A Writer's Voice

Acceptance

2009-11-04T15:21:00.000-06:00

Merriam Webster defines acceptance as “the act of being accepting.” To accept something is “to receive willingly” or “to agree to.”

I accept that many people do not hold beliefs that are compatible to mine. That is fine. I support their right to their beliefs, as well as their right to support their opinions—even when I disagree. Some of the people I admire, love and hold near and dear have different ideas and opinions from mine. I accept that. That is what makes America great.

However, I do not support name calling. Just because someone does not agree with you does not make her a Nazi, a whiny liberal, an idiot, self-righteous or any other of the host of hateful names I’ve seen people called today. I do not accept name calling.

It is one thing to disagree, but do it without name calling. If you cannot form an argument without resorting to name calling, then work on your rhetorical and critical thinking skills. We are adults. Act like it.

Baseball Heaven

2009-10-09T11:26:00.000-05:00

I grew up in what is known as “baseball heaven,” and I attended my first St. Louis Cardinals game at the tender age of 11 days old. My father’s rationale was they already had the tickets, so why not? Thus, I (like most St. Louis residents) began my love affair with baseball at an early age.

The first game I remember attending was as a five-year-old in what is now known as “Busch 2” since the Cardinals opened their new stadium in 2006. The entire family went, but I got to sit next to my dad. He taught me to keep score with a scorecard and a grubby pencil. I made it until the seventh inning when the game got too complicated. We were up so high that the players looked like ants. Mom bought me a pennant and scolded me for hitting the bald guy in front of me in the head with it. That pennant still hangs on the wall of my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house. It’s yellow with age but the familiar birds on bat logo is still visible.

My family attended at least one Cardinals game every summer. My mom would load my brothers and me into the family truckster and we would pick my dad up from work before heading over to St. Louis. We always got to the stadium early enough to watch batting practice. We didn’t have much money, so we never got to sit close to the field. When I reached junior high, I earned ticket vouchers for my good grades, so we got to go to two games during those summers. I always sat next to my dad, whom I call Pops, and we always kept score—at least until the seventh inning when I seemed to get confused and would give up. The players still looked like ants, even after I got glasses.

I loved those games with my family, but I wanted to sit closer. I asked Pops why we couldn’t. He was blunt with honesty. We couldn’t afford it. The “nosebleed section,” as he called it, was it. But I wanted more.

I thought about my childhood at Busch 2 when I met Pops outside the stadium this past Sunday. It was the final game of the regular season. I was nervous with excitement. He knew we had “good seats,” but he didn’t know just how good. He was just happy to be at the game for a father-daughter day, but when I handed him his ticket, his eyes grew huge. He looked at me and said, “Wow.”

Then I walked into Busch Stadium, the home of the baseball team he introduced me to all those years ago, and led the man who could never afford anything but the nosebleed section down to the seats right behind the Cardinals dugout. It took all I had not to cry. Pops looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Players signed the new baseball I brought along for him. He took photos while never losing the smile on his face.

We kept score on shiny scorecards with new pencils. And I made it to the end of the game.

I Want to Shave My Legs, Not Make Meth

2009-09-27T20:18:00.001-05:00

It started out like an ordinary shopping trip. I decided to stop at the local Walgreen’s to pick up a few things before heading home for the day. I walked down the store aisles with list in hand, tossing items into a basket until I got to this one:

Razor blades.

I stood in the aisle, puzzled for a few moments while I searched for the blades I wanted to purchase. I was getting annoyed and impatient as I scanned the aisle until my eyes fell upon a display case of razors and replacement blades.

It was locked up. As in, with a key. As in, I needed to find a store clerk to open this display if I wanted my damn razor blades.

I briefly thought about going to another store, but curiosity got the better of me. I had to know why some . . . not all . . . of the women’s razors and blades were locked up. I noticed none of the men’s razors or blades were locked in a case.

After several minutes of walking around the store and briefly contemplating just picking the lock on the annoying display case, I finally found a sales clerk. As we walked over to the display, I asked why it was locked. “Oh, it’s policy,” she said as she whipped out a key ring with enough keys for everyone in the neighborhood to get at least two.

“What do you mean, it’s policy?” I asked. “Are people actually stealing razors and blades? Why aren’t the men’s razors locked up as well?”

Sighing heavily, she handed me the package I wanted and said, “And you have to pay for these in cosmetics” before walking away and leaving me with my package and unanswered questions.

If this is Walgreen’s “policy,” then they’ve lost me as a customer. I don’t appreciate the inconvenience and hassle when I just want a package of razor blades. After all, I just want to shave my legs . . . not make meth.

The Halfway Point

2009-09-14T18:57:00.001-05:00

Today I turn 36-years-old. It’s not a “special birthday,” as a co-worker pointed out last week. It doesn’t end in a “0” or “5,” and I’ve yet to see a “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 36” birthday card.

But for me, it is a special birthday. I have now reached the halfway point.

I have spent half my life with and without the six scars on my face, the largest of which runs across most of my forehead. The remaining five scars are on my chin—three underneath my chin and two smaller ones on my chin. But the forehead scar is the one that reminds me.

I see it every time I look in the mirror. Others claim not to notice it. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I know where to look. After all, it is my face. The doctor who stitched up the gaping hole in my forehead took extra care with his work, and for this I am grateful. He left me with a white line that has faded over time.

When the wound was fresh and held together with black thread (not unlike Frankenstein’s monster), many would look at the white bandage on my forehead covering the wound and suggest “a nice haircut with bangs.” The bolder ones would mention plastic surgery. I often wonder what they would suggest if they saw the wound itself, but I always wore a bandage in public. The first few weeks after the car accident, I had white gauze wrapped around my head, a fat lip, chipped tooth, two black eyes and a swollen nose. It would be weeks before I would get the gauze removed and get by with a forehead only bandage. I had hair down my back then, much like I do now. The first thing I did after leaving the doctor’s office the day he took the gauze off my head was to go to the hairdresser to get my hair washed. When she mentioned there was blood in the water despite all my attempts to scrub it out of my hair, I told her to cut it off. It would be years before I would have long hair again.

The suggested plastic surgery was not necessary, thanks to the surgeon’s skill that long night in the ER. I haven’t researched it, but I sometimes wonder if technology has improved enough for a surgeon to remove the scar. However, I’ve had this scar half my life now, and I’m used to it. The scar is also a reminder. It reminds me of what I survived, how lucky I was to basically walk away from a bad accident. I think of how people pointed and whispered and stared when they saw my battered face and how I learned to stop worrying about what others think and to be more compassionate. My scars taught me words can be cruel and to be careful with mine.

When I think about what my scar represents, I am grateful for these lessons.

For I Love Her So

2009-07-30T21:27:00.002-05:00

The envelope was big and bulky, with my name and address written in an unfamiliar, loopy cursive scrawl. Curiosity got the better of me as I ripped it open.

Nancy is the last of my great aunts and the youngest sister of my maternal grandfather. She was born when my grandfather was 32 years old, so he was more like a father to her than a sibling. She is only 10 years old than her niece—my mother.

I last saw Aunt Nancy almost four years ago at the party my brothers and I hosted for our parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. It was the first time I officially met, and I was stunned at how much she looked like my grandfather. It had been 25 years since I last saw that face, with its dark complexion, high cheekbones and lined forehead. She still had a thick head of coal black hair with a tiny touch of gray, just like my grandfather did in his 70s. I couldn’t help but stare, and she couldn’t help but notice.

Aunt Nancy was very kind and gracious to me, answering the many questions I had about my grandfather. He died when I was six, so I had many. “He would have been proud of you,” she said, squeezing my hand before she left for the evening. I fought back tears and wished for time I would never have.

There was no contact with Aunt Nancy until the bulky envelope showed up in the mail. Inside I found a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon and a note from my aunt. She found these letters while cleaning out her attic and wanted me to have them.

These weren’t just any old letters. They were love letters, written by my grandfather to my grandmother, and there were dozens and dozens of them. How nice, I thought. Pa wrote Nana letters when they were dating, or “courting” as he called it. But as I paged through the large pile, I quickly realized the letters went beyond the courtship stage. There was a letter written on their wedding day. One written the day after my mother, his only child, was born. And many, many more in between—not to mention after that. He wrote letters to my Nana literally until the day before he died.

I organized the pile chronologically and sat down to read. Some letters were long, while others were short. I noticed a pattern. Pa always dated his letters in the upper right hand corner of the page in the European way with the date first, then the month and finally the year. He always called Nana “My dearest Zelma” and always mentioned the weather. They were always signed “All my love, Deacon.” I still do not know how he got that nickname.

He apparently traveled during their marriage, because those letters were longer and more detailed. The letters written from home were more like love notes, but they were still beautiful nonetheless. His language was poetic in its simpleness, and there was nothing sappy or embarrassing about his prose. His love for my grandmother leaped off the page, even when he wrote about the most unromantic things, such as planting tomatoes in the garden or hitting my mother’s dog with the car for the “umpteenth time.”

As I read, I started to get a picture of a life unfamiliar to me. I laughed out loud when I realized he was writing about me: “Our granddaughter has your hair color and your stubbornness.” I laughed even harder when I realized the letter was written during the weeks I stayed with my grandparents after the birth of my youngest brother. I desperately wanted a sister and cried with disappointment during these weeks. I obviously annoyed my grandfather, but he never let me see it. I just remember lots of hugs and many new Barbie dolls.

My grandfather eventually lost his voice to cancer, so he depended on the written word even more. He tended to reminisce in the letters written during his illness, while worrying about how my grandmother would cope after he was gone. But in the end, he knew she would be fine because she was strong. He was right.

The final letter in the pile wasn’t addressed to my grandmother. It was written to my mother just days before my grandfather lost his long battle with throat cancer. He ended it with these words: “Take care of your mother, for I love her so.”

My tears stained the old pages. I had the answers I was looking for.

Fathers Day

2009-06-19T20:59:00.001-05:00

It was supposed to be another angioplasty, but this didn’t feel right. We had been in the hospital waiting room for much longer than usual. Every so often, the surgeon would come out and say it was “going to be a bit longer.”

But it never dawned on me that something really was wrong when we were summoned to the ICU waiting room so we could go see my father. I was standing next to my mother, stifling my yawns, when the other family in the room became visibly upset. The woman started crying and saying someone was coding.

That someone was my father.

He was having a heart attack while his family stood in the next room, and we had no idea. We just stood there and waited for what seemed like an eternity, until the nurse came and took us back to our familiar waiting room. I still hadn’t put two and two together.

Pops’ surgeon looked exhausted when he finally showed up to the waiting room. Grimfaced, he pulled off his skull cap and sat next to my mother. He explained that the stent he placed into my father’s main artery was not the correct size, and that a blood clot had formed between the stent and the artery wall, causing my father to go into cardiac arrest. They managed to get the stent out, dissolve the clot and insert the correct size stent.

Pops wasn’t even close to being out of the woods yet. He was in intensive care on a lung machine that would breathe for him while his body tried to recover from his latest heart surgery. We had been through so many heart surgeries with Pops, both angioplasties and bypass, that we were expecting the usual surgery of a few hours, stop in and visit Pops and then go to dinner and home exhausted.

We were allowed to go to ICU to see Pops before we were told to go home and rest. He was unconscious. My daddy. My big, strong daddy was close to death. I was 32 years old, a year younger than my mother when she lost her own father.

No one outside the five of us knew about this latest surgery. Pops didn’t want to worry anyone and asked us to call his mother and siblings after it was over. My older brother made the calls from the hospital using my cell phone while I sat in the waiting room with Mom. My younger brother was living in San Diego at the time and couldn’t afford to come home.

I lived only a few miles from the hospital, so it was decided I would stay with Pops while my older brother stayed with Mom. The long trips to the hospital exhausted her, and we didn’t see the point in her just sitting there. My brother would stay on the farm with her and take care of things there, while I handled the hospital. He got the better end of the bargain, but nothing would have kept me from my father.

He remained on the lung machine for two days before he became strong enough to breathe on his own. I arrived at ICU shortly after the machine was removed. I had tears in my eyes when he motioned to me. His voice was barely a whisper. “Why was I being held hostage?”

I was confused. “Daddy, you’re in the hospital,” I replied. “You had a heart attack.”

He shook his head, insisting that he had been held hostage on a plane. I smashed the call button so hard I thought I had broken my hand. The nurse came running and then sat me down, explaining that my father had been under heavy sedation while on the machine and that was affecting his memory. She assured me it was temporary. She then turned to him and asked him if he knew who I was.

He said, yes, that I was his daughter. I smiled. Then he called me Patty. My mother’s name. The smile faded.

My father has always been a fan of conspiracy theories, and the sedation only amplified this. Besides the plane episode, he told my younger brother on the phone that he had been held captive in Iraq and fed radioactive material that made him have a stroke. He refused his medication and refused to wear his hospital gown. I would patiently remind him each time that he was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack. He would often tell me that he was not supposed to be there. He kept forgetting he was in the hospital.

The phone calls were the worst. Somehow, he managed to have a telephone in intensive care. The nurses were overworked and exhausted and would dial for him after they ran out of patience with him. My number was first on the list. I was surprised to hear his voice when I picked up the phone. “Something’s not right,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be here.” I explained again that he was and asked to speak to his nurse. Once she assured me he was fine, I told her to take the phone away and that I would be back in the morning.

I was asleep when the phone woke me at two that morning. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he said when I answered. I reminded him of the heart attack and hung up. It rang again. I groaned and answered. “Tell Danny to get his ass down here and pick me up,” he growled.

I was exhausted, physically, mentally and emotionally. “OK,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. My brother would have a fit the next day when I would tell him of this latest request. Pops hung up after that. I wondered why he still had the phone after I asked that it be removed. I laid in my bed and bawled, exhausted and scared my father would never be the man he was before this heart attack.

The nurse called at four to tell me that Pops tried to pull out his IV while the nurses were busy with a fellow patient having a heart attack. He told the nurses that he was going home. I got up, dressed and made the short drive to the hospital fuming with anger. I was going to get through to this man, or he was going to be committed.

Even he knew I was angry when I walked into his room. “I’m in trouble,” he said to me. “You’re damn right you are,” I replied, pushing the call button for the nurse, who got a lecture from me about the telephone.

Yet the phone remained in the room. If I weren’t available for calls, then he would call Mom and upset her. He even called his own mother, who could no longer drive. I found myself calling Grandma Betty, crying to her about my own exhaustion and fears that my father would not come to his senses. She let me cry and told me not to give up hope. He’ll come around, she said.

It happened the day my mother finally visited. He was in his now usual conspiracy mode and once again refusing to wear the hospital gown. After an hour, my mother was so exhausted she ordered the nurse to sedate him so she and my brother could sneak out and go home. She was gone when my father woke up, and this gesture finally seemed to wake him up. He was still not wearing a gown when I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, but he was lucid and throwing a fit about how “your mom left me.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t blame her, but instead I reminded him that he needed to wear a gown. He told me the nurses didn’t give him one. I said they actually gave him at least six before I called the nurse and requested pajama bottoms. You’re wearing clothes, I commanded. He knew who was in charge. He put on the pants and took his medication when the nurses brought it to him. I was no longer tolerating this nonsense, and he knew it.

I left the hospital that Friday night after the doctor told me Pops would go home on Monday. The next morning, Pops called me at seven to tell me to come get him because he was going home. I asked to speak to the nurse, thinking it was more of his shenanigans, but it was true. Pops came around—just like Grandma Betty said he would.

It’s been three and a half years, but Pops does not remember any of it. When he starts laughing at how he basically tortured everyone with his conspiracy theories, I remind him that he refused to wear clothes. The laughter stops.

It was exhausting and stressful and scary, but I’d do it again if I had to because he’s my daddy. Now matter how old I am, he will always be daddy to me.

Happy Fathers Day, Pops.

We Are All Someone's Child

2009-05-26T19:43:00.001-05:00

I was driving on the two lane country highway to the small town hospital to say good-bye to Grandma Betty when I promised myself that I would not cry. She was dying—even she knew she didn’t have much time left—and I wasn’t going to upset her with my tears. This would be the last time I would see her, and I was determined to make sure it was full of love.

It was barely nine in the morning when I pulled into the parking lot next to the tiny, one-story hospital. I went inside, not sure where I was going when I wandered into a large group of Johnson relatives huddled in the hallway. The news wasn’t good. There was nothing else the doctors could do for Grandma, so we were going to make her comfortable and keep her company until she left us.

I left my dad and his siblings in the hallway and went into Grandma’s room. I was wearing my glasses, which were not familiar to her, so I spoke first out of concern she wouldn’t know who I was. Immediately recognizing my voice, she turned to the nurse who was combing her hair and proudly announced that her only granddaughter had come to visit.

I reminded myself of the promise I made in the car: no tears.

I took the comb from the nurse and continued fixing Grandma Betty’s short silvery-grey hair. It was unevenly cut and without any real style. I could tell my aunt had been cutting it at home again. I chuckled as I noticed a few strands of black woven into the silver and grey. I am the second oldest of Grandma Betty’s 10 grandchildren and remember when she had a full head of coal black hair. I struggled to remember when she turned grey, couldn’t and gave up.

I put the comb down and moved over to the chair on the other side of her bed. I sat and made small talk with her, telling her about the long drive (“No, Grandma, I did not see any deer and I will make sure to watch for them when I leave. I don’t want to hit one, either”) and listening to her tell me about my brothers visiting her the previous day. She clutched my hand and repeated weakly, “I am so happy to see you.” The same phrase she always said to me whenever I visited.

No tears.

The morning dragged on into afternoon as my family crowded into Grandma Betty’s tiny hospital room. She was the only patient in the room, so we took advantage and spread out. I tried to ignore the obvious struggle for breath coming from the hospital bed and laughed when she scolded my Uncle Mike about trying to access his work servers on his laptop. She even apologized to the nurses he had bring a long cable into her room in what turned out to be an unsuccessful attempt to log in. “My son and his computer,” she said, shaking her head.

After an uneventful lunch of hospital food, my four-year-old cousin, the youngest of Grandma Betty’s 10 grandchildren, arrived with his father. My mother always claims Sean “livens the place up” wherever he goes, and he didn’t fail to disappoint. He jabbered on about his day at summer camp when he suddenly stopped and stared at Grandma Betty. “When are you coming home, Meme?” he asked her, using the nickname all 10 of us called her whenever we first learned to talk and struggled to pronounce grandma. “I’ll be home soon,” she replied. “It won’t be much longer.”

No tears.

Afternoon turned into evening and the breathing got more and more labored. The oxygen mask was worn for longer periods of time and she struggled to stay awake. I sat in the chair next to her bed and held onto her hand. It was warm, just like it always was. She started to slip in and out of consciousness. I would put my mouth next to her ear and say, “I love you, Meme” and feel her squeeze my hand. Eventually, the squeezing stopped.

The nurse came into the room to check on Grandma Betty and announced that we had just a few hours. I practiced deep breathing like I was taught in yoga to stay calm and to keep the tears away. She was struggling and in pain. It was time.

But it wasn’t. Grandma came back to us. The oxygen mask came off and she leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The struggle against death was exhausting.

I calmly walked over to her bed and stood next to her, taking her right hand in mine. This was the hand with all five fingers intact, unlike the left one I’d been clutching off and on all day. The left one had two stubs for the middle and ring fingers after a childhood accident with an axe. That’s why no knives or anything sharp were allowed around her grandchildren. I clutched her hand tight, bent forward until my mouth was next to her ear. I told her I loved her, that I admired her fight and knew she was in pain and that it was OK to let go. My voice was strong and steady.

I kissed her forehead and walked over to my father and watched as the family followed my lead and whispered their private good-byes to the woman who was the foundation of our family. I told my father to go. He seemed hesitant. I said go while she’s still with us and can hear.

My big, strong father—the man who can fix anything, whether it’s a broken bicycle or a broken heart—walked over to his mother’s bedside and took her hand. He began whispering in her ear when I felt the sob rise in my chest. Watching my father—my strong father—tell her mother good-bye was too much. I couldn’t stop the sob as it loudly escaped from me. It was so strong and sudden that it didn’t sound like a sob—more like the barking sea lions I’d seen the week before at the zoo—and it caused my Aunt Pat, the oldest of my father’s two sisters to look at me in alarm. It was my Aunt Peg, the sister who at 40 is closer in age to me than my father, who came running over and hugged me close, allowing the hot tears to spill onto her t-shirt as the sobs I fought all day came rushing forward. I finally found the one thing my father couldn’t fix, and it ripped my heart out.

Mother

2009-05-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

One of the earliest books I remember reading is called Mom, You’re Fired. It is story of a girl named Tina who was embarrassed by her mother.

I grew up feeling embarrassed by my mother. She was everything I didn’t want to be: married at 18, a mother at 19 and barely earning a GED. She wore her black hair in a short puffy style, weighed down with hairspray and dressed in shabby mismatched clothes. Her makeup looked like it was spackled on with a putty knife and always seemed to be the first thing people noticed when they saw her. She was the original Tammy Faye.

Most women cite their mothers as inspiration. I do, too, but in a different way. She drove me not to be like her. I studied hard, read everything I could get my hands on and counted the days until I could leave for college. I wanted to be a journalist and have a career instead of being an unhappy housewife with three kids and a stingy husband. I changed my hairstyle constantly, making sure to avoid anything short and puffy, and wore lightly applied makeup. I was determined to be better than her.

In Mom, You’re Fired Tina eventually learns to accept her mother and not be embarrassed by her. I didn’t outgrow that. I entered adulthood just as embarrassed of my mother as I was during childhood. I avoided her as much as possible.

I was 27 and just months into my new career in public relations when my mother was diagnosed with liver disease. She entered the hospital and was discharged home after a weekend with not much encouragement from the doctor. She was home 24 hours when my father called me at work, asking me to come home to see if she needed to go back to the hospital. I think he was afraid she would die and he wouldn’t know what to do. After much begging and pleading, I agreed.

She was propped up on the sofa when I entered the living room, holding a glass of water. She put the glass to her lips to drink and water started spilling out of the glass onto her sweatshirt. Her liver was functioning so poorly that bile was backing up into her bloodstream and poisoning her. She would die without medical attention. I called for the ambulance and followed in my car back to St. Louis, not expecting her to make it through the night. I brought my dad home with me and helped him call relatives until he fell asleep on the sofa.

I underestimated my mother. She’s a fighter. She made it through that night, and many rough days and nights after that. She spent six weeks in that hospital, willing her body to recover and start repairing itself so she could return home. Death could find someone else to visit. Mom was busy.

I got to know my mother during those six weeks. I would work all day and then spend evenings in her hospital room watching television or reading to her. She loved The Grapes of Wrath and The Great Gatsby—two of my favorite books. She told me about the first time she had read both books, which was when she returned to school for her GED. Growing up, the only time I saw my mother read was when a copy of the National Enquirer made it into the house. She told me that if she could have had a career, it would have been in the media, and that she was so proud that was the path I had chosen.

But I broke down when she told me she had read my copy of Mom, You’re Fired when I was a kid and liked the story. She read it because she thought the title was hysterical, and the story comforted her whenever one of her children became angry with her. Remembering how Tina came to accept her mother, she hoped that I would accept her. It took 27 years, but I did.

It’s been eight years, and my mother is still with us. I thought about those six weeks in the hospital while waiting with my family to be seated for lunch on Mothers Day. No longer embarrassed, I was proud to be standing next to her and honoring her that day. I think she liked that gift better than her actual Mothers Day present, a subscription to People magazine.

A Better Way to Make Decisions

2009-04-29T09:39:00.000-05:00

I was overworked, exhausted and feeling like my life wasn’t my own. Little did I know my saving grace was in the mailbox that day.

I didn’t pay much attention to the business magazine that came in the mail, tossing it on the dining room table as I rushed to let the dog outside after a long day at the office. It was a beautiful day, unusually warm for winter in St. Louis, so I decided to sit on the deck and go through the mail while enjoying the late afternoon sunshine.

I didn’t recognize the woman on the cover of the business magazine, but I knew the name: Suzy Welch. I had read some of the columns she co-writes with her husband, Jack, and really admired their advice and tone. Curious to see what she was promoting, I flipped to the article.
And it changed my life.

Suzy was promoting her upcoming book about a decision making process she calls 10-10-10. The more I read, the more impatient I was for her book to be released. When it finally was, I immediately grabbed a copy. It’s the best purchase I’ve made in a long time.

What is 10-10-10? Suzy calls it a “life transforming idea.” It’s a roadmap for decision making that looks at the impact of the decision on your life in 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years. It always starts with a question, such as should I put my freelance writing on hold while I finish my master’s degree? (a recent decision I made using 10-10-10)

Why does 10-10-10 work? It gives you structure and logic for decision making, as well as allowing you a way to explain your decision to others. After reading the book, I realized I was making too many decisions based on what Suzy calls “The Two Gs,” which are gut and guilt. Neither approach worked for me and frankly, I don’t know anyone who has made good decisions based on their gut or guilt. Basing my decisions on The Two Gs left me feeling exhausted and like I wasn’t in control of my own life. Since I started using 10-10-10, I no longer feel this way.

Another reason it works is the process makes you examine that middle part of the decision making process that often gets ignored, the next 10 months. Many of us focus on the present and the long-term impacts when making decisions. By also considering the intermediate impact, we can make better-rounded and focused decisions.

I’ve seen the benefits of 10-10-10 in my life, and I am grateful to Suzy Welch for sharing this wonderful idea. It has truly changed my life for the better, and I am looking forward to the next 10 minutes, 10 months and 10 years.

Searching for the Santa Claus Bandit

2009-04-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

It was the typical Christmas Day lunch. I was sitting at the table with my parents and brothers, listening to my father wax nostalgic for the holidays of his childhood when he dropped this shocker:

“Mom’s brother was the Santa Claus Bandit.”

My brothers and I stopped eating and stared at Dad. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Santa Claus Bandit?”

It was no secret that one of Grandma Betty’s brothers “had done time” in prison, but she would never talk about it, telling anyone who dared to ask that the past belonged in the past. Out of respect for her, I never pressed her on it.

However, this was our first Christmas without her, and my father’s comment caused my journalistic instincts to go into overdrive. Just who was this Santa Claus Bandit?

He was Abraham Dean, the oldest of Grandma Betty’s brothers. Named for their alcoholic, abusive father, he was nicknamed Jock and inherited what my father calls “the bad Dean gene.” He spent most of his life in trouble, having petty brushes with the law until for some unknown reason he started robbing banks. He earned his nickname because he apparently said “Merry Christmas” as he made his escape. He was eventually caught, served time in the state prison in Joliet and never saw his family again.

My father claimed not to know anything else. I told him he would have made a lousy journalist and I must have inherited that particular set of skills from Mom. I was disappointed that someone who grilled me so hard about the buffet at my hotel in Las Vegas that I felt like I was talking to a gluttonous Barbara Walters didn’t think to ask more questions about the Santa Claus Bandit. My brothers echoed my disappointment, claiming that for once Dad had an interesting family story and didn’t bother getting any of the details. They’ve forgotten about it, but I can’t let it go.

I am no longer a full time journalist, but I still know how to research a story. I could find out who the Santa Claus Bandit is. The question is do I really want to? See, I could find out the facts about the Santa Claus Bandit . . . who, what, when, where and how. But what I really want to know is why, and that’s not as easy to find. And I know I won’t find the why I really want to know because the one person who can answer that for me is gone.

What I really want to know is why Grandma Betty never talked about this brother, why she clammed up whenever anyone tried to ask her about it. She took his secrets to her grave, and I want to know why. I’m not sure that answer could be found in dusty old court and prison records.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

The Garlic Necklace

2009-04-05T18:26:00.001-05:00

I noticed a bit of annoyance creep into my mother’s tone when I asked how my father was doing. “He’s wearing garlic again,” she sighed.

I knew what she meant. I first encountered the garlic necklace a few years prior, when (ironically) I visited my parents the day after watching the remake of the Salem’s Lot miniseries. The faint odor of garlic hit me when I entered the house and got stronger as I approached the living room where my father sat watching a baseball game. I noticed an old green Army sock knotted on a leather chain wrapped loosely around his neck. I couldn’t keep the look of disgust off my face when I realized he was the reason for the garlicky smell.

“Are you wearing garlic?” I asked. “Is there garlic in that sock?”

“Yes, yes I am,” he replied without even looking at me, as if wearing garlic stuffed inside an old sock around your neck was something everyone was doing and I was behind on the trend.

I lost it then. Not even trying to stifle my laughter, I asked him if he had invited vampires into the house—just like in the previously viewed Salem’s Lot. “Why no,” he replied, as serious as ever and not getting the joke. “I’m fighting off a cold.”

My father is legendary for bizarre health remedies and conspiracy theories. When I was growing up, he was convinced chlorine in the drinking water caused cancer. I quickly learned to keep colds from him after the time he made me eat an entire baked onion because he was certain it would cure whatever ailed me. He was right in a way—I forgot about my cold because I was too busy throwing up after choking down layer after layer of that huge baked disgusting mess.

But the garlic necklace took the cake. His remedies and theories usually only involved him, so the family tolerated them, but this one was different. It looked weird. And Lord, did it smell terrible. I swear every room in their house reeked of garlic, like garlic seeped into the fibers of every bit of furniture and fabric in the place. And I’m sure being stuffed inside that nasty old Army sock only made the smell a million times worse. It was years before I could even think about cooking with garlic again after being traumatized by that necklace.

My poor mother tried everything she could to get rid of the garlic necklace. She bought him garlic tablets. She threw out all his old socks. She pumped him full of vitamins in hopes of keeping his immune system strong in order to fight off colds. Hand sanitizer became a requirement if you wanted to visit. But nothing worked. He somehow managed to find another old sock to stuff full of garlic in order to make his magic necklace whenever he felt a cold coming on. My mother finally shrugged her shoulders in defeat. My brothers and I still enjoyed vampire jokes.

But I think the garlic necklace may be in the past. Tonight on the phone, he mentioned his latest theory. It involves the beef industry, heart disease and the drug companies. I tuned it out after a bit because it was long and complicated. But as long as it doesn’t involve garlic in socks, I’m fine with it—unless he tries to make me eat a baked onion.

The Power of Words

2009-04-04T19:33:00.001-05:00

As a professional writer and communicator, I spend a lot of time thinking about words: their meanings, which ones sound better in a sentence, different interpretations of them, learning new ones. But it was a family tragedy that hammered home to me just how powerful words can be.

It was a cold Saturday morning in April when the phone rudely woke me from a rare deep sleep. I knew it was my parents before I picked up the receiver because I assigned them a ring. I grabbed the phone, wondering who was sick. Having two parents battling disease makes a person assume certain things. However, my assumption was wrong.

“Nick died. He killed himself last night,” my father said quietly, before I even had the chance to say hello. Nick was my cousin, the youngest son of my father’s youngest, troubled brother. I was 12 whenever he was born, and I remember going with my parents to the hospital to see him, disappointed that yet another boy was born into the already large Johnson family. His parents were young, not even in their mid-20s at the time, but they seemed old to my 12-year-old self.

I never really got to know Nick. His family moved away to a small town in central Illinois before he started school. But I didn’t have much hope for him. The son of an alcoholic father and a neglectful mother, he struggled in school and was recommended several times for special education classes. But his father refused, claiming no one would make fun of his son—the way his father had made fun of “those kids.”

Nick stumbled along through life, barely learning to read and getting passed along in school by teachers who didn’t really know what to do with him. His parents divorced when he was 11, and he spent the rest of his school years shuffling back and forth between his parents, who seemed determined to hurt each other instead of putting the needs of their two sons first.

I wasn’t surprised to see Nick smoking outside in his brother’s car at Grandma Betty’s house during one Thanksgiving. He didn’t even try to hide it, even though he wasn’t old enough to drive. It made me wonder what else he was doing.

My assumption that he was drinking turned out to be right. His body was found earlier that April morning, in an old beat up Dodge parked in the garage at his father’s former home, which my uncle had tried for years to sell with no success. The engine was still running. His stepmother found him slumped behind the wheel with beer cans haphazardly strewn all over the front seat. She told my father Nick’s skin was blue with carbon monoxide poisoning and asked him not to tell his brother. Nick was 19 and never graduated high school. He never held a job or seemed to have much of a chance. Now any future for him was gone.

I wondered about the eulogy as I drove along the two lane highways and country roads of central Illinois to the tiny town where Nick’s funeral and burial would take place. The priest was an old family friend. As a child, he worked on my grandparents’ farm. As an adult, he still visited the farm and traded stories. He married Nick’s parents. As a favor to the family he’d known for so long, he was making the long trip out of his parish to give the eulogy for a 19-year-old boy whose life seemed to be a waste. I had no idea what he would say at the funeral, and I did not envy his task.

The parking lot was crowded when I arrived. I was grateful we were at the large church and not the tiny country funeral home where Nick’s wake took place the day before. The church could hold this group with room to spare. I found my parents and brothers and took a seat with them.

The funeral started like most funerals do, with songs and prayer. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room when Father walked up to the pulpit. He was empty handed, which made me think he would be brief.

I don’t remember how long the eulogy was. What I remember is how Father took the life of a child who seemed to have no life and make it sound like he was something. He never mentioned how Nick died—after a night of drinking, he drove to his father’s old house and passed out in the garage with the car running—but instead, he took tiny details about Nick’s life and used them to paint a portrait. He talked about Nick’s love of animals and how he helped his mother bake and decorate cakes. He told us of Nick’s close relationship with his older brother, eventually leaving the audience with a picture of a young, sensitive and caring man who left us too early. That replaced the image I’d had of Nick in my mind before, as an idiot who died with a blue face. That was when I realized just how powerful words truly are.

I will always view Nick’s death as an untimely tragedy and a cautionary tale about drinking and driving. But I no longer view his life as a waste, thanks to Father’s carefully chosen words. That’s better than any lesson I’ve ever been taught.

Layoffs

2009-03-29T08:18:00.001-05:00

The messages poured into my inbox fast and furious. One after another, informing me of former co-workers who got laid off that day. In all, it was a total of eight. I knew layoffs were coming because the company that owns the television station where I once worked recently announced system wide cuts were needed.

This year marks the five year anniversary of my own layoff, and unlike my former co-workers, I didn’t know it was coming. It was a Monday in October. The sky was gray and the air damp with drizzling rain. The air was cold but not cold enough for a heavy coat. Jacket weather.

I was sitting at my desk in my cramped cubicle writing notes for the staff meeting that was to take place in about half an hour when my phone rang. It was our new department head. There was recently some restructuring in my department, and we were now part of the fundraising group. I had a new boss, but I wasn’t really sure what her duties were. We were in transition.

Looking back, I should have known this was coming. My former boss had left to start her own communications company, and we were her first client. She never seemed to care for me, acting uncomfortable and awkward around me while developing a close friendship with her assistant. I had heard through the office grapevine about her departure, but I was shocked to find out the entire department was restructured and that her assistant was promoted into a director role. This was two months before my job was cut.

Our new department head was, and still is, a very nice woman, but I had a knot in the pit of my stomach when she asked me to come into her office so close to our meeting. I started to realize what was happening and tried not to panic as I sat down at the round table across from her desk where she was already seated.

She made it brief, telling me that my job and two other positions in the corporate office were being eliminated due to budget issues. My head started swimming as I realized how unprepared I was. My professional portfolio had not been updated in months. There were copies of press releases and communication plans that I needed in order to represent the 14 months I worked at the company. She was kind enough to tell me I could call her and arrange to come back later in the week to retrieve the documents. It was clear she wanted me out of there before the staff meeting. I wanted to leave before I started to cry. I went back to my cube, grabbed my purse and rolodex off my desk and went home. It was nine a.m. I had a dozen resumes out by noon.

It took me four months to find another job, which I consider a short amount of time, especially compared to what laid off workers are facing now. But what really stands out from that time period is how people treated me when I told them I had lost my job. When I returned to the office two days later to get the rest of my things and to print off copies of documents for my portfolio, I went early in the morning to avoid as many people as possible. But those who were there were amazing. They were gracious and kind and sympathetic. Many tears were shed, and they weren’t just mine. I was treated with respect and allowed as much time as needed to get what I needed. By the weekend, I had received a card in the mail from my former department head, apologizing for how brief and cold she was when she told me the news. It turns out that she had never laid anyone off before, and she was just as shocked and hurt as I was. Their kind gestures still touch me to this day.

Unfortunately, not everyone was as gracious. I had kept in touch with several former co-workers and college classmates throughout the years, and I reached out to every one of them to tell them I was unemployed and looking for work. Many of their reactions disappointed me. Some ignored me, while others acted awkward and uncomfortable, as if being laid off were a contagious disease they hoped not to catch. Many friends stopped returning my calls and emails as well.

The person who helped me the most was one I didn’t expect to help. A college acquaintance invited me to networking events and made sure to introduce me to everyone. She contacted people to tell them I was looking and to sing my praises. She emailed me job leads and got me introductions. She never once shunned me or made me feel like I was nothing because I had lost my job. She is now a good friend, and I know that I can always depend on her.

When I finally got a new job, it was like I had been readmitted to the club. Former co-workers once again were happy to return my calls and answer my emails, acting as if nothing had happened. Friends started calling and inviting me out again now that I was getting a paycheck. Their behavior saddened and disappointed me, and I ended a few friendships as a result.

I am reminded of this time whenever I hear of another round of layoffs, which seems to be almost daily. When I learned of my former co-workers, I reached out to every single one, offering my sympathies and whatever assistance I can. Because this is what a laid off person needs the most: knowing there are people who care. Anyone can lose a job. Remember that the next time someone you know loses their job. Maybe you think you have nothing to offer because you don’t know of any available jobs, but you’re wrong. A kind gesture costs nothing and means everything.

Adventures in Eating

2009-03-14T17:33:00.000-05:00

Growing up in my Midwestern farm family, dinner always meant meat and mashed potatoes. Those two staples could be found on our table night after night. The potatoes were always lumpy and covered with flecks of black pepper. You couldn’t see the salt, but you discovered its presence the moment the fork slid inside your mouth. The meat was always dipped in flour and fried. When I was a little girl and we raised our own animals, it was fried in lard. When I was older and livestock was no longer part of our farm, it was fried in generic Crisco.

I asked my mother once why we had the same meals all the time. She tensed up as she said, “It’s what your father wants.” That was pretty much the reason given for all decisions made in my house growing up. My father was only mimicking what he witnessed growing up. A man dominating his household.

My mother was, and still is, a wonderful cook, but I looked forward to the evenings when my father “worked over.” This is term my family used when my father worked a double shift at his factory. It was never “working late” or “working a double,” but rather “worked over.” Those evenings my mother would abandon the family staples of fried meat and mashed potatoes and cook something exotic like spaghetti and meat sauce. When I was old enough to cook, I would often prepare dinner for my mother, brother and me. These meals usually consisted of Hamburger Helper or tacos made from a kit. This was simple, working class fare, but to me, the food was anything but working class. It was a nice break from the daily grind of meat and mashed potatoes.

But Mom always made sure there was leftover meat and mashed potatoes for Dad to eat when he came home late after “working over.” I remember he threw a fit one time when there wasn’t—he threw a fit with a mouth stuffed full of taco meat from the dinner I prepared hours earlier. He claimed he didn’t like it, but he finished off the big bowl of leftovers.

My tastes changed as I grew up, went to college and moved out into the world. I still ate meat and potatoes, but in a different form. I tried different cuisines that were foreign to my home. I didn’t like them all, but I did like the experience of branching out. Meantime, I could always count on a visit to my parents’ home for meat and mashed potatoes.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was testing my palate, so were my parents. They even tried Chinese food and discovered they liked it. When they insisted on taking me out to dinner for my 34th birthday, I insisted we go to the new Mexican restaurant that recently opened in my hometown. My mother was excited and tried a burrito. My father pouted and had fried chicken wings. He claimed he didn’t know what to order. At least he picked up the check.

My mother seemed to enjoy these culinary adventures more than my father. When my parents visited last year for my mother’s birthday, I baked salmon and made sure to fry chicken breasts for him. I thought of my mother’s stock answer, “It’s what your father wants” as I prepared the two entrees.

After years of meat and mashed potato meals and catering to my father’s taste buds, he surprised me one evening with an excited phone call. “I just had the best meal,” he said. I took a breath and expected him to tell me about the fried chicken and mashed potatoes my mother prepared for him. I almost fell out of the chair when he said, “Your mom made chicken noodle soup. It was a recipe she found on a can of broth. It is the best meal I’ve ever had. I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.”

Nothing was fried or mashed. It was simply chicken, broth, noodles, carrots and celery. Yet I had never heard my father rave about a meal like this. He waxed poetic about chicken soup, giving me the play-by-play of Mom’s meal preparation. I never knew he could be so descriptive. All this from a simple recipe on the side of a can.

He was so thrilled with the chicken soup that I looked forward to sampling some during my next visit to the farm. My mother had invited me for lunch, and when she called to confirm my arrival time, I asked what we were having. I expected her to say chicken noodle soup but she surprised me. “Fried chicken and mashed potatoes,” she said, heaving a deep sigh. “It’s what your father wants.”

Some things never change.

They're Just Arms

2009-03-08T13:39:00.001-05:00

Another day, another dozen articles about Michelle Obama’s preference for sleeveless dresses. Our new first lady is creating quite the stir with her finely sculpted arms.

I don’t get it. On one hand, I understand and even expect the articles on how to get arms like Mrs. Obama’s. She is in terrific shape, and her arms are an attainable asset for many women. I even find myself admiring and coveting them.

But what I don’t get are the editorials asking if it’s OK for Mrs. Obama to have bare arms. Even Maureen Dowd got in on the act today in the New York Times. The economy is in the tank and doesn’t show any signs of improving any time soon. People are losing jobs left and right. The country remains at war. Yet, Michelle Obama’s arms are international news. When her official White House portrait was unveiled, showing her in a beautiful black sheath dress, those impressive arms on display, many writers carried on like she had just posed for Playboy. It’s a sleeveless dress, people. Not a nuclear meltdown.

A journalist friend argued with me that people are tired of the bad news and want “something light and fun,” and that Mrs. Obama’s bare arms fit the bill. While I agree that soft news is needed, the tone behind many of these editorials is anything but “light and fun.” Many editorials I’ve read about Mrs. Obama’s so-called “right to bare arms” are mean and petty, as if her physical fitness is threatening. Is it because she’s strong and gives off an “I can take care of myself” vibe? Or is it because she’s in her 40s and is in better shape than many women, including those younger than her? Is it a combination of the two?

Whatever it is, I wish the media would move on and find something else to write about. There are many more important and interesting stories to tell.

Join the Public Insight Network

2009-02-26T09:38:00.002-06:00

Technology amazes me. While I agree with Neil Postman that we need to keep in mind that technology does have its faults, we cannot deny the benefits technology brings to our lives.

One benefit I enjoy is the ability to communicate with others, including both people I already know and new “friends” met through social media platforms like Twitter. The ability to blog has enabled me to find a new audience for my writing, which inspires me to keep writing and publishing. Blogs have also introduced me to many wonderful writers whom I most likely never would have found without the use of technology. I am able to learn in new ways I never thought possible because of technology.

Technology also allows us to “share what we know,” which brings me to my latest discovery: The Public Insight Network. This is a partnership between two St. Louis based media outlets: the St. Louis Beacon, an online independent publication, and KETC-TV, a PBS affiliate. According to the Beacon, the purpose of the network is sharing our knowledge. This network comes at a crucial time, as newsrooms continue to slash budgets and staff, with some newspapers closing up shop altogether. The shrinking we see on an almost daily basis in the media makes it harder and harder for many great stories to be told. That’s where the Public Insight Network comes into play.

It works like this: members join the PIN for free, stating their interests, areas of expertise and contact information. Requests are made, both via email or phone calls to members of the PIN, as well as on the Beacon web site, for information, knowledge and expertise on certain topics. You can choose to participate or simply ignore the request. If you participate, your information is sent to the editors, who pass it along to the reporters working on the story. If the reporter decides she wants to hear more, she contacts you. Your information is never used without your permission. Your privacy is protected. It’s that simple.

What I like about the PIN is it gives the audience a voice and a chance to participate in ways that traditional media do not. Reporters and editors are given access to stories and insight from people they might not have found without this network. My first journalism teacher, who ironically now writes for the Beacon, used to say that everyone has a story to tell. I agree with her observation, but my years in the news business lead me to take that observation one step further: everyone has a story to tell, but they don’t always have a way to tell it.

Now they do, thanks to the benefits of technology, which allowed the creation of the PIN. Take advantage of both and be heard. Don’t like the stories you see covered by the traditional media? Contact the PIN and tell them about it. Offer your alternatives, your insight, and your stories. Respond to their request and be an active citizen.

Readers in the St. Louis area, I ask you to consider joining the Public Insight Network. Those outside the St. Louis area, I ask you to consider forming your own Public Insight Network. The future of journalism depends on it.

Help

2009-01-29T09:06:00.000-06:00

I am the only girl in a family of boys. I have no sisters, no female cousins. While I still find myself hoping for a girl every time a relative announces a new baby is on the way, I have accepted that the men in my family will outnumber the women for years to come.

Growing up, I wasn’t treated any differently than the boys. I was expected to do and did perform my share of manual labor chores. I mowed the grass, raked leaves, learned to chop wood for the wood burning stove that heated our old farmhouse. I helped my father whenever farm machinery needed to be fixed. Gender wasn’t an issue when it came to farm work. Whatever needed to be done was done. While I hated the work growing up, I am now proud of it and grateful for having to do it. It means I am self-sufficient. I am not afraid of hard work, a little sweat equity.

I was reminded of this yesterday when I woke up to discover six inches of fresh snow on the ground. One of the responsibilities of homeownership is cleaning up, and the snow meant it was time to get out the shovel. Compared to my parents’ farm, I have very little to shovel. Just the front porch, the sidewalks in front of and next to the house and the deck in the backyard. It should have been simple.

It started out simply. I had finished cleaning off the deck and was working on the front porch when the man walked up to me. He started showing up last winter after storms, offering to clean off my paths. I’ve always politely declined. The first winter I owned my home, no one showed up. Now, they show up in numbers. A sign of the recession.

I should have politely declined again, but my back was aching. I have back problems that I didn’t have while growing up on the farm. I hesitated and let the ache get to me. I told him he could finish, we agreed on a price and that was that. So I thought.

That afternoon, I decided to try my luck and venture out to buy food for the dog. I at least needed to clean the several inches of snow off my car, even if I didn’t leave the house. I bundled up, grabbed the car keys and went outside. I was a few minutes into sweeping the snow off the car when a neighbor approached.

The first thing I noticed about him was his lack of two front teeth. He was tall and thin and had a faint body odor. “Let me do that,” he said, trying to grab the ice scraper/brush tool out of my hand. I waved him away at first, but he wouldn’t go. I was tired, still aching. I gave up and handed it to him.

He cleaned off my car and then asked if I had a shovel. He was right; I would need to shovel around my car if I hoped to drive away without getting stuck. I opened the trunk and pulled out the travel shovel I keep there for emergencies.

While he was shoveling around the car, I noticed the long stretch of sidewalk that runs parallel to the street next to my house. It was untouched. The man I gave into that morning walked away with my hard earned money without finishing the job. I sighed, upset with myself for being taken advantage of.

I turned my attention back to the man with the missing front teeth and told him he was finished. I grew up on a farm. I could get out of that snow. The car is front wheel drive. I can do it.

I thanked him and got into the car. He motioned for me to roll down the window. Impatient, I cracked it. “How come you don’t have no man,” he asked me. I wasn’t interested in this conversation. I politely replied that I did. He asked where he was. I realized he wanted to be paid for “helping” me and thought keeping the conversation going would weaken my hold on my wallet. I thanked him again and drove away, shaking my head at the snow covered sidewalk that I would have to shovel despite paying someone to “help” me.

I thought about all the requests I’ve received in the past year to shovel my sidewalks and mow my lawn. None of these came from children. All were from grown men looking to make some money. When I bought my home, everyone kept telling me I would be overwhelmed with offers from kids to do these chores. In the two years since, not a single child has offered. It’s always been grown men, and I suspect many of them don’t even live in my neighborhood.

I have a tangle of thoughts and emotions now. I am angry and feel taken advantage of. I am tired of men trying to make a quick buck off me under the guise of “helping.” I feel guilty when I say no because I can afford to pay for the work. Not everyone has a job, especially in this economy. But then I feel like a fool when I think about the unfinished sidewalk that I will have to shovel anyway.

But mostly I feel sad. Neighbors don’t seem to help neighbors anymore. When I was growing up, we knew our neighbors and everyone looked out for each other. My father would plow open our long, snow packed driveway and then drive his tractor over to the house next door, drop his blade and clear their driveway without being asked—or expecting anything in return. I don’t even know most of my neighbors. Everyone keeps to themselves. A quick, polite hello is uttered on sight, but no one offers to help. I don’t consider the toothless neighbor forcing himself onto my car “help.” He thought he would guilt me into paying him. I’m not interested in that.

I am going to finish shoveling the snow today. I am going to think about my feelings some more before letting them go. And I am going to get back into the polite “no, thank you” mode whenever I feel someone trying to take advantage of me. I can do it—aching back and all.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T09:32:00.001-06:00

I started liking New Year’s Eve a lot more when I stopped worrying about having a date.

It started when I read in some magazine in junior high that you were doomed to a year of bad luck if you didn’t kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s Eve. That one kiss was the key to whether you had a good year or a bad year. Since I had never kissed anyone on the holiday at that point and thought my life was terrible (boys did not like me, therefore life sucked), it had to be true. Otherwise, why would Seventeen print such a claim?

The theme continued into high school. My freshman year, I was an awkward 14-year-old with bad hair who was taller than most of the other girls. I had strict parents who didn’t allow me to date, so I spent that New Year’s Eve baby-sitting with my friend Becky. We vowed that boys would like us in the New Year, and the vow was so strong that I convinced myself that it would come true, despite the lack of a New Year’s kiss. I spent the next year with even worse hair, no style and no boyfriends. I graduated with honors, a college scholarship, better hair and a total of four dates in four years of high school. College had to be different, I told myself. For starters, there would be more boys to choose from, and at least one of them had to like me. The odds were in my favor.

Well, the odds may have been in my favor, but they weren’t on my side when it came to New Year’s Eve. My college boyfriend spent the Christmas and New Year’s holidays in the Florida Keys with his father and stepmother, who were loud, obnoxious and liked to remind the world they had money. I spent them freezing in the Midwest winters with family and friends.

I finally had my first New Year’s Eve kiss in 1997, 12 years after I first read that Seventeen article. My then-boyfriend and I were four months into what would be an eight year relationship. I worked that evening, but I was off at 10:30. He met me at my apartment with a cheap bottle of champagne and kissed me at midnight. I expected to wake up the next morning with bluebirds singing around my head like Mary Poppins. Instead, I woke up with a headache and the taste of horrible champagne lingering in my mouth like a guest who refuses to leave.

That was the start of many New Year’s Eve nights with a date. None of them are memorable. In fact, I started taking it for granted until he left me a week before Christmas 2005. He had a date that New Year’s Eve. I didn’t. He married her a year later, so I assume he kissed her at midnight.

I stayed home that evening, watching a Sex and the City marathon and thinking back to that magazine article. It had been 20 years since I started worrying about the New Year’s Eve kiss. I had convinced myself that kissing someone at the stroke of midnight was the key to a happy life. I thought long and hard about my life. Some years were good, and some were bad, but I had a lot to be grateful for, and a lot of blessings to count. I had a good career that enabled me to support myself. I had family and friends who loved me. My father had almost died the month before from a heart attack, but he recovered and was still with us. My mother was beating the liver disease that almost took her life a few years ago. None of this had anything to do with a silly kiss.

I went to bed early that night and woke up the next morning with a clear head and no bad champagne taste in my mouth. That year, 2006, ended up being a good year. I stayed in and relaxed that New Year’s Eve, too. 2007 was an even better year because I bought my own home—the first woman in my family to buy her own house.

As we wind down 2008, I again have planned a relaxing evening. A local yoga studio is hosting a “24 Hours of Yoga” event starting tonight to raise funds for charity. I’m going to attend a few classes, go home and watch a movie. I plan to be asleep before midnight, with my dog and cat snuggled warmly beside me. I will talk to my parents before going to bed, wishing them a Happy New Year, and I will count my blessings. Because I realized on that New Year’s Eve three years ago that life is what you make of it. There are good times and bad times, but it is what we learn from and how we respond to those bad times that make the good times even sweeter.

A Writer's Goals

2008-12-28T08:25:00.001-06:00

We are just days away from the start of 2009, which means many of us are thinking about what we would like to accomplish in the next year. I want to take my writing to the next level, and I hope to do that by:

Continuing to blog: I’ve only been blogging a few months, but I’ve already seen an improvement in my writing. If I want readers, that means I need to post consistently—which means I need to write. Having an audience makes me think about my words and choose them carefully. I devote time each day to brainstorming, writing and editing, which I didn’t do in the past (despite my best intentions).

Reading more: I’ve always loved reading, but I noticed I haven’t read much besides newspapers and magazines in the past few years. So, I dusted off the library card, made a list of books I want to read and joined a book group. Reading the words of others, slowly and savoring them, inspires my writing and encourages me to take risks, trying genres and styles I probably wouldn’t have considered in the past.

Reviewing books, hosting blog tours and offering guest posts: One of the reasons I started my blog was to showcase writing, and that doesn’t necessarily mean my own. I want A Writer’s Voice to be a home for all kinds of writers. If you are interested in participating, please contact me.

Becoming more active in my writing group: I joined a local writing group at the same time I launched my blog, and I seem to have a million excuses why I haven’t participated much, even though they only meet monthly. Community is important to writers, and this is one way to grow mine. I need to quit making excuses and make the group a priority.

Developing my business: I’ve had success in my short time as a freelance writer, and I want to move forward to build upon that. I’m currently developing a web site to launch after the first of the year. In addition, I’m working on a business plan for offering writing coaching.

This is an ambitious list, but it energizes and engages me. It’s going to require more than just writing. It requires focus, time management and dedication, for starters. But I’m taking it one day at a time and not expecting perfection. Mistakes will be made, but I’m going to learn from them and not beat myself up when I make them. I am looking forward to a wonderful 2009, and I hope you are as well.

Different

2008-12-27T07:46:00.001-06:00

The first change I noticed was no one greeted us at the door when we walked inside the house. The place was crammed with the usual suspects—aunts, uncles, cousins—but we weren’t offered anything to eat.

The beige lift recliner carefully positioned by the front door was gone. In its place was a rosy colored plush rocking chair that swings back and forth if the person sitting in it isn’t careful. Her bed is gone, too, replaced by a futon, a huge box overflowing with toys and a small television attached to a Wii Fit.

Even the name of the house is gone. “Grandma’s house” is now referred to as “Peg and Bill’s” by my parents. I can’t bring myself to use the new name. It’s still her house in my mind, even though my aunt and uncle purchased it shortly after she died.

The pile of gifts under the tree marked “Grandma” or “Mom” wasn’t there. The tree looked naked. I wondered if it felt as lonely as I did. When it mysteriously toppled over, I thought maybe the tree was protesting. Perhaps it didn’t like the change, either.

We stayed an hour before politely excusing ourselves for the return trip home. My aunt was too busy with the Wii Fit to say good-bye. We were never offered anything to eat.

We were sitting around the dining room table inhaling lunch leftovers when my mother announced that we’ll just have Christmas here “from now on.” A new tradition, she called it.

And that’s when I knew it was different.

What Freelance Writing Has Taught Me

2008-12-21T10:02:00.001-06:00

It’s been two months since I decided to start pursuing freelance writing work. My long-term goal is to teach at the collegiate level, and I wanted to start developing other income streams now in order to make my dream a reality.

I freelanced a bit during my undergraduate days, but my opportunities were limited to “stringing” for local newspapers, covering city council meetings and interviewing the mother of triplets and some guy with a garden. I have a lot more opportunities now thanks to the internet and several years of professional experience behind me.

I wrongly assumed that freelancing would simply provide me with income and possibly some new research opportunities. I didn’t realize I had much more to learn. Three key lessons I’ve learned since hanging out my freelance shingle are:

Patience: I have never been known for being patient. It’s one of my biggest flaws. When I want something, I want it yesterday. Sometimes it’s an asset, like pursuing an interview for a story, and sometimes it’s a headache. But after sending out dozens of writing proposals and either not hearing back immediately or even at all, I realize that patience is a skill I’m going to have to develop if I’m going to have a successful freelance writing career. Otherwise, I’m just going to drive myself crazy and waste energy that could be used for writing.

Perseverance: It can be frustrating to bid on a project, only to see the work awarded to someone else. I’ve lost count of the number of proposals I’ve sent and never heard from again. It would have been easy to give up. I have a full time job. I’m also working on a master’s degree. I have plenty of activities and work to occupy my time. But I didn’t give up because I believed in myself and focused on my long-term goal. I keep moving forward with the proposals, and I finally started getting some work—and some regular clients.

It’s Not Personal: Writing is personal, but freelance writing is business. You may have talent and competitive rates, but you aren’t going to win every job. Your writing style may not be what the potential client is looking for, or you may not have the exact experience she wants. And those rates may be a little higher than what she wanted to pay. This doesn’t mean that you’re a bad writer or even a bad person. You aren’t right for the job—and that’s OK.

The last two months have been interesting, exciting and frustrating all at once as I attempt to build a successful freelance writing business. But each day is different, and I’m keeping my eye on the long-term—and there is no better motivation than that.

The Friday Four

2008-12-19T05:58:00.002-06:00

Here's what caught my eye in the blogosphere this week:

Girls Just Wanna Have Funds offers ten money lessons

Freelance Writing has three ways to win over clients

Sara at On Simplicity wants to know what family games you love to play

Get a look at the writing community over at Writing Forward

Happy reading!

The Best Christmas Ever

2008-12-18T13:36:00.000-06:00

I looked forward to Dress Up Day for weeks. I planned to show off my new Christmas dress. That year’s version was black with a large flower print. I think it was what one would call “tea length.” Three quarter sleeves and a boat neck line. Black tights and flats completed the look.

I woke up early. It was the Friday before the start of Christmas vacation, the last school day of the year. The final Christmas vacation of my high school career. I carefully put on the Christmas dress ensemble, pulled my long hair back into a low ponytail and went downstairs.

My mother was in the kitchen, standing next to the radio and smoking a cigarette in her bathrobe. She was shaking her head. “No school for you today,” she said when she spotted me. “Freezing rain. School is canceled because of ice.”

Disappointment flooded my body. There would be no more Dress Up Days. I didn’t see that as part of a college curriculum. I went into the living room and turned on the television and started Christmas vacation early.

My moping soon turned to boredom. There wasn’t much on television, so I started reading a book. After some time, I couldn’t concentrate and put the book down. The freezing rain had changed to snow. I decided to go outside and feed our cats.

We lived on a farm and had “indoor” and “outdoor” cats. The outdoor cats lived in our barn and stayed outside. Tabby was our indoor cat, but she ran away four months ago. I was heartbroken, but I refused my parents’ offer of replacing her. I was a senior in high school at the time, and we adopted Tabby when I was in the fifth grade. I couldn’t just replace her.

I grabbed the bag of cat food, pulled on my winter coat over my Christmas dress and went outside, still wearing my black flats and conveniently forgetting my hat and gloves. I gingerly made my way across our back yard to the barn, calling “here kitty” as I walked so the cats would know lunch was on its way. Our cats, whether indoor or outdoor, adored me and always recognized my voice.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally made it to the barn. I pulled open the door and realized I was having an early Christmas.

Sitting there calmly on a bale of straw in the middle of the outdoor cats was Tabby. I dropped the bag of cat food and opened my mouth to say her name. I didn’t need to because she came over to me as soon as she saw me. Forgetting about my original mission, feeding the cats, I scooped up Tabby and hurried toward the house, screaming “Tabby’s home!”

Mom thought I was hurt and came outside onto the porch to see what happened. Still clutching my beloved cat, I ran up the porch steps. Mom caught sight of Tabby. She had been talking to my dad on the phone (he was at work). She quickly said, “Tabby’s home,” and hung up on him.

Mom ushered Tabby and me into the house. She took Tabby from me while I quickly took off my coat. I grabbed Tabby back, afraid to let her go. She had been gone for four months. We had a lot of cuddling time to make up.

I was still holding Tabby when I picked up the phone and called Grandma Betty. “That’s the best Christmas present anyone could have given you,” she said.

Eighteen years later, it still is.

If You Don't Have to Get Out, Don't

2008-12-17T13:24:00.000-06:00

The man on the television screen violently shivered in the cold. His lips seemed to be turning a pale shade of blue as he struggled to open his mouth wide enough to sound coherent. Bundled up like an Eskimo, he managed to choke out one of my favorite phrases:

“If you don’t have to get out, don’t.”

During my full time news career, nothing excited me more than weather coverage. Most people would hear a forecast calling for rain, sleet or snow and cringe. I would grin ear to ear, looking forward to what awaited me.

Whenever bad weather was predicted, the station would put me up in the hotel next door for the night. They couldn’t risk me not being able to get to work, so it was automatically an evening of room service and bad television. Bad weather was like a mini vacation, only I didn’t have to pay for it.

Second, I never had to actually get out into the elements. I was a producer, which meant I got to boss reporters around from the comfort of a nice, warm newsroom. No shivering in the cold or blue lips for me. I got to do what I do best—boss people around—while staying toasty.

Weather coverage is also exciting. It’s fast paced, adrenaline rush work. The time flew by, so I barely noticed how many hours I was putting in or how much coffee I was consuming. No sitting around the newsroom trying to scrounge up a story idea or praying for breaking news. The day pretty much planned itself.

However, it wasn’t brain surgery. The information needed was basic: how bad was it out, what areas were hit hardest, road conditions, etc. Agencies that usually ignored us were suddenly eager to give us information during bad weather, so they often called me with news updates instead of the usual, which consisted of me calling and asking for information and getting the runaround.

My favorite part of weather coverage was seeing how many clichés I could fit into a newscast. There are so many in weather coverage, including my previously mentioned favorite. Weather in St. Louis also holds an additional treat. For some reason, people rush out to the store to buy milk and bread whenever a storm is forecast. I never understood that. What are you going to make with that? It sounds like a meal straight from a Dickens novel. My weather groceries of choice? Frozen dinners and tequila.

But my tune has changed now that I’m no longer in the news business. Bad weather makes me cranky instead of excited. I cringe whenever I hear a forecast calling for rain, sleet or snow. And whenever I hear my favorite weather cliché—if you don’t have to get out, don’t—I actually follow the advice. No more mini hotel vacations for me. I’ll just enjoy watching other people freeze from the nice, warm comfort of my living room sofa with a frozen dinner and tequila in hand.

Starting Over

2008-12-14T15:24:00.001-06:00

The headline caught my eye last week. “Oprah Weighs 200 Pounds!” It screamed at me from the computer screen. Intrigued, I clicked on the link.

The article was basically a promo for the upcoming issue of Oprah’s magazine, in which she wrote a column confessing she’s gained 40 pounds in two years, hitting what she calls “that dreaded 2-0-0.” However, I wasn’t surprised. Oprah’s weight struggles have been reported on for 20 years. This didn’t seem newsworthy to me.

But the article came back to haunt me when I weighed myself a few mornings later. I could tell the pounds had been creeping back on because my pants were tight. “You just need to cut back and you’ll be fine,” I told myself as I stepped on the scale.

Fine was the last word I’d use to describe myself when the digital number finally flashed at me. I had lost 23 pounds on Weight Watchers three and a half years ago. All my hard work was ruined—I had gained back 18 pounds, which is more than just a few.

Feelings of shame and disgust overwhelmed me as I showered and struggled to get dressed. The thesis from Oprah’s article danced through my head: How did I let this happen?

I’ve always been a “big” girl. I reached my current height of 5’9” by the time I was 12 and in seventh grade. I remember going to the doctor that year for an exam and finding out I weighed 120 pounds. I was devastated. I always felt so much bigger than my friends, who were several inches shorter and several pounds lighter than I was. I maintained that weight until I graduated from high school. I still felt like an Amazon next to my still shorter and thinner friends.

My weight started creeping up my freshman year of college. I kept my weight down in high school by skipping breakfast and lunch, starving myself all day until I came home and pigged out at dinner. Immediately after dinner, I would go for a 30 minute walk. All of that was history now. College brought pizza delivery, late nights out with friends and a steady diet of junk food. A bout of depression after my boyfriend left didn’t help. I packed on 50 pounds and was a bloated, lethargic mess.

I joined a gym after I started working at KMOX, determined to lose weight and get into shape once and for all. I started slowly, focusing on the treadmill and other cardio machines, but I was bored and struggling to motivate myself. Kickboxing was just starting to become popular, and a co-worker who belonged to my gym introduced to his trainer, a kickboxing instructor.

I hired Jamie for a weekly kickboxing lesson and started attending his classes at the gym. It was hell. I struggled during our first session, only lasting 30 minutes. But I finally found an exercise that I loved. I was determined not to give up. I kickboxed with Jamie for three years and lost 30 pounds. I also picked up a strength training routine and was in the best shape of my life. I went to Miami on vacation and proudly wore a bikini on the beach for the first time.
I returned from vacation to discover Jamie was leaving to open his “exclusive” gym. In other words, expensive. I was changing careers, moving from journalism in public relations, which meant I would be working a 9 to 5 schedule. Neither my gym nor Jamie’s new expensive gym were convenient after I changed jobs.

I had been without a gym for three months when I found a new gym close to work. I was disappointed to learn that kickboxing wasn’t offered, but I quickly found a new activity to fall in love with: yoga. I had packed on about 10 pounds during my gym hiatus, but yoga helped me lose it. I attended 90 minute classes almost daily, quickly learning the poses, their names and the yoga philosophy. I loved it all, especially when I met Erica. She was a funny, outgoing redhead who encouraged everyone to do whatever they could in class and to focus on themselves instead of competing with fellow students. Yoga became a way of life for me.

I even followed Erica two years later when she left the gym for a yoga studio. I had changed PR jobs and was unhappy, using food to self-medicate. My weight was creeping up again, but I still practiced. But then Erica left St. Louis to go to Albuquerque to study alternative medicine. And that was the end of my yoga days.

I quit exercising, but I kept overeating and eating junk. I would wake up every morning, vowing that today would be the day I would start taking better care of myself. I would then find myself in line at Starbucks on the way to work, ordering the usual sugar laden mocha drink topped with whipped cream. I would order fast food for lunch, snack on candy from the vending machine and then go home exhausted.

This went on for a year until I finally found a new job at the corporate office of our local YMCA. I got a free membership as a perk and was convinced that I’d finally get back into shape. I could work out during the day, which I did, but I was still chugging the Starbucks and eating the junk and not losing a single pound.

The YMCA laid me off 14 months later, citing budget cuts. With my free membership gone and no job prospects in sight at the holidays, I sank back into depression and self-medicating with food. I stopped weighing myself. I was out of work for four months when I was offered a job. I had to buy new suits in a bigger size because none of my clothes fit.

Tired of being tired and sick of being fat, I visited the Weight Watchers web site. My older brother had told me about some co-workers of his who had lost a lot of weight on the program, but I was skeptical. I wasn’t interested in going to a meeting (I already attended enough of those), but when I found out I could do the program online on my own, I signed up.

I announced to everyone I knew that I was on Weight Watchers. I became seeped in the WW discourse, always talking about points and weighing and measuring my food. After my first week on the plan, I was thrilled to find out I had lost four pounds. I kept it up, losing 23 pounds in a few months. And then I lost interest. Pizza delivery came calling again.

And now, three and a half years later, I’m almost right back where I started, asking myself how it happened. I’m 35 now, and I’ve been unhappy with my weight for 23 years. I’m tired of the struggle. I’m tired of feeling inadequate and ashamed of my size. I had two options: accept it or do something about it for good.

I thought about my father and Grandma Betty, both overweight. Both battled heart disease. My father almost died. Grandma Betty did. I thought about why I struggle with food, why I comfort myself with it. I looked at the treadmill in the corner of my office, thinking about the CSA share I had purchased for next year. Either I could change or accept it.

I chose change. Stay tuned.