WAITING FOR RETIREMENT

This was the first item that was published in my column Musings of the Amused for Purpose Magazine.  The theme of that particular issue was RETIREMENT. I'm pretty sure my parents have forgiven me for making them my very first published guinea pigs. 

I had serious concerns about the ability of my parents to cohabitate peacefully in a state of retired bliss.  Both spent years in management.  There were schedules and regimens.  How these two worlds would mesh, I had no idea.  I held my breath.

Years later, I am pleased to say that not only are they managing a serene coexistence, they are enjoying their shared freedom.  And they are laughing.  Sometimes with each other, more often at each other.  It is a scientific reality that laughter relieves stress and boosts the immune system.  Calculating the rate at which they make fun of each other, they could live to be 150. 

That is not to say that there aren’t occasional blowups about which route is most direct from the flea market.  (I believe they even argue with their GPS….)  Maps are pulled out, geographic lessons are offered, and somehow after a good deal of spar and rebuttal, they are still both “right.”

I have great plans for my own retirement.  I wish to see the world.  I’ve got enormous aspirations to make the 7, 463 recipes which I have meticulously clipped and stuffed into my straining recipe box.  I shall read that wall of books I own, and perhaps take up watercolors.  I imagine myself an efficient cashier at the local MCC thrift shop.  While I volunteer, I will peruse the racks and purchase large bags of ridiculous attire for my family members.  I’ll buy wonderful things that they would never consider wearing.  I long to dote on my currently nonexistent grandchildren, baking them cookies peppered with chocolate candy bits to make them smile and make their parents (my own dear children) groan.  Doesn’t it sound heavenly?  I suspect by the time I achieve retirement age, a well-intentioned bureaucrat will pass new legislation requiring me to work until I can no longer see my travel brochures, read the fine print on my aged recipe clippings, or choose wildly colored neckties with which to annoy my husband. 

And so I will enjoy employment.  And maybe get started on those watercolors. 

FINE PRINT

Downright smug in childhood with my nearly bionic ability to read fine print on tiny objects, I considered my vision impervious to decline. I regularly congratulated myself for being the only person in my family without corrective lenses. My unearned superiority was shameless.

Those were the days.  And now I am eating humble pie as I try to make out fuzzy sentences in the church bulletin. And what cruel joke is the phone book?  My arms are no longer of sufficient length to grasp the hymnal as I try to discern lyrics.  My long-spectacled husband occasionally feigns helpfulness, moving back the hymnal a full yardstick-length so I can see more clearly.  His helpfulness usually paves the way for his being whacked squarely by said hymnal. I know I should consider my nonviolent beliefs, but his mischievous smirk causes an unfortunate impulsivity to rise up behind my straining eyes.  I need to work on that. 

My Dad found a good deal.  Now there are 99 cent reading glasses scattered strategically throughout my house.  I’ve got a pair in every room so I can circumvent wearing a telltale ‘middle-aged necklace.”  My family finds amusement watching me run for a pair when I am trying to cook, work on the computer, or read.   My daughter, a glasses-wearer since age 3, cannot abide the way my glasses hang precariously on the distal edge of my nose as I peer at her above them.  Just like Grandpa Stroehmann.  She does not understand that she becomes a swirl of nausea when I try to see her through the lens.

So I’ve experienced a little loss.  Something I once had, failed to truly appreciate, and now it is gone.  We humans are renowned for our ability to take things for granted. 

The loss of near vision is nothing in comparison to the loss of a job, a home, or a loved one.  So I’m trying my best to start recognizing blessings.  It’s too late to value fine print, but there are lots of more important things to appreciate.  And I can see them pretty clearly with my 99 cent glasses. 

NO PLACE LIKE HOME

When parents arrive to pick up children at day care, it is not uncommon for a child to burst into tears. To the untrained eye, a small unassuming child suddenly morphs into a frightful whirling dervish, sporting Dennis the Menace tendencies and other traits which appear to require some serious parental intervention.  But a hug will usually do it.  Because this sorry display is probably a reflection of the child’s eternally grateful relief.  He's been trying to be good for these strangers ALL DAY.  He's been sitting precariously on a little volcano of fear, uncertainty, and pent-up emotion. The eruption is pretty much inevitable upon seeing a person with whom this little peanut can gratefully and finally be himself. That is not to say he didn't have a fabulous day with his caretakers. It is more a matter of acknowledging the truth in Dorothy’s post-Oz declaration. There is no place like home!

Like it or not, our families get the very worst of us. We walk around the house looking a fright. Hair standing on end and sweatpants from our college days stretched beyond recognition. Some of us are too grouchy for conversation until after the second cup of caffeine. Others, who have been productive and engaging members of society all day, arrive home and beeline for the recliner to recharge before any helpful interaction with family members can occur. Yet with a foundation of love and acceptance, there is something wonderful about a safe landing pad. And that’s the beauty of family. They know you. And they love you anyway.

My husband and I were enjoying a nice dinner together last night. Our firstborn is in his twenties and living out of state. Our youngest was off with her youth group to a music festival. Unwinding from his day, my husband indulged in a sigh of contentment. He looked over at me and said, “I’m glad you’re the person I married.” Well I thought this was about the sweetest thing I’d heard all day. Fishing for more romance, I unwisely asked, “Why is that?” His answer was honest and remarkable. “I just find most other people SO annoying.” I do love my blessedly straightforward man. 

And how awesome is that? God has given us our own little circle of people to love AND ANNOY! Whether it is your parent, your brother, your spouse or your child, remember to be thankful for the amazing gift that is your family. There is certainly no place like home. 

DISOBEDIENT WISE GUYS

Dumb as a box of hair.  A surprisingly accurate descriptor for my miserable cat Harley…

Not unlike a human, disobedience comes quite naturally to him.  For over twelve years we have attempted to correct him with swats and shouts when discovering him on the kitchen counter.  His startled tail expands appropriately each time he is caught trespassing.  Wide-eyed, he skids unceremoniously across the laminate flooring in his remorseful attempt to flee.  I am certain his heart rate doubles as well.  Yet somehow despite repeated attempts, we have been unsuccessful in any long-term persuasion. There is daily proof of his impropriety in the telltale paw prints across our shiny black stove cook top. He is without a shred of wisdom.  His mind is a sieve.    

Though I don’t customarily walk inappropriately across the counters of my home, I would argue that at times I am as dense as Harley. And risking insult, I suspect you are too.  How many of us have had to learn the same lesson repeatedly before something clicks and behavioral change follows?  One needs to accumulate a good collection of ‘clicks’ before wisdom can ever tag along.  Some call this knowledge.

When I think about wisdom, I think about Solomon.  He had the gift of discernment and the wherewithal to do immeasurable good with what he was given.  Most times he used the gift well.  Does the church seek God’s wisdom or is our seeking lopsided because our pews are packed with disobedient wise guys?

I, for one, am thankful that my heavenly father loves me infinitely more than the love I profess for my tiresomely noncompliant cat.  God doesn’t swat me and he doesn’t shout at me.  Instead, he sends gentle and persistent reminders of his love and forgiveness.  And with a thankful heart I store that precious learning in my growing bank of knowledge.  Priceless souvenirs collected over years of trial and error, and most times despite my own foolishness. 

I am told that wisdom makes good use of knowledge.  And I’m hoping someday my collection comes in handy. 

It may be time to forgive the cat.   

CATCHING SHINGLES

This is one of the many stories I wrote about a memorable service trip in 2007

“I have never seen a female so dirty.”    The woman speaking was in awe at the revised state of my formerly pale complexion.  We were two of the brave feminine volunteers at SWAP in Kentucky and I was on my way to the “shower” (…and trust me, I am using that term loosely). 

Reminiscent of an owl, I sported white circles around my eyes from sunglasses.  My burnt skin was precisely the color of slate, having spent a blazing hot day removing an ancient splintering roof.  My morning had begun on the ground.  Naively wearing my fancy new nail belt and uncomfortable boots, I occupied myself by re-positioning old roofing material as it was flung willy-nilly from the roof of a tiny dilapidated house.  The ‘flingers’ were my church friends.  They were male, bursting with testosterone, and pleased with their Spiderman-like ability to walk vertically and swiftly on a slanted roof without appearing the least bit concerned about gravity.  Serious show-offs...  After backbreaking hours of shoveling heavy fractured shingles onto my wheelbarrow, I’d had enough.  So I bravely ascended the ladder to join the shingle-throwers. 

I spent a good hour on top of the house (otherwise known as the surface of the sun.)  My concerned husband checked on me regularly, certain I would return prudently to the ground.  But I was determined.  To the delight of the "He-Men" with whom I shared the roof, I never did manage to stand fully erect.  I preferred instead to travel like a handicapped crab, getting pretty efficient at yanking old nails with the back of my hammer.  Who knew those hammer "horns" had a use other than providing Feng Shui balance to the tool?  Flinging shingles was a little more exhilarating than it appeared from below.  But roof rubble packs considerably more weight than imagined. On several occasions I nearly flung myself off the roof with my cargo. 

 And so it was, I learned the art of roofing and volunteer service.  Lying in my musty bunk that week, my aching muscles told an emerging story.  The tale of a fragile Mennonite woman venturing out of her safe cocoon and into a place where filthy sunburned skin translated wonderfully into a more inhabitable home for some new-found friends.   

DANCE FEVER

Susceptible to motion sickness I had opted against joining Jim and Aubrey on the Baltimore Harbor paddleboats. 

Something was about to happen in the courtyard.  A square of what looked like worn brown linoleum was unrolled against the concrete pavement.  Oversized concrete stairs surrounded the courtyard in a bleacher-like seating arrangement for the two thousand or so people who would soon encircle the staging area.  People had begun arriving in anticipation of the street performance to take place around the newly placed brown theater floor.  The driving beat of the boom box and the warming up of the dancers was attracting attention.  Though it was several hundred feet before the previously arranged meeting spot, I decided to stake out a space on the concrete to watch what was going to happen.  Jim was wearing a salmon-colored polo shirt so I was certain I could watch the show and still glimpse the paddleboat pair when they walked by.  

Just as things were getting underway, I spotted the two of them making their way to the edge of the crowd.  They were trying to see what display was drawing all the spectators.  Soon flagging them down, together we watched the agile break-dancers and their super-sized announcer.  

After several songs-worth of painful-looking stunts and dance moves; it became obvious that they were about to seek audience participation.  Since none of us enjoy the limelight, we began to make a hasty retreat.  Sneaking between clapping members of the audience, I led the charge up the jumbo concrete steps.  Aubrey was right on my heels. 

Just reaching the top of the steps, I heard my daughter begin to shriek with great alarm.  Her voice was in a panic.  You would have thought aliens had abducted my husband.  “Mom!  They’ve got Dad!”  Not fully understanding her announcement, I asked her to repeat herself.  “They have him Mom!  They pulled him down!”  Squeezing myself through the crowd, I was shocked to see my very private husband standing in great discomfort at the edge of the brown linoleum mat.  The dancers had placed a nerdy-looking tourist to Jim’s left, and two middle-aged

African American gentlemen facing inward at the other side of the square.  It was the battle of the dance.  Two unsuspecting white guys were supposed to out-dance two less-than enthused black guys.  After over 25 years together I am pretty proficient at reading my husband’s mind and what I was reading was a heap of distress.  Should he try to make an escape?  The crowd was pressed in on every side.  Hoping for an effective out-of-body experience and with no viable alternative, he bravely stood rooted to the spot. 

There were murmurs of disapproval in the crowd.  The contest did not look fair!  At the crowd’s prompting, the men were reshuffled, leaving the teams with a more even distribution of pigment.  I could see Jim trying to convince the performers that he could not dance.  It was of no use.  The game went on.  One of the other men attempted to flee and was recaptured at his family’s bench and returned to the dance floor.  The other white guy did not appear to contain an ounce of dignity and gave himself fully to the challenge.  He looked perfectly and predictably ridiculous. 

And so early in the competition, my shy hubby became a crowd favorite.  He won the first round with his carefully executed Steve Martin pointing dance.  Being

rhythmically gifted, he successfully set himself apart to the cheers of the crowd.  A regrettable detail was the large puddle of harbor water which was staining the entire buttocks region of Jim’s jeans.  It was an unfortunate side effect from his recent paddleboat adventure.  He was blissfully unaware of this moisture until I was indelicate enough to tell him about it after his departure from the stage. 

Anyway, the two black men were dismissed, leaving Jim and his nemesis Mr. Whitey Yahoo to dance to the finish.  The professionals were brought out to coach the two remaining men.  Rubbing Jim’s shoulders and trying to get him to loosen up, the ‘trainer’ popped a gangster hat on Jim’s head and tried to teach him a suggestive hip-thrusting movement.  Jim wisely declined to imitate the motion and opted instead to look as though he wanted to evaporate into thin air.   

Returning to the edge of the mat, this time in hats, the other guy went first.  He gave it his best effort with only minimal encouragement from the crowd.  And then there was Jim.  With a slight revision to the “Martin Point” and his own rendition of the infamous Sprinkler, he won the adoration of the crowd and a $5.00 bill which was donated immediately to a young member of the audience. Jim would have paid a much larger sum just to be set free from the thousands of people now

watching his response.  And I would have placed money myself- on the bet that my husband would never have danced for thousands at the Baltimore Inner Harbor. 

But having no way to escape the inevitable, he was an outrageously good sport.  Walking gratefully away from the exhibition, his skin tone began returning to normal and he asked with residual nausea that Aubrey and I ‘never speak of this again.’  It is a hard request with which to comply, as the images of dance fever keep playing through my head and causing the corners of my mouth to turn upwards into full fledged grin-age, if not unrestrained laughter. 

I attempted later that evening to reiterate how impressed I had been with his ability to rise to the occasion and wow us all with his dance moves.  He spoke quietly and with the great control for which he is usually known. “The mere thought of it is like fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind.” 

And so I stopped talking.  And started writing. 

THINGS THAT GO BUMP

I lay down and slept.  I woke up in safety, for the Lord was watching over me.  Psalm 3:5

The persistent knocking in my dream seemed so real. Because it was. Where's Isaac? (my first thought) I reassured myself that he was back at school in Virginia. Did Aubrey sleepwalk and get locked outside? (my next thought which prompted me to stumble half-awake to her closed door...) Then I heard a motor running.

Looking out Isaac's bedroom window I saw a tow truck. And police cars. And flashlights. "JIM!" As I said these words I had my third thought (someone would have phoned if it were an emergency involving us...) And then the phone rang. So much for sleep.

Apparently at about 2:30 this morning a small car was speeding along on our road (down the wrong side of the street) and hit our parked jeep head-on. The bad news is that the impact was enough to result in the driver's airbag deployment and a 4-5 foot long, deep gouge in the road. The worse news for the driver is that when Jim asked if anyone was injured, the only forthcoming information was that 'the driver was taken into custody...' The good news, if there can be any good news, is that the

jeep was already involved in an accident earlier this summer. It was sitting in front of our house de-tagged, having been totaled by the insurance company. The

paperwork was filed and it was awaiting its extradition to the nearest junk yard. And now it has been towed away and I don't have to look at it. Aubrey (who has a room immediately next to the crash scene) had only one thing to say upon waking from her night of sleep. "WHY were they doing construction on our road in the middle of the night?!"