This I believe

I don't believe in a God in heaven. I believe 'God' lives in all of us and that if you want to feel closer to God you need only look inward. If you need strength you can find it within yourself - because it is there. You need to breathe and be silent and know yourself. Mostly, you need to understand that this life is fleeting.

I also believe that most people are basically good and I tend to see the glass half full. I guess I'm an optimist.

But, I'm not a Pollyanna by any means. A dear friend of mine recently asked me "if I knew me, would I be friends with myself?" My answer was "if I could stand the judgment".  I am horribly judgmental of others. But, I am much, much harder on myself. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about my feelings, but, like most women, I focus on my failings and frailties and never revel in my accomplishments.

However, one thing I'm really good at is knowing when things are good. And, I'm ever better at stopping to appreciate those times. Those are the times that I feel nearest to God. Those are the times that make me cry  - not because I'm sad but because I know how precious the moment is. Whatever that thing is that makes me stop and reminds me that life is sweet, that life is short and that we MUST be kind to one another... that's what I call God.

And that presence is there when I look at Bill and tell him I love him.

The fine art of leaf removal

The photo doesn't show  his breath,
 but I clearly saw it this morning

When I got to work this morning I noticed the truck from our new lawn service was in the driveway. I was puzzled since it's (a) only April; and (b) 34 degrees. What could they possibly be doing here?

Once I got into the office and took my first sip of coffee, I heard a particularly jarring sound. Was it a a tuk tuk, or perhaps a ski boat or maybe a rocket ship was launching? Since I wasn't in Thailand, by the lake or near Cape Canaveral, I deduced it was a leaf blower.

A couple of years ago, my pal Randy Strauss gave me one of  his leaf blowers (he had a few to spare).  He is a marvelous gardener and took pity on me and my tedious method of raking. As you know, Bill does not participate in any gardening chores so (happily) it all falls to me.

I picked a particularly lovely warm fall day to start the process. Randy had given me explicit instructions about the gas to oil ratio and how to start the machine. It involved priming, choking and then yanking on the cord. Then you had to allow the engine to warm up a bit. Having grown up on a farm and dealing with the idiosyncrasies of balers and tractors,  I took it all in stride.

I must have yanked on the start cord 40 times. Pulls number 20 through 30 were accompanied by some choice words that easily flowed from my lips. Pulls 30-40 mostly involved screaming some phrases that would curl Satan's hair. I can just imagine the neighbors as they had their breakfast :
"I used to love these quiet fall mornings ... until that crazy bitch down the street started working in her garden."

I was about to throw the leaf blower in the trash when I spied a neighbor in his driveway with whom I was slightly acquainted. I swallowed my pride and walked down the street with the blower. He looked at me quizzically and, without a word, started the blower -WITH ONE HAND!

That was humiliating.

Blower in hand, I  walked back down the street determined to get the job done. This was going to be fun!

As I started to blow the leaves out of the flower beds and onto the grass, I noticed that I was also blowing all the (expensive) wood mulch out of the garden and onto the grass. What the heck?! That wouldn't do. I was perplexed and stood there, mouth agape, trying to figure it out. PS - I didn't dare turn off the blower while I contemplated my dilemma. So, I maneuvered my way out of the garden bed and walked to the backyard to see if I could tackle the leaves in the yard.

I began to use the back and forth sweeping action that Randy had described and was seeing some progress. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my neighbors new baby in their backyard. I could tell he was crying because his wee face was all scrunched up and red. I couldn't hear him ... because the damn leaf blower was so unbelievably loud.

I flipped the switch and turned the thing off.

Immediately, the baby's face relaxed.

I took the leaf blower back to the garage, grabbed my rake and happily began the tedious but quiet process of removing leaves.

Never used that leaf blower again.

CODA: 

Photo captured later this morning. The professionals
still haven't figured out a way to eliminate the rake!

My hat is off to Will!

Our son, Will came home for a few days during spring break. He was a little reluctant since none of his pals had the same week off and because he knew that I wanted him to help me purge some stuff out of the basement. Never one to mince words, he told us that he was basically lazy and really wasn't looking forward to helping!  He can be SUCH a little piss-pot (that was one of my dad's favorite descriptive words - originally I think it meant a 'drunk' but it morphed into meaning a 'little shit' in my dad's lexicon) but Will's joie de vivre is infectious and I love having him home.

One of the best things that happens when Will comes home is that the piano is played. He and Bill set up in the living room and play jazz together. The house fills with music and I can feel my entire body relax. Even as I'm washing up the dinner dishes, the sounds soothe me. I'm not sure if it's the music itself or the fact that it's those two guys playing the music together.

I go to bed much earlier than Will. His sleep schedule is like most other college kids - insane. Even though our rooms are fairly far apart, I can hear him laughing at things he reads on Reddit  - his news agency of choice - and other websites he frequents. His laughter, while not quite contagious, is very hearty and appreciative... and loud.  One night, too tired to get out of bed to tell him to keep the hilarity down, I texted him:

"Either close your door or try to be more miserable".

Will and I do talk seriously. However, we mostly banter with sarcasm and jokes. He loves to bait me - I pretend to have hurt feelings then I try to zing him right back.

We did finally tackle the basement together. It sounds awful (actually it was pretty horrible), but working with Will made it fun. Half way through the hilarity he drove to Dairy Queen  to reward us both with Chocolate milkshakes -- he knows my penchant for chocolate milkshakes! He willing took orders from me while I tried to determine what was garbage, what was for the donation pile and what we should keep. He even loaded up the van and made a quick trip to the Goodwill truck.

We took a break from the basement and the dust (we both have dust allergies and needed some Kleenex) to clean out his closet. We found all kinds of odd things -
including an old sheepskin/leather hat that my dad used to wear. Will didn't know that it  belonged to my dad. The interior of it says "proudly Canadian". Ha! I don't even know why I have the hat. PS - we also found one of my dad's shirts from the laundry - still in the plastic casing - dated 2002. Guess it's time to donate that one!

I suddenly remembered that my Uncle Tom had taken a picture of my dad on Christmas day -wearing said hat. Our family was staying at my Grandpa's farm house in Cobourg, Ontario. Circa 1972.

I rifled through some photo albums and found the photo  - thereby proving to Will that it was indeed the hat of Paul P. Martin!

Will liked the photo so much that he wanted to recreate the look.


















In the original, my dad is holding a shepherd's crook - the crook part is just out of view (PS - we lived on a sheep farm so it wasn't entirely insane) wearing  a very colorful housecoat of my mother's and a plaintive expression. He was pretending to be Joseph (as in Joseph's coat of many colors). I'm not sure what the poinsettia is all about.  I don't think our dog, Macushla had a clue either. Needless to say, my dad had an odd sense of humor.

As we didn't have the crook or poinsettia, Will substituted an old paddle and an aloe plant. It's not an exact replica - it is still distinctly "Will" but it has enough Pauly P. in it that my Aunt Janet recognized the recreated picture without seeing the original.

Anyway, Will wore the hat around the house the rest of the day.

So now Will is back at school, the house is quiet, the basement is tidy, and in just a week we will mark the 10th anniversary of my dad's death. My heart is heavy.

I think I'll wear that hat today.

Weighing my options

Since January, Bill and I have been having a 'weight loss' contest. The biggest hurdle for me was writing down my starting weight. I have NEVER told Bill how much I weighed... IN MY ENTIRE MARRIAGE. I can barely acknowledge it to myself. When I get on the scales at the doctor's office I pretend to be distracted with the art work so I can't make eye contact with the nurse (and thus to ownership of the number). You know how some people have to look away when their blood is drawn? That's me on the scale.

But, once I confessed to Bill and wrote the number on the chart, I felt strangely lighter - it was kind of cathartic. Plus, Bill can keep a secret, so I knew I was safe. We've been keeping track each week; weigh-in is on Wednesday morning. We have weekly winners and year to date winners (there are no prizes - just the privilege of lording it over the loser for the week).  So far he is winning the "year to date". But, we both have been see-sawing on the weekly number. One week he was a huge winner - but it was also the week he had his colonoscopy... so, that one really shouldn't have counted.  He gained most of that weight back on the next weigh in.

When I think about it, this "contest" is really just a system to keep track of our weekly weight - rather than tracking our stupendous progress.

Bill has also been obsessive about weighing our dinner portions. He has a lovely little scale and is quite accurate. Today he packed my lunch (leftover Indian food that he made the night before, Trader Joe rice (delicious), and baby asparagus. However, the portion size appeared to be designed for a construction worker not a sedentary office worker. Even though I questioned the amount when I took my seat at the lunch table, I managed to chow down and eat the whole thing.  It didn't click until much later... he heavy loaded my lunch because weigh in is tomorrow!

But, I may have the last laugh. He is at a function tonight and I'm on my own for dinner.

I think tonight it'll be water and celery.

Musings from the control tower

I am a control freak. I know a lot of people describe themselves this way, but I truly have a problem. Friends have tried to help me by explaining that everything is actually outside of my control and that what little control I have is merely an illusion. An interesting concept I have yet to embrace.

I think most control freaks also hate crowds precisely because it's impossible to control a mob. I also hate lines (can't control what's in front of you). And, I hate vacationing spots where other vacationers are vacationing - I prefer to maintain another illusion that I'm the only one enjoying the scenery.  Ludicrous, I know.

Busy airports make me nuts - there are lines and crowds and vacationers - an unfortunate combination for my control issues. My mother has gently suggested that I ask my doctor for tranquilizers when I travel in order to allay my stress levels.  What she fails to understand is that when you're tranquilized, you lose control even more.

Yesterday, I flew home from Florida with Bill. Typically, I opt for the aisle seat (more control issues). As I sat down, I spied a couple of people who had taken the seat behind me and to my left.  These two were going to be the key to my happiness since their conversation would be the one I was most likely to overhear. They were clearly fighting with each other - I know that 'slow burn' look.  Their state of distress, however was my good fortune: if they weren't on speaking terms I wouldn't be bothered by their inane drivel (PS: I'm judgmental, too). Unfortunately, a chatty Canadian who was also on the same cruise as the unhappy couple sat down in the third unoccupied aisle seat. Thus, began a long and tedious conversation which I had the misfortune of overhearing ( and passing judgment upon) during takeoff and the slow ascent.

Luckily I had remembered my iPad. Earlier this year my son, Will had downloaded a bunch of albums for precisely this type of situation. I fished around for my earphones in my huge carry-on (which I call a "purse"), plugged in and tuned out. My first selection: Miles Davis - Birth of the Cool.

To me, this is an almost perfect album. The only thing I would've left off was the last track: "Darn that dream". It has vocals and stupid lyrics. Since I was trying to drown out the chatter of my fellow travelers, listening to this song just made me mad. So, I switched to an equally incredible album:  Herbie Hancock - Maiden Voyage.


Just as "Dolphin Dance" began, the airline attendant came around with my gin and tonic; I paid her with my Southwest coupon, raised my glass to my sleeping husband (the perfect traveling companion) and slipped into a 15 minute blissful nap.

I had successfully manipulated my surroundings to create the illusion of tranquility.

 Just what my mother wanted for me.

Mentorship Moments

Madeleine Albright is famous for saying that there is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women. I'm guessing she's referring to women helping other women in the business world - and that if a woman "makes it" she has an obligation to help other women achieve success. That makes sense. I agree with her since historically it has been so hard for a woman to compete. It's gradually becoming easier, but there are still some very real boundaries in the business world.

I think Madeleine was on the right track, and she spoke from her heart and probably from experience. However, I think she got derailed. I believe that if you have achieved any measure of success, or can impart some knowledge to someone who needs it,  you have an obligation to help - not just to someone with whom you share the same sex.

This lesson was brought home to me most recently by a chef at a Buffalo country club. He was chosen to speak at our 2nd annual TEDx talks.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with TED, please take the time to visit TED  and browse through the topics. TED (which stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design) started out as a conference where experts were brought in to do chats of 18 minutes that were designed to change people's way of thinking. Its mission was to spread ideas. Now that conference has morphed into mini sessions at  local levels. Recently, Buffalo hosted its own conference and James Roberts, the aforementioned chef was chosen to speak about mentorship. When we first met James, Bill and I were struck by his passion for food and his general affability. He was more than happy to share kitchen tricks and recipe ingredients even with amateurs like us. Check out a short video about his work here.

I know that some people are born to be teachers. But mentorship is so much more; not only do you have to have the knowledge and be able to impart it, you have to be a role model and you have to be able to recognize the give and take in mentorship - for, as in any relationship, a mentor will inevitably gain something from the mentee.

One of the perqs of being married to Bill is that his love of teaching has helped me to grow. He is happiest when he is in front of students (whether formally at UB, informally with pals, or just with his family). He can expound on WWII military aircraft, the ingredients of garam masala, what happened at Stalingrad, whether Brian Mormon was the most valuable player for the Buffalo Bills, the changes in Giant Steps, the flying buttresses of Notre Dame... you get the point.  His eidetic memory allows him to converse on a host of subjects and this ability has allowed him to have a series of mini-mentorships with many people - for he has figured out that you can learn from others ALL THE TIME.  He, in fact, had manufactured his very own personal TEDx before it was even invented. 

Once, when I picked Bill up from the airport, he was so excited to tell me what he learned from his seat mate that the usual 'how are the kids' dialogue was forgotten.  He immediately launched into the composition and virtues of concrete because he had spent that last 90 minutes with an expert.

And, even though he will list out those that provided valuable mentorship to him, he would strenuously object to being called a mentor himself.  I would have to disagree - for he has been a true mentor to me. We have a wonderful relationship that is based on love, but it is also rooted in a give and take of learning and growing. Bill has shown by example that you can learn things from everyone that you encounter, that you should never stop inquiring and that you have the ability to create your own personal TEDx experiences every day. That's a lesson that I will never forget and that I feel an obligation to pass on. 

Canadian Thanksgiving

My friends and family in Canada are celebrating Thanksgiving tonight. Living in the northeast, it seems a more appropriate time to celebrate the harvest since it is actually harvest time. Perhaps I should start a rebellion and petition to move Thanksgiving in the US from November (where it competes with Christmas shopping) to October. How hard would it be to get something like that accomplished?  How does one go about doing this? I wouldn't know where to start. Perhaps a grassroots movement in my favorite rust belt city? I think almost everyone I know in Buffalo has at least one Canadian relative or, at the very least, enjoys visiting Toronto every so often. Spacing out the turkey/mashed potato/pie intake might be prudent, too.  



Thanksgiving in Canada is really the best holiday because it is all inclusive. There are no religious obligations, no ethnic overtones, no political agendas - it's a holiday for everyone. The whole Pilgrim/Indian sit down never happened - so there's not guilt either.  Canadians didn't co-opt the idea of Thanksgiving from their southern neighbors, either. One of the first Thanksgiving in Canada occurred when Martin Frobisher, a famous explorer studied by all Canadian students, was searching for a northern route to the Pacific Ocean (good GOD that must have been frigid). Somewhere on Baffin Island  he gave thanks, not for food, but for his mere survival during his expedition. That was in the late 1500s.  

 

Today, Canadians are merely required to eat, drink, assemble family and friends and say a big thank you. Some may also be lucky enough to have water nearby to have a celebratory paddle.

As I examine my ever increasing girth, I'm thinking I should say 'no thank-you' more than I should say 'thank-you'. However, we all understand that Thanksgiving is about being thankful for all our gifts - not just the plentiful harvest (although I understand the apple harvest will be scant this year). Taking time to be thankful is always a good idea and, unless you're in the enviable habit of saying 'grace' at each meal, or your prayers each night,  it's something that we just don't do enough.

Listening to my co-worker list the heart-rending issues with her extended family this morning, I was once again thankful for the incredible luck I have had with my family, our kids and my husband. Our troubles are few and minor in comparison to others.

So, even though I did not eat a feast tonight (although Bill did whip up another tasty meal), I am thankful for my friends, my co-workers, my family and my many blessings. Even though it isn't Thanksgiving stateside, I hope you are in a position to give thanks, too.