, I’d be just dandy the next day when we bought it all down to second daughter’s house to eat it.
What derailed me was the scale. (*Insert big eye roll and sigh*) I stepped on it while getting ready to go to second daughter’s house and wouldn’t you know it? I was up a few pounds. After posting a rant to my online maintenance group about it, I thought I would just move on, let it go, deep breath, all that s*it.
But that scale number sat there in the back of my head all day, gnawing at my good sense and sanity. I kept thinking, ‘What happened to what I wrote on RTR?’: “I forget that I really do know what I’m doing. Pilots are trained to fly in inclement weather. I, too, have been trained to maintain when these physically turbulent times arise. I just need to trust myself, continue to fight, and utilize the tools I’ve honed over the last four years. Yeah, so, I gain two pounds. Doesn’t mean I’ll gain 170.”
What happened was that I didn’t fully embrace my own words. I still, after nearly two years in maintenance, don’t fully trust that I know what I’m doing or that I won’t throw it all away in some mad potato/stuffing/pumpkin pie craving and dive head first into each one as they pass from the person on my left to the person on my right.
*Insert additional eye roll*
As we played The Game of Life (a T-day tradition), I ate a few baked pita chips and salsa and sampled the artichoke dip (as I had planned). I drank a glass of wine, picked up G-baby Claire at least 20 times because she wanted up (I can never say no) and made the green beans and checked the meal warming in the oven. But still, that ever-nagging, “Why me? Why can’t I eat all the potatoes and stuffing I want? Why? Why? Why?” wouldn’t go away. Finally, I retreated to the bathroom and got all mom on myself. While I can’t say no to G-baby Claire, Child Lynn had to be told to suck it up. She had to hear, “Because I said so.”
Parent Lynn compromised with Child Lynn and allowed her to have a taste of the stuffing and the potatoes. Not a face-full, but a taste. And a taste sufficed. In fact, a taste made me remember why I don’t eat “party” potatoes or stuffing (the real stuff. The kids banned “diet” stuffing this year). Rather than eating more than a taste, I had a few extra string beans with almonds and another bite or two of sweet potatoes and Child Lynn was really happy.
Today, I am back to clean eating and (mostly) clean thinking. I stepped on the scale (sorry, Sondra, I just had to) and I was down a pound, which made me realize that other factors beside food and no exercise contribute to the scale number (like water retention in my melon-sized knees, maybe?) and that I do, probably, know what I’m doing. Wait. Scratch that. I don’t actually “know” what I’m doing all the time. Weight-maintenance Nirvana will take a little longer, I’m afraid. But I trust the learning process. I (almost) trust myself.
Selasa, 25 November 2008
Stuff That Won’t Be In The Book – Part 6
Many of you wrote to say Part 5 made you teary. Sorry about that. It’s why I decided I may as well hit ya’ll over the head with another one and get it over with. This part still makes me cry.
Part 6:
Mary and Mr. Jones made me visit places I’d not been to in years. While I could have been undone, I was proud of myself for facing the fear and feeling the pain and crying the tears, all while losing weight and working and doing all the other things I did in my normal life. Grief hadn’t won. Yet.
Just as I was about to walk on stage and thank the Academy for my awesome performance, Carlene got an email from David – the man who married us, buried Bruce, baptized Carlene and stood in the center of my loss.
“As I sit here at my computer, I have in front of me the bulletin from the funeral service for Bruce,” David wrote. “I often think of that week in the life of the Jasper community because it was filled with some of the most profound pain and sorrow I have ever witnessed. Your dad belonged to those people and his death was deeply felt by all who knew him…
“…Looking back, I also remember one of the greatest errors we made in those days was not letting your mother at least touch some portion of his body. It was not fair of us (the mortician and me) to not make it possible for this physical ending to happen. How difficult it must have been to have Bruce virtually disappear from her life…my deepest apologies for this mistake.”
When I learned Bruce’s tractor was hit by a freight train and David told me I couldn’t see his body, I imagined Bruce strewn in a million pieces along the tracks. Blood, body parts, his coveralls, boots, and hat all unrecognizable pieces of what had a been the person I woke up next to four hours earlier.
A week after the funeral, our local newspaper confirmed I was wrong. And they had photos all over the front page to prove it.
No one warned me there would be photos. I expected there would be an article about the accident, but I never thought there’d be photos of Bruce’s mangled tractor next to a line of coal cars, of people mulling about the scene like it was an Easter egg hung, or of glass and metal scattered all over the tracks and ditch. But one photo in particular hit me smack between the eyes: “The body of Bruce Bouwman can be seen in the center of the photograph alongside the tracks and covered with a tarp.”
What the…? I didn’t understand. For a second, I floated outside my body and looked at me looking at a photo of my husband’s bootless legs sticking out from under a tarp. Then I was riding on an asteroid plummeting through the earth’s atmosphere.
Think, Lynn, think. What’s going on? What is this?
I tried to make it make sense when a few seconds later, wham! I hit the ground, and from the crater rose up so much anger and despair I started to choke and hyperventilate. There is no sense of direction in hell.
“That’s my husband!” I screamed to no one, although Carlene was asleep in her crib in the next room.
Tears and snot ran into my mouth as I reached for the phone on the wall and dialed my parents’ phone number. Dad answered the phone.
“Daddy,” I bawled, “you promised me I’d never have to see his tractor! You promised me!”
“Lynnie?” he said. My voice was unrecognizable and he was obviously taken off guard. He begged me to calm down and tell him what happened. I paced the length of the phone cord and cried and listened to him saying calmly, “Shhhh, honey. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.”
Finally, I slumped to the floor and in fits and stops, told Dad about the photographs. While it was true he promised me that Bruce’s tractor was taken far away and that I’d never have to see it, he couldn’t have known there would be published photographs. My dad, who’d lost his father when he was 6 years old and felt tremendous personal sorrow for Carlene, was beside himself trying to comfort his daughter 200 miles away. As a parent, I can only imagine how he felt. My guess is he wanted to hurt someone. Really badly.
The only thing those photos did was assure me that Bruce had not been cut into a million pieces by a freight train, and that the body we buried in the ground was whole. I wondered why that mattered. Dead is dead. But because it mattered and I was left with so many questions about the accident, I sought the answers a few weeks later. I went to talk to David because I knew he’d tell me the truth. Even though he thought he was protecting me by not letting me see Bruce’s dead body, he knew I needed to know what happened and how.
I told him of my original fear about how Bruce died and he assured me that Bruce’s body was indeed intact and that he died of a severe head injury. Investigators surmised that the train hit the front wheels of Bruce’s cab tractor and that his body was thrown through the front window and into the ditch. The glass lacerated his brain and he was killed instantly. I still wonder if in the last seconds of his life, Bruce saw the train and if he was afraid and if he knew he was going to die. My heart aches for him if that is true.
David was on the ambulance crew that day, so he’d seen Bruce dead, and David’s trauma became my lasting nightmare. I developed what I call “Bruce dreams” shortly after our conversation and I’ve had them ever since. Experts say it’s because I never saw him dead. Never got the chance to say goodbye.
I wasn’t angry with David about his decision to not let me see Bruce. I knew he acted out of love and compassion all those years ago. Still I welcomed his apology because it validated what I’d felt for years – that I needed to see Bruce dead so I could have some closure. If I hadn’t been a 19-year-old bleeding, nursing new mother, I would have demanded it.
Reliving the hardest days in all of my life gave the 19-year-old me some satisfaction, but the present me was falling into a black hole. As Carlene’s project wore on, I became more aware of how the time separating Bruce and me had stolen the small details of our life. I remembered the painful things, but I couldn’t always recall the good.
Carlene’s project was under my skin and had become way more personal than I expected or wanted. By the time the final response came in late winter, I was off the DASH diet and on an antidepressant. I had too many feelings and not enough space in my head. I couldn’t stand the nights of crying and days of sleeping. I got stuck when I tried to break away from the memories and put them in perspective, all the while trying to nurture my real-life relationship. I still loved Bruce and I felt like I was betraying Larry by crying over a ghost.
Part 6:
Mary and Mr. Jones made me visit places I’d not been to in years. While I could have been undone, I was proud of myself for facing the fear and feeling the pain and crying the tears, all while losing weight and working and doing all the other things I did in my normal life. Grief hadn’t won. Yet.
Just as I was about to walk on stage and thank the Academy for my awesome performance, Carlene got an email from David – the man who married us, buried Bruce, baptized Carlene and stood in the center of my loss.
“As I sit here at my computer, I have in front of me the bulletin from the funeral service for Bruce,” David wrote. “I often think of that week in the life of the Jasper community because it was filled with some of the most profound pain and sorrow I have ever witnessed. Your dad belonged to those people and his death was deeply felt by all who knew him…
“…Looking back, I also remember one of the greatest errors we made in those days was not letting your mother at least touch some portion of his body. It was not fair of us (the mortician and me) to not make it possible for this physical ending to happen. How difficult it must have been to have Bruce virtually disappear from her life…my deepest apologies for this mistake.”
When I learned Bruce’s tractor was hit by a freight train and David told me I couldn’t see his body, I imagined Bruce strewn in a million pieces along the tracks. Blood, body parts, his coveralls, boots, and hat all unrecognizable pieces of what had a been the person I woke up next to four hours earlier.
A week after the funeral, our local newspaper confirmed I was wrong. And they had photos all over the front page to prove it.
No one warned me there would be photos. I expected there would be an article about the accident, but I never thought there’d be photos of Bruce’s mangled tractor next to a line of coal cars, of people mulling about the scene like it was an Easter egg hung, or of glass and metal scattered all over the tracks and ditch. But one photo in particular hit me smack between the eyes: “The body of Bruce Bouwman can be seen in the center of the photograph alongside the tracks and covered with a tarp.”
What the…? I didn’t understand. For a second, I floated outside my body and looked at me looking at a photo of my husband’s bootless legs sticking out from under a tarp. Then I was riding on an asteroid plummeting through the earth’s atmosphere.
Think, Lynn, think. What’s going on? What is this?
I tried to make it make sense when a few seconds later, wham! I hit the ground, and from the crater rose up so much anger and despair I started to choke and hyperventilate. There is no sense of direction in hell.
“That’s my husband!” I screamed to no one, although Carlene was asleep in her crib in the next room.
Tears and snot ran into my mouth as I reached for the phone on the wall and dialed my parents’ phone number. Dad answered the phone.
“Daddy,” I bawled, “you promised me I’d never have to see his tractor! You promised me!”
“Lynnie?” he said. My voice was unrecognizable and he was obviously taken off guard. He begged me to calm down and tell him what happened. I paced the length of the phone cord and cried and listened to him saying calmly, “Shhhh, honey. Shhhhh. Shhhhh.”
Finally, I slumped to the floor and in fits and stops, told Dad about the photographs. While it was true he promised me that Bruce’s tractor was taken far away and that I’d never have to see it, he couldn’t have known there would be published photographs. My dad, who’d lost his father when he was 6 years old and felt tremendous personal sorrow for Carlene, was beside himself trying to comfort his daughter 200 miles away. As a parent, I can only imagine how he felt. My guess is he wanted to hurt someone. Really badly.
The only thing those photos did was assure me that Bruce had not been cut into a million pieces by a freight train, and that the body we buried in the ground was whole. I wondered why that mattered. Dead is dead. But because it mattered and I was left with so many questions about the accident, I sought the answers a few weeks later. I went to talk to David because I knew he’d tell me the truth. Even though he thought he was protecting me by not letting me see Bruce’s dead body, he knew I needed to know what happened and how.
I told him of my original fear about how Bruce died and he assured me that Bruce’s body was indeed intact and that he died of a severe head injury. Investigators surmised that the train hit the front wheels of Bruce’s cab tractor and that his body was thrown through the front window and into the ditch. The glass lacerated his brain and he was killed instantly. I still wonder if in the last seconds of his life, Bruce saw the train and if he was afraid and if he knew he was going to die. My heart aches for him if that is true.
David was on the ambulance crew that day, so he’d seen Bruce dead, and David’s trauma became my lasting nightmare. I developed what I call “Bruce dreams” shortly after our conversation and I’ve had them ever since. Experts say it’s because I never saw him dead. Never got the chance to say goodbye.
I wasn’t angry with David about his decision to not let me see Bruce. I knew he acted out of love and compassion all those years ago. Still I welcomed his apology because it validated what I’d felt for years – that I needed to see Bruce dead so I could have some closure. If I hadn’t been a 19-year-old bleeding, nursing new mother, I would have demanded it.
Reliving the hardest days in all of my life gave the 19-year-old me some satisfaction, but the present me was falling into a black hole. As Carlene’s project wore on, I became more aware of how the time separating Bruce and me had stolen the small details of our life. I remembered the painful things, but I couldn’t always recall the good.
Carlene’s project was under my skin and had become way more personal than I expected or wanted. By the time the final response came in late winter, I was off the DASH diet and on an antidepressant. I had too many feelings and not enough space in my head. I couldn’t stand the nights of crying and days of sleeping. I got stuck when I tried to break away from the memories and put them in perspective, all the while trying to nurture my real-life relationship. I still loved Bruce and I felt like I was betraying Larry by crying over a ghost.
Minggu, 23 November 2008
Stuff That Won’t Be In The Book: Part 5
A few more sections to go. This one’s a little long. Sorry about that. I really appreciate allowing me to share these with you. While Carlene’s project happened years ago, putting these stories out here is healing all over again.
In Part 4, the letters and email began arriving in earnest. As Carlene’s project progressed, so did my deepening awareness of my unresolved grief.
Here’s Part 5:
With every email and every letter, the 200-pound, 19-year-old me tapped at my window, begging to be let in, but I resisted. The first couple dozen responses were easy to take, and while I visited a few soft spots reading what people wrote, I was in control emotionally and physically, still DASH dieting and heading down the scale. But the girl who was widowed and left a single mother could not be silenced. She had unresolved issues that she demanded the 200-pound, 36-year-old me deal with.
Bruce’s high-school girlfriend, Mary, selected a few letters Bruce had written to her when he went off to college that she thought Carlene would like to have. When I read Mary’s initial email offering to send the letters to Carlene, I remembered a moment from the day of Bruce’s funeral, when the mortuary’s limousine was parked in front of the church and I was sitting in the front seat between the driver and my grandmother waiting for the processional to the cemetery to begin.
Mary’s family lived in a stone house near the church. I saw her leave the church and I watched her walk briskly across the street.
It could be you sitting in this car, I thought as a couple of tears welled.
I wish it was you.
I shifted in the seat to reach for a tissue in my coat pocket and felt the pull of 35 stitches between my legs. (Note: Carlene was 9 pounds when she was born and I was still recovering from her delivery 2 weeks earlier.) I caught the tears with my gloves and I thought about Carlene. I felt grace in the knowledge that she was my daughter. If Mary or anyone else was sitting in that car, Carlene wouldn’t be mine. l would never have known Bruce’s silly humor, freezing feet and balding head. I wouldn’t have warmed baby pigs born at 2 a.m. on a cold winter night or sat in a tractor in a bean field after the sun went down singing “Endless Love” at the top of my lungs.
I also wouldn’t have learned how one simple moment in a car on the way to a burial could feel as real in the present as it did when it happened 17 years earlier. I sent Mary an email thanking her for helping Carlene with her project, and in my mind, thanked her for not being Carlene’s mother.
Shortly after Mary’s envelope of letters arrived, Carlene received a package from Bruce’s high school choir director. Bruce was a talented tenor who won every choral award possible in high school. He toured Europe with America’s Youth In Concert, and was a member of the Statesman’s Chorus at South Dakota State University. When we were alone, he talked about leaving the farm and pursuing a music career. That’s what made Mr. Jones’s gift so difficult to receive and yet the most important piece of Bruce’s past anyone could give Carlene.
“You’re not supposed to have favorites when you’re teaching,” said Mr. Jones in a cassette recording. “But Bruce was one of my all-time favorites and as far as vocal music is concerned, probably my best performer. As far as his personality, Carlene, your dad…was always with a ready smile, very polite, very positive, calm and really quite unflappable. I wish I had some of those characteristics.
“Along with the program from ‘Lil Abner,’ I’m sending a very poor tape of a rehearsal we had for ‘Oklahoma!’ Keep in mind that this was a number of years ago and it was a little hand-held tape recorder and on a stage where there was a lot of activity. Much of the voice is lost, but at least you have an inkling of what Bruce sounded like. Hope you enjoy it.”
Bruce was a senior when he played the lead in “Oklahoma!” and during every performance my 13-year-old butt was planted in the second row with my eyes focused only on him. My heart flip-flopped when he sang the duet, “People Will Say We’re In Love,” and as I listened, I secretly hated the female lead. I couldn’t sing my way out of a bag, but I wanted to be Laurey. I wanted Bruce to sing to me and kiss me. But Bruce never paid any attention to me when he’d come over to our house with my older sister’s friend whom he was dating or when I’d go out of my way to walk past his locker when I wore my junior high cheerleading outfit. I was just Debbie’s little sister. An eighth-grade nobody.
Twenty-two years later, I was his widow and the mother of his child, and I was standing in a living room in western Pennsylvania holding a tape of him singing “The Surrey With The Fringe On The Top.”
All these years I’d kept Bruce’s memory comfortably alive in photographs where he was safely one-dimensional. Dead. The last time I heard his voice, I was sitting on the living room floor changing Carlene’s diaper. He got on his knees and kissed her cheek.
“Goodbye, Carlene. Be a good baby for mommy.” Then Bruce kissed me on the head and said, “See you at noon! Love you!”
Now I was in a different living room and standing next to an almost grown up Carlene. I feared the joy of hearing his voice again wouldn’t be enough to counter the dread of remembering he was dead. Holding the tape was like holding the pull cord to a net filled with grief disguised as confetti. If I played the tape, I’d release the grief and surely it would bury me again.
Then I looked at Carlene, who’d only known her father through the voices of others. Her face was beaming with excitement. She was only 11 days old when he died, much too young to remember what he sounded like. Without me, she might not know which voice was his on the tape. I thought how I’d witnessed so many of her firsts – first step, first day of school, first date, all the things Bruce missed – and decided that despite anything I feared, I couldn’t miss the first time she heard her father’s voice.
I put the cassette in the tape deck and hit play. We stood there staring at it like we were looking into the sky for a shooting star. Just as Mr. Jones said, there was the raucous sound of teenagers laughing and a pit band rehearsing. Then, like fine tuning the radio, I pulled Bruce’s voice out of the chaos. Rather than a net spewing grief, his voice spread into the room like a warm blanket. He was singing in our living room, his voice playful, animated, and for me, familiar. I was relieved that I hadn’t forgotten what he sounded like and I was grateful to Mr. Jones for helping me introduce Carlene to her father in that one, small way.
Carlene listened, wide-eyed, and hung on to every word he spoke and sang.
“I’ve never had the whole package, Mom,” she whispered.
Carlene saw images, heard stories, and handled tangible pieces of physical evidence that her father had been alive once, but in all her life, he’d not been a part of the family. She was a Bouwman. Her grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins were Bouwmans. But Bruce, in his absence from her visits at Christmas or Easter or during school breaks, wasn’t. He was a face in a photo that looked a lot like her, but he was never a living breathing member of the family she’d grown up with. Then Carlene heard his voice, and in it, she heard her grandparents and uncles and cousins. More importantly, she heard herself. Finally, Bruce was more than her father. He was her dad.
In the written portion of her project, Carlene wrote about the tape, “It was by far the best gift I could ever receive! If anything happened to it, I’d be crushed.”
In Part 4, the letters and email began arriving in earnest. As Carlene’s project progressed, so did my deepening awareness of my unresolved grief.
Here’s Part 5:
With every email and every letter, the 200-pound, 19-year-old me tapped at my window, begging to be let in, but I resisted. The first couple dozen responses were easy to take, and while I visited a few soft spots reading what people wrote, I was in control emotionally and physically, still DASH dieting and heading down the scale. But the girl who was widowed and left a single mother could not be silenced. She had unresolved issues that she demanded the 200-pound, 36-year-old me deal with.
Bruce’s high-school girlfriend, Mary, selected a few letters Bruce had written to her when he went off to college that she thought Carlene would like to have. When I read Mary’s initial email offering to send the letters to Carlene, I remembered a moment from the day of Bruce’s funeral, when the mortuary’s limousine was parked in front of the church and I was sitting in the front seat between the driver and my grandmother waiting for the processional to the cemetery to begin.
Mary’s family lived in a stone house near the church. I saw her leave the church and I watched her walk briskly across the street.
It could be you sitting in this car, I thought as a couple of tears welled.
I wish it was you.
I shifted in the seat to reach for a tissue in my coat pocket and felt the pull of 35 stitches between my legs. (Note: Carlene was 9 pounds when she was born and I was still recovering from her delivery 2 weeks earlier.) I caught the tears with my gloves and I thought about Carlene. I felt grace in the knowledge that she was my daughter. If Mary or anyone else was sitting in that car, Carlene wouldn’t be mine. l would never have known Bruce’s silly humor, freezing feet and balding head. I wouldn’t have warmed baby pigs born at 2 a.m. on a cold winter night or sat in a tractor in a bean field after the sun went down singing “Endless Love” at the top of my lungs.
I also wouldn’t have learned how one simple moment in a car on the way to a burial could feel as real in the present as it did when it happened 17 years earlier. I sent Mary an email thanking her for helping Carlene with her project, and in my mind, thanked her for not being Carlene’s mother.
Shortly after Mary’s envelope of letters arrived, Carlene received a package from Bruce’s high school choir director. Bruce was a talented tenor who won every choral award possible in high school. He toured Europe with America’s Youth In Concert, and was a member of the Statesman’s Chorus at South Dakota State University. When we were alone, he talked about leaving the farm and pursuing a music career. That’s what made Mr. Jones’s gift so difficult to receive and yet the most important piece of Bruce’s past anyone could give Carlene.
“You’re not supposed to have favorites when you’re teaching,” said Mr. Jones in a cassette recording. “But Bruce was one of my all-time favorites and as far as vocal music is concerned, probably my best performer. As far as his personality, Carlene, your dad…was always with a ready smile, very polite, very positive, calm and really quite unflappable. I wish I had some of those characteristics.
“Along with the program from ‘Lil Abner,’ I’m sending a very poor tape of a rehearsal we had for ‘Oklahoma!’ Keep in mind that this was a number of years ago and it was a little hand-held tape recorder and on a stage where there was a lot of activity. Much of the voice is lost, but at least you have an inkling of what Bruce sounded like. Hope you enjoy it.”
Bruce was a senior when he played the lead in “Oklahoma!” and during every performance my 13-year-old butt was planted in the second row with my eyes focused only on him. My heart flip-flopped when he sang the duet, “People Will Say We’re In Love,” and as I listened, I secretly hated the female lead. I couldn’t sing my way out of a bag, but I wanted to be Laurey. I wanted Bruce to sing to me and kiss me. But Bruce never paid any attention to me when he’d come over to our house with my older sister’s friend whom he was dating or when I’d go out of my way to walk past his locker when I wore my junior high cheerleading outfit. I was just Debbie’s little sister. An eighth-grade nobody.
Twenty-two years later, I was his widow and the mother of his child, and I was standing in a living room in western Pennsylvania holding a tape of him singing “The Surrey With The Fringe On The Top.”
All these years I’d kept Bruce’s memory comfortably alive in photographs where he was safely one-dimensional. Dead. The last time I heard his voice, I was sitting on the living room floor changing Carlene’s diaper. He got on his knees and kissed her cheek.
“Goodbye, Carlene. Be a good baby for mommy.” Then Bruce kissed me on the head and said, “See you at noon! Love you!”
Now I was in a different living room and standing next to an almost grown up Carlene. I feared the joy of hearing his voice again wouldn’t be enough to counter the dread of remembering he was dead. Holding the tape was like holding the pull cord to a net filled with grief disguised as confetti. If I played the tape, I’d release the grief and surely it would bury me again.
Then I looked at Carlene, who’d only known her father through the voices of others. Her face was beaming with excitement. She was only 11 days old when he died, much too young to remember what he sounded like. Without me, she might not know which voice was his on the tape. I thought how I’d witnessed so many of her firsts – first step, first day of school, first date, all the things Bruce missed – and decided that despite anything I feared, I couldn’t miss the first time she heard her father’s voice.
I put the cassette in the tape deck and hit play. We stood there staring at it like we were looking into the sky for a shooting star. Just as Mr. Jones said, there was the raucous sound of teenagers laughing and a pit band rehearsing. Then, like fine tuning the radio, I pulled Bruce’s voice out of the chaos. Rather than a net spewing grief, his voice spread into the room like a warm blanket. He was singing in our living room, his voice playful, animated, and for me, familiar. I was relieved that I hadn’t forgotten what he sounded like and I was grateful to Mr. Jones for helping me introduce Carlene to her father in that one, small way.
Carlene listened, wide-eyed, and hung on to every word he spoke and sang.
“I’ve never had the whole package, Mom,” she whispered.
Carlene saw images, heard stories, and handled tangible pieces of physical evidence that her father had been alive once, but in all her life, he’d not been a part of the family. She was a Bouwman. Her grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins were Bouwmans. But Bruce, in his absence from her visits at Christmas or Easter or during school breaks, wasn’t. He was a face in a photo that looked a lot like her, but he was never a living breathing member of the family she’d grown up with. Then Carlene heard his voice, and in it, she heard her grandparents and uncles and cousins. More importantly, she heard herself. Finally, Bruce was more than her father. He was her dad.
In the written portion of her project, Carlene wrote about the tape, “It was by far the best gift I could ever receive! If anything happened to it, I’d be crushed.”
Jumat, 21 November 2008
It’s My Favorite Breakfast Day!
I realize I have strange taste when it comes to food. I get reminded of that all the time by my family. “Ew!! How can you eat that?” is a phrase I hear often.
Do I let them stop me from eating what I want? Nope. I’m happy eating leftover asparagus and Shredded Wheat for breakfast or tomato soup and tofu paprikash for lunch. They can have their boring meat and potato dinner. Give me a huge cookie sheet of roasted turnips, sweet potatoes, carrots, broccoli, red peppers and onions with a side of Ak-Mak crackers and PB2 and I’m set for the evening.
I’ve never been one who can’t eat in the morning. (Evenings, though? Not a big fan of food after 7.) That’s why I love breakfast most of all. I usually break breakfast into two parts: before workout and after workout. Before working out, I eat some protein and maybe a complex carb. After I work out, I have a protein and a fruit. I rotate through yogurt, cereal, oatmeal, maybe a smoothie once in awhile, plums, bananas, berries, what have you.
But once in awhile I treat myself to my favorite breakfast ever; the one I think about before going to bed and wake up eager to eat. (Yes, sadly, things really are that simple in Lynn Land sometimes. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.)
I give you: French toast and a mushroom omelet. Total POINTS: 3.5
I use ¼ C Egg beaters mixed with two egg whites (1.5 points) and two slices of lite bread (35 calories each, 4 grams of fiber, no fat – 1 point). I dip the bread in the egg mixture and cook it on a non-stick griddle. While that’s cooking, I sauté a cup of mushrooms, minced onion and minced garlic in a pan sprayed lightly with Pam. When they’re done, I pour the rest of the egg mixture on top and sprinkle with 2 t. of parmesan cheese (.5 point), tarragon and basil and flip it into an omelet. Sometimes I’ll slap a few tomato slices on depending on my mood. Then I get out the REAL maple syrup (2 tsp equals .5 point) and pour a teaspoon over each slice of French toast and there you go! My favorite breakfast ever.
Told you I was easy to please.
This hasn’t always been my favorite breakfast. Things have changed a lot in four years. My favorite breakfast used to be a toasted bagel with chive cream cheese and a big-ass latte from our local coffee shop. Easily 10 points. I used to love bacon sandwiches, too, and potatoes at Bob Evans, and three-egg “veggie” omelets (if you call bits and pieces of soggy tomatoes and peppers “veggies”) with a side a pancakes and hash browns at our local diner.
Now it’s my turn to say, “Ew!” I can honestly say I don’t miss those things. If I want a pancake, I have a few really good low-fat whole grain pancake recipes that I like very much. If I want hash browns, I make them without oil or I use butternut squash instead. A bagel and cream cheese is something I could eat if I wanted to, but I don’t want to. I’d get too full. I’d feel miserable afterwards. I used to always feel miserable and thought that was normal.
I like my new normal better. I like eating things that make my children say, “Ew!” In the long run I’d rather stay a size 6 than eat bacon ever again. Compromise? Perhaps. But I really, really love my French toast and mushroom omelet days. And that, as well as many other foods I choose instead, makes up for any food I might “lack” or say no to.
What’s your favorite (healthy) breakfast? The one that gets you out of bed in the morning? The one you wish would last all day?
Do I let them stop me from eating what I want? Nope. I’m happy eating leftover asparagus and Shredded Wheat for breakfast or tomato soup and tofu paprikash for lunch. They can have their boring meat and potato dinner. Give me a huge cookie sheet of roasted turnips, sweet potatoes, carrots, broccoli, red peppers and onions with a side of Ak-Mak crackers and PB2 and I’m set for the evening.
I’ve never been one who can’t eat in the morning. (Evenings, though? Not a big fan of food after 7.) That’s why I love breakfast most of all. I usually break breakfast into two parts: before workout and after workout. Before working out, I eat some protein and maybe a complex carb. After I work out, I have a protein and a fruit. I rotate through yogurt, cereal, oatmeal, maybe a smoothie once in awhile, plums, bananas, berries, what have you.
But once in awhile I treat myself to my favorite breakfast ever; the one I think about before going to bed and wake up eager to eat. (Yes, sadly, things really are that simple in Lynn Land sometimes. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.)
I give you: French toast and a mushroom omelet. Total POINTS: 3.5
I use ¼ C Egg beaters mixed with two egg whites (1.5 points) and two slices of lite bread (35 calories each, 4 grams of fiber, no fat – 1 point). I dip the bread in the egg mixture and cook it on a non-stick griddle. While that’s cooking, I sauté a cup of mushrooms, minced onion and minced garlic in a pan sprayed lightly with Pam. When they’re done, I pour the rest of the egg mixture on top and sprinkle with 2 t. of parmesan cheese (.5 point), tarragon and basil and flip it into an omelet. Sometimes I’ll slap a few tomato slices on depending on my mood. Then I get out the REAL maple syrup (2 tsp equals .5 point) and pour a teaspoon over each slice of French toast and there you go! My favorite breakfast ever.
Told you I was easy to please.
This hasn’t always been my favorite breakfast. Things have changed a lot in four years. My favorite breakfast used to be a toasted bagel with chive cream cheese and a big-ass latte from our local coffee shop. Easily 10 points. I used to love bacon sandwiches, too, and potatoes at Bob Evans, and three-egg “veggie” omelets (if you call bits and pieces of soggy tomatoes and peppers “veggies”) with a side a pancakes and hash browns at our local diner.
Now it’s my turn to say, “Ew!” I can honestly say I don’t miss those things. If I want a pancake, I have a few really good low-fat whole grain pancake recipes that I like very much. If I want hash browns, I make them without oil or I use butternut squash instead. A bagel and cream cheese is something I could eat if I wanted to, but I don’t want to. I’d get too full. I’d feel miserable afterwards. I used to always feel miserable and thought that was normal.
I like my new normal better. I like eating things that make my children say, “Ew!” In the long run I’d rather stay a size 6 than eat bacon ever again. Compromise? Perhaps. But I really, really love my French toast and mushroom omelet days. And that, as well as many other foods I choose instead, makes up for any food I might “lack” or say no to.
What’s your favorite (healthy) breakfast? The one that gets you out of bed in the morning? The one you wish would last all day?
Rabu, 19 November 2008
Stuff That Won't Be In The Book: Part 4
In "Stuff That Won’t Be in the Book: Part 3," I was DASH dieting and feeling good about reaching my goal of 150. At the same time, my oldest daughter Carlene began a school project that involved her late father – my first husband, Bruce, who died in a train-tractor wreck in 1983 when Carlene was 11 days old. To read more about Bruce, I’ll provide links to blog entries at the end of this piece.
Here’s Part 4:
In order to graduate from high school in Pennsylvania, seniors must design and implement a project in which they demonstrate the accumulative knowledge they’ve gained throughout their high school years. Some kids raise money for charity, others perform community service or write a play or a song. Carlene decided to write a biography of her late father (husband #1).
She wanted to get a head start on her project during her junior year and began planning shortly after I started the DASH diet. I was 100 percent behind her project, fully expecting to stay detached from her research. I’d lived with her father. I knew him and loved him well. Bruce was never a ghost in our house. Anything she learned would just reinforce what I’d told her all her life: that her father was a kind, gentle, fun man who loved us very much.
We sent a press release and letters to editors of newspapers serving the area in southwest Minnesota where we used to live, explaining her project and asking people who knew Bruce to share their memories with Carlene. As we waited for a response, I told her to not be too hopeful because it had been nearly 17 years since Bruce was killed and probably not many people who knew him would see the articles or even remember him very well.
More than 40 emails and letters later, it was clear I’d underestimated the memories of the good folks of Jasper. Carlene’s project became an almost sacred place where Bruce’s friends could finally share their memories, love, and profound pain. They needed to tell Carlene about her father, like they’d been waiting all this time for an invitation, and they remembered him in incredibly precise detail.
Bruce’s second-grade teacher, Mrs. Anderson, sent Carlene the get-well letter Bruce wrote to her in 1967 when she was recuperating from an illness. In it he wrote, in his best second-grade penmanship, that his cousins had visited over the weekend and that when his nephew messed up the house, they had to clean it up. After supper, he said, they watched “The Monkees.” He signed it “Your Friend Bruce.” She also included the playbill from the community play Bruce was involved in when he died and she told Carlene the story about how Bruce brought a banana cake and a Thermos of coffee to practice the night after Carlene was born to celebrate.
One of Bruce’s classmates, Darcy, gave Carlene a piece of sheet music she’d kept from a wedding at which she accompanied Bruce on the organ.
“Bruce had written the words of the second and third verses on the first two pages so we wouldn’t have to keep turning the page back and forth,” she wrote. “I remember having a lot of fun practicing this song with Bruce. It’s difficult for me to give up this piece of music since it brings me back to that time in my life, but after seeing your article in the paper, I feel it may mean a lot to you. Not only was Bruce very talented, but he was a fun, upbeat person to be around. I’m am sure that Bruce would have been very proud of you.”
A groomsmen from our wedding, James, sent Carlene a letter and photos of a fishing trip he and Bruce and some other friends took when they were out of college. Another friend, Rick, wrote that some of his favorite memories of Bruce involved hanging out with their friends drinking a few beers and listening to music. And as only Rick could tell it, he told Carlene the story of how Bruce, who when he was 18, snuck his friends who weren’t 18 into a drive-in that was showing the X-rated movie “Pom-Pom Girls.”
“He was worried that if we got caught they would kick us out and he wouldn’t get to see the movie!”
Bruce’s neighbor, Marilyn, wrote that she and Bruce rode the bus to school together. Sometimes they’d walk down to the creek near their farms and throw rocks in the water and talk about school and baseball and her brother, who died in a car-train wreck in 1971 at the same intersection.
“This seemed to bother Bruce,” she wrote, “and we talked about it many times; I in grief, he in curious compassion. Ironically, his life would end at the same spot.”
Almost everyone who responded with a memory also included the story of where they were and how they felt when they’d learned Bruce died. Our friend Jim’s response summed up what many people expressed: “It’s amazing how people will remember so much of a single moment in their life. It’s like a picture was taken at that moment I heard your dad died and I remembered everything. God, it was so tragic. I thought about you and your mom for days and how devastating it must be to your mom. This is still hard to write about….We all missed out on a lot since Bruce was killed. What would have been different if he were still here? Watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ I wonder how much better things would be in Jasper if her were still here.”
Jim was right about “It’s A Wonderful Life,” only we were watching it in reverse. Instead of Bruce being shown what life would be like without him, we, his family and friends, were actually living life without him, and there was no Clarence in our lives trying to earn his wings by saving us from jumping in the river.
For more blogs about Bruce, click here to go to the entry I wrote earlier this year about Bruce. In it are several other links to entries I’ve written about Bruce over the last few years.
Here’s Part 4:
In order to graduate from high school in Pennsylvania, seniors must design and implement a project in which they demonstrate the accumulative knowledge they’ve gained throughout their high school years. Some kids raise money for charity, others perform community service or write a play or a song. Carlene decided to write a biography of her late father (husband #1).
She wanted to get a head start on her project during her junior year and began planning shortly after I started the DASH diet. I was 100 percent behind her project, fully expecting to stay detached from her research. I’d lived with her father. I knew him and loved him well. Bruce was never a ghost in our house. Anything she learned would just reinforce what I’d told her all her life: that her father was a kind, gentle, fun man who loved us very much.
We sent a press release and letters to editors of newspapers serving the area in southwest Minnesota where we used to live, explaining her project and asking people who knew Bruce to share their memories with Carlene. As we waited for a response, I told her to not be too hopeful because it had been nearly 17 years since Bruce was killed and probably not many people who knew him would see the articles or even remember him very well.
More than 40 emails and letters later, it was clear I’d underestimated the memories of the good folks of Jasper. Carlene’s project became an almost sacred place where Bruce’s friends could finally share their memories, love, and profound pain. They needed to tell Carlene about her father, like they’d been waiting all this time for an invitation, and they remembered him in incredibly precise detail.
Bruce’s second-grade teacher, Mrs. Anderson, sent Carlene the get-well letter Bruce wrote to her in 1967 when she was recuperating from an illness. In it he wrote, in his best second-grade penmanship, that his cousins had visited over the weekend and that when his nephew messed up the house, they had to clean it up. After supper, he said, they watched “The Monkees.” He signed it “Your Friend Bruce.” She also included the playbill from the community play Bruce was involved in when he died and she told Carlene the story about how Bruce brought a banana cake and a Thermos of coffee to practice the night after Carlene was born to celebrate.
One of Bruce’s classmates, Darcy, gave Carlene a piece of sheet music she’d kept from a wedding at which she accompanied Bruce on the organ.
“Bruce had written the words of the second and third verses on the first two pages so we wouldn’t have to keep turning the page back and forth,” she wrote. “I remember having a lot of fun practicing this song with Bruce. It’s difficult for me to give up this piece of music since it brings me back to that time in my life, but after seeing your article in the paper, I feel it may mean a lot to you. Not only was Bruce very talented, but he was a fun, upbeat person to be around. I’m am sure that Bruce would have been very proud of you.”
A groomsmen from our wedding, James, sent Carlene a letter and photos of a fishing trip he and Bruce and some other friends took when they were out of college. Another friend, Rick, wrote that some of his favorite memories of Bruce involved hanging out with their friends drinking a few beers and listening to music. And as only Rick could tell it, he told Carlene the story of how Bruce, who when he was 18, snuck his friends who weren’t 18 into a drive-in that was showing the X-rated movie “Pom-Pom Girls.”
“He was worried that if we got caught they would kick us out and he wouldn’t get to see the movie!”
Bruce’s neighbor, Marilyn, wrote that she and Bruce rode the bus to school together. Sometimes they’d walk down to the creek near their farms and throw rocks in the water and talk about school and baseball and her brother, who died in a car-train wreck in 1971 at the same intersection.
“This seemed to bother Bruce,” she wrote, “and we talked about it many times; I in grief, he in curious compassion. Ironically, his life would end at the same spot.”
Almost everyone who responded with a memory also included the story of where they were and how they felt when they’d learned Bruce died. Our friend Jim’s response summed up what many people expressed: “It’s amazing how people will remember so much of a single moment in their life. It’s like a picture was taken at that moment I heard your dad died and I remembered everything. God, it was so tragic. I thought about you and your mom for days and how devastating it must be to your mom. This is still hard to write about….We all missed out on a lot since Bruce was killed. What would have been different if he were still here? Watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ I wonder how much better things would be in Jasper if her were still here.”
Jim was right about “It’s A Wonderful Life,” only we were watching it in reverse. Instead of Bruce being shown what life would be like without him, we, his family and friends, were actually living life without him, and there was no Clarence in our lives trying to earn his wings by saving us from jumping in the river.
For more blogs about Bruce, click here to go to the entry I wrote earlier this year about Bruce. In it are several other links to entries I’ve written about Bruce over the last few years.
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