Category Archives: friendship

Jan23

Pretty Paper

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Ugly thoughts…

I have always been a sucker for a beautiful blank notebook or journal. When I was a child, I remember more than once asking Mama for a “Dear Diary” to write my deepest, most personal thoughts in. Eventually I received one, and I was so tickled with it because, not only was it mine to write whatever I wanted (unlike my paper and boring notebooks for school) but it had a teeny-tiny lock and key, ensuring privacy! Back then I didn’t require much more from a journal than that.

As I got into junior high and high school, the selection of “blank books” started to become more interesting, and prettier. I still have a bunch of my high school blank books, filled with the angst of those years, countless pages of bad poetry, and the occasional line of beautiful words strung together in a pleasing way. A couple of my favorites were the lavender corduroy with flowers, and the navy blue calico print, filled with lined pages. I never fancied myself a “writer”; that role in our family was already filled, admirably, by my brother, Reed. I just needed space for all that emotional stuff to go, and like most girls, I wanted that place to be pretty, if possible.

Within the last 15 years or so, I added another requirement to my criteria for a journal. I no longer want my pages to be lined, or ruled. Dot grid pages are acceptable, because I can still destroy those any way I see fit. But “LINES”…nope, no more. Lines are, for me, restrictive in nature, and I already have more restrictions in my life than I want. So now, I look for unlined pages, or dot grids at the most. Heavily textured, thick, handmade papers are a bonus when I can find them, and such a treat on which to put my pen.

It seems like it should be a sin somehow, for me to put my ugly, visceral, pain-filled/angry/petty/violent thoughts into and onto these pages. Pretty paper, ugly thoughts. But I know that those feelings have to have an outlet in order to keep them from coming out in destructive ways. Pen and paper do no harm, as long as I can count on a third “P”, that being privacy. 

Then, there is a fourth “P”…prayer. Sometimes my prayers are silent, sometimes spoken aloud, and sometimes, written. God knows the ugliness of my thoughts, and He can handle it, for which I give thanks. 

I write this after a rough couple of weeks in which some difficult conversations have taken place…and I have had to backtrack with a couple of people in order to establish some boundaries and make sure I have done all I could do to make sure I stated those boundaries clearly and firmly, as well as the consequences that will happen if my boundaries are ever again violated. 

(A couple of my recent journal acquisitions are pictured below. The one on the left will be a collection of my thoughts this year, the year I will turn 60, a birthday my sweet and spicy Mama never lived to see. She died in the hospital at age 58, one day shy of one month after her 40th wedding anniversary with my father. The other one’s purpose is yet to be determined, but it was so visually interesting, and so beautifully tactile, handcrafted, I couldn’t leave it behind. It came from a favorite art and souvenir shop on St. Simons Island, Georgia, during our last vacation there. Words, or sketches, or ephemera of some sort, will fill its pages.)

May26

This Is Where It All Started

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One of my collections…

Once upon a time, there was a woman (Me) who worked in an industry (radio/television) primarily populated by men. After spending years in radio, both on the air and doing production and writing behind the scenes, I made the transition to television, starting in master control. In both radio and TV, more often than not, I was the only female in my department…sometimes in the whole building. I thrived being “the only girl”, because I took my responsibilities seriously and was good at my jobs. Being the lone lady also gave me plentiful opportunities to encourage, nurture, and reinforce my coworkers, especially once I started training the newer hires.

One of the sales reps at my TV station, a sweet-natured guy named Rich, had a particularly fun necktie that caught my attention, and every time he wore it, I complimented his fashion sense. The tie had a red background and whimsical accents like harmonicas and records, coins and horseshoes, and Elvis Presley’s likeness. It was just WAY cool. Finally one day when he wore it, he said something along the lines of, “I know you like this tie, and I’d like for you to have it”. I laughed like a lunatic…until he took it off and started to hand it to me! I said, “Oh no, Rich, that’s really not necessary, what would I do with your tie anyway?” He said, “Well… you could wear it.” He insisted, so I accepted his gift with gratitude, and a little consternation. It wasn’t the shirt off his back, but it WAS the tie off his neck.

The next day my work outfit consisted of jeans, an oversized white menswear shirt, vest…and the Elvis tie! When Rich saw me in the hall, he grinned and said that he knew I would give Elvis a good home, and that I wore him well. Rich was a kind soul, a man of deep Christian faith, possessing a goofball sense of humor, and in the context of this story (and probably countless others no one will ever know about) a guileless and generous spirit.

Once I had worn the Elvis tie to work a few times, other fellows started asking me if I collected ties, and I said not on purpose, but if they had neckwear that they did not like or want, I’d be happy to give their sartorial rejects a home. Ties started making their way into my wardrobe…several because a guy’s wife or girlfriend hated them, several because the guys themselves hated them (!), a couple from a friend whose wife had a male friend who was transitioning to female and was no longer wearing male apparel. My friend Mikey friend brought me a necktie with a cartoon of an intoxicated man clinging to a lamppost. He purchased it on his honeymoon! (I have rarely been more honored.). A Secret Santa gift which turned out to be from our news director, a re-gifted gift from my friend Tom, the only human with whom I have shared 3 different workplaces, ties of all colors and motifs made their way to my collection. And I wore them all.

I now own more ties than many men I know. They are loud, colorful, gaudy, objectionable in a couple of cases…the uglier the better! When I had my own office, the necktie collection was displayed as wall art, and if I was in the mood to wear one, I could just grab it and go about my day.

I may share more ties and their stories in future blog posts, but I leave you with this one, The King. Elvis will NOT be leaving my building. Because this is where it all started.

Dec21

Martin’s Menorah

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Or the Menorah of Mendel Shmuel…

My friend of the soul and #FirstEverWorkHusband, Martin, was Jewish, but of a variety he said his father described as “unobservant Orthodox”. (He also always told me that he wished he had come up with that description). The first time I asked to see photos of him as a child and a younger man, he only had a few that he could share. He had stored some on his laptop computer some years before, which was a blessing since the actual photographs got left behind in the wake of his split from his second wife. (That’s a long story that still triggers visceral responses in me, and I don’t want to revisit those emotions this close to Christmas.)

I was able to see Martin at his bar mitzvah, complete with tallit and yarmulke. His formal senior portrait from high school was definitely a reflection of the era, complete with enormous bowtie, and equally enormous hair (which HE referred to as a “Jew-fro”. DO NOT hate me, HE was the one who called it that.) There were pictures of him with his siblings, his parents, some cousins. But there were not as many pictures as he would have loved to share, and as I would have loved to see. I am just so grateful for the ones he did preserve, thanks to technology.

I asked him if he had managed to grab his menorah when Wife Number Two decided she no longer wished to be married to him. He was unable to find and pack it before he was forced from his home. So I decided that I would send him one for Hanukkah that year. Amazon and I were able to get the gift to him just in time for the first night’s candle to be lit.

He sent me the above photo as soon as he had opened the box and before he lit the candles. For an “unobservant Orthodox”, he seemed to remember the ritual of Hanukkah pretty well, he said. Much like the religious traditions of my own youth, such as the Apostles’ Creed, the memories forged in our childhoods seem to stay with us the longest.

Sadly, the menorah I gave him also appears to have gotten left behind in a move. At the end of 2019, Martin’s health had deteriorated to the point that he had to go into a nursing facility. This relocation occurred almost immediately after my last time to see him in person, when we went to Fort Walton to be present for his mother’s memorial service. I never imagined that I’d never see him in the same room again, but his decline from that point was fast and steep. He was only 54 years old. The nursing home provided the residents with holiday decorations based on their religious preferences, so Martin received another menorah.

Again, he sent me a menorah photo, with a different set of emotions attached. He told me that he felt like a shell of a man, that he had lost everything…his independence, his dog, Boris, what was left of his health. Both of our hearts broke in a new place. But I was grateful that he at least could look at the little blue lights and recall his heritage. And since he had explained to me the difference between a 7-lamp and a 9-lamp menorah, I was grateful that the nursing home provided him with the “right” one.

As I write this, it is December 21, 2022, and tonight is the fourth night of Hanukkah. I now manage the smallest branch of my county’s public library system, and we decorate for the holidays. Thanksgiving was simple, because it is not religion-specific. For the December holidays, I knew that I wanted to represent Advent/Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa, because we all want to see our cultural and religious traditions honored. So I purchased another menorah for the library. I don’t know if it resembles Martin’s original one. I’ll never know, unless one of his siblings happens to have a photo and happens to share that photo with me. I would like to think that he would be happy with the way we’re displaying it. (Per my friend Lucas’s suggestion, we removed the candles and are placing them night by night, even though we cannot light them in our public space.)

Martin loved candles, as do I. Their glow, warmth, and scent all provide such simple comfort. On one of my few cherished visits to his place in Orlando, I missed Hanukkah by several days, so we decided that we would make latkes on New Year’s Eve. We ate them with applesauce, because neither of us liked sour cream. Then we lit candles, talked, snacked on leftover latkes, and wished each other a Happy New Year. It was such a simple, warm time of friendship and gratitude. So even though we missed celebrating Hanukkah together, it was still a Festival of Lights.

Aug13

Where Do I Begin?

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It’s been a long time…

I have not written a post in what feels like forever, and many changes have taken place in my life over the past several months. The primary change has involved my work in the Knox County Public Library system. In March 2022, I moved to a different branch which has involved expanded duties and more hours than I was working before. My branch manager, Heather, has been a joy to know and share the work with, and the schedule at the branch will allow me to return to singing with the Knoxville Choral Society soon. I am reading more books than I have read in years, especially fiction, and I am rediscovering the pure joy of immersing myself in stories, universes built by gifted creative minds so different from my own.

I have returned to singing and serving in a church choir as well, which has contributed more to my vocal, spiritual, and even physical recovery from long-haul COVID than I ever hoped for. I have some lingering issues with my body and brain that I did not deal with prior to my illness, but I can also see measurable improvements from a year ago. So I am both grateful and optimistic, nurturing a hope that for a long time did not exist.

This week drained me more than I would have liked, and my energy is pretty much gone. But when I look at the week and where my energy went, it was worth spending all day today on the couch trying to recover.

The choir at church gathered again for Wednesday practice after taking off during July. There were hugs, smiles, laughs…and there was music, lifting spirits and voices to Heaven.

At the library, we continue to assist people who are in genuine need. Jesus said that if we even give one of His little ones just a cup of cold water in His name, we will certainly not lose our reward. (Matthew 10:42). I think that same idea must apply when we offer tissues to a crying widow or single mom as we help fill out assistance requests. As my manager said, we are truly helping “the least of these”.

We had the fun of a lunch delivery this week when two former library ladies came to visit, celebrating one of their birthdays and catching up on each of our lives. We shared triumphs and challenges, and I made a new friend. Our special “Friend of the Library” brought us flowers and candy recently. A butterfly landed in my path as I offered prayers for a friend’s job interview (she got the job!). Little things can lift our spirits so greatly, whether we receive or give them.

BUT…

Here’s the thing: Some days are just hard. People are struggling everywhere. We struggle with our own troubles, frustrations, pain of all sorts. But each day also holds the potential for such great joy. So as I type this from the relative comfort of the couch that has cradled my exhausted body all day, I give thanks. I give thanks for the body that carries me through my life, even when it hurts. I give thanks for the gifts of music and literature that nourish not only me but the entire world we all inhabit. And I give thanks for the people…the ones I know and love, and the ones who pass through my days with their tears, providing me an opportunity to slow my frenzied process down just enough to offer a Kleenex, a gentle tone of voice, and a silent prayer for their circumstances.

Jan30

The Broken Year

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Chaos in progress…

It feels like forever since I wrote a blog post.  I didn’t consciously intend to give it up; there was just no energy to write and not much positive for me to express, for many months.  I thought that 2019 had been a difficult year, with losing my longtime job and embarking upon the adventures of temporary employment.  So much upheaval and stress, uncertainty and anxiety.

I actually looked forward to 2020 for a fresh start, even writing about My 2020 Vision.

We see how that turned out.  

The year 2020 had begun with promise.  I completed a temporary part-time work assignment with The Oak Ridge Public Library, an enriching, fun position that lasted far longer than its original duration was to be.  #TempLife was going OK. I was thankful for the opportunity to work there and surprised by how much I enjoyed it.  The next week, I began a different, full-time assignment with a local non-profit whose mission and work I strongly believe in, and it turned out to be a good fit for me in many respects.  I was learning new skills in an office environment, a setting where I did not have much experience.  Gradually my supervisor gave me more tasks to try, and my job became a more rounded kind of experience, with enough variety to be interesting, and enough routine to be fairly comfortable.  I was fortunate also to be able to work actually in the office, preserving some semblance of normalcy as the coronavirus pandemic raged everywhere else, forcing untold numbers into the “work from home” workforce.  Until the middle of December, when the pandemic invaded my household, and my body.  That’s another story.

Aside from the pandemic…

The remainder of 2020 was riddled with the deaths of 6 people in my various circles.  My feisty, precious Aunt Helen, a Guardian Angel who was throughout my life a fun, inspiring, positive woman, and someone who was ALWAYS in my corner, no matter what, died on March 4, 2020.  On April 27, two valued and insightful connections from my unit of CPE died.  These two men encouraged me to continue to determine  and develop my prophetic and pastoral gifts, believing that I had them in the first place.  My #FirstEverWorkHusband Martin died the next week on May 4, 2020.  I am still processing that death and how it came about.  Next, after a 2-month break in the deaths, my college voice professor, Dr. Thomas Swann Teague, passed away.  Another person in this circle of people who believed in me in a unique way, his legacy of training in all things both vocal and human continues to this day.  I have long stated that every time I open my mouth to sing, I owe him a debt of gratitude.  Finally, on November 11, Veterans Day, our friend and my husband’s coworker, Billy Kidd, area radio icon and institution, died unexpectedly and suddenly at age 62.  His death on Veterans Day seems fitting, as he loved and respected our vets greatly and did many benefit events over the years for them.  Our whole community was shaken by his passing.

A family member was diagnosed with cancer.  Another’s battles with dementia came out in drips, drops, and then a flood.  Anxiety attacks began to happen in still another family member.  It became relentless.

Due to the pandemic, performances of music shut down.  Singing became unsafe, as did gathering in groups to practice or perform.  Changes in how we all were conducting worship services altered and damaged how I was using—and not using—my own voice.  I began to suffer the effects of neglect and improper/lack of use.  I could have, and should have, been practicing diligently at home.  That is my own responsibility, and I will own the role I played in my decline.  

There was just no energy to do it.  Depression and anxiety drain a person’s resources under normal circumstances, and the #Damndemic multiplied those issues exponentially.  This is not an excuse for my lack of will to practice, merely an explanation.

Any one of these sets of conditions would have been enough to drive me into a severe depressive state on its own; the totality of them all converging in the same year just…broke me.  BROKE me.  

Mid-December brought sickness to the house, and we had a COVID Christmas.  My husband started with sinus-infection symptoms, and my own followed in a day or two.  He received a drive-through COVID test never believing he had the virus.  I received my test the day he received his confirmation call for coronavirus, and I received my confirmation call the next day.  I bowed out of Christmas music at church at the literal last minute because of my own illness and their safety.  (I learned later that the soprano they replaced me with was WAITING FOR COVID TEST RESULTS!!! She was positive but apparently is all right now). Work bosses and contacts were informed in a flurry of messages and emails.  

My husband’s case was quick and fairly mild, and he made a remarkable recovery.  Thanks be to God!  I have become a “long haul” COVID patient, unfortunately.  The good news is that I am improving daily, and hope to be released from restriction soon by Dr. Awesome, who has kept me out of the hospital.  I have chosen to share parts of my COVID process in my social media, in hopes of helping someone else who might experience some of the things I have, as well as to gain insight from those who contracted #ThisDamnableVirus before I did. The COVID process may get its own post later on.

For now, I begin to write again, nearly a month into 2021. More uncertainty stares down the barrel as we move forward. But despite the chaos, the forward motion must progress.

Jul4

Someone Else’s Story

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And what chapter do you contribute…?

I have not written a post here in two and a half months.  In that time frame, 3 valuable people in my universe died.  Two of my connections from Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) died, both on Monday, April 27.  Randy, our unit supervisor, was a mentor, coach, sensei, cheerleader, buster-of-chops-and-rejoicer-in-successes.  John, a member of our peer group, was a United Methodist pastor on sabbatical, a warm hearted man of insight and humility.  These losses came to all of us as a shock, and for me, a gut-punch as I was still reeling from Aunt Helen’s death, which I shared in my last post here.

One week later, on Monday, May 4, my beloved friend, #FirstEverWorkHusband and Person, Martin, died.  I have written several times about him, his kidney failure, and our friendship in this blog.  We had just texted shortly before he passed, and his death appears to have been a fast and massive heart attack.  I can’t really write much about that right now; it is still pretty raw and I continue to process a great deal.

But the circumstances surrounding his passing left me inconsolable.  When I could manage to sleep there were dreams (which are to be expected and I know there will be more to come); various types of crying, from leaky moments to wailing, sobbing jags.  Finally as I stood in my yard, I spoke out loud, to Martin, to God, to The Universe, asking, pleading for…something.  A sign.  I said, “I need something to know that Martin is OK, so if he is…if you are…please, let the next feather that comes my way be either white or red.  I will take that as my sign.”  I didn’t specify that I needed to be the one to actually find the feather, but I didn’t give that much thought.

Flash forward a few weeks to a Thursday evening after work, when I reported to my church to record the service for the following Sunday, since we had not yet been cleared yet for in-person worship due to coronavirus.  On my music stand was my music for the service, and an envelope with my name on it.  I opened it to find these beautiful #featherblessings from my #ChoirBoss, Carroll, courtesy of his neighbors who had collected them on a walk with their dog.

 

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As gorgeous as the spotted feathers are, it was the red one that brought me to tears.  It was the sign I had begged for.  After we had finished recording the service, I thanked Carroll for his gift, explaining to him, with choked-back tears and a breaking voice, what the red feather meant to me, and how it was the first semblance of comfort I had received since Martin died.  I thanked him for unwittingly playing such an important role in someone else’s story…in my story.

We never know the importance of a seemingly small gesture.  Something we may do or say without a second thought can make all the difference in another person’s life.  When you get an impulse to reach out to someone, don’t ignore it.  You never know when you might be writing a chapter in someone else’s story.

 

Apr18

Weirdest Lent Ever

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A church service and a phone call…

This year on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, our choir at Ebenezer UMC did not assist in the service there, so I took the opportunity to attend the service at the last church where I sang and served.  It was a joy to worship with the congregation at Messiah Lutheran, one of my church homes, and folks I will always consider family.  My patient husband was chauffeuring me around at the time because my vertigo had flared up, and we agreed with the family doctor that I probably shouldn’t drive until I was feeling better.  So Sweet Pea picked me up from work, we shared a tasty supper at PF Chang’s, then headed across Kingston Pike to the church.

”You are dust, and to dust you shall return…”

It was a beautiful service, contemplative and solemn…and just as we were leaving the church my silenced phone began to vibrate.  My cousin Hazen was calling to tell me that Aunt Helen was in the hospital and her situation looked pretty serious.  “Aunt” Helen is actually my first cousin, but because she was so close in age to Mama, and because they had grown up like sisters, we always called her Aunt Helen, just like all the other Aunts we were blessed to know and love on Mama’s side.  It was probably late in grade school before I figured out the actual family math on that relationship.  But she always functioned as an Aunt for me.

Because my vertigo was flaring I knew that a drive to Johnson City on my own was not possible, so I asked Dad if he might be up for a visit with Aunt Helen in the hospital on Sunday.  My cousin Stacy had told me that we should probably visit soon if we wanted to.  So Dad, bonus mom Carole and I made the brief trip up on The First Sunday of Lent, in beautiful sunshine and coolish temperatures.  Signs of spring were evident along the roadside as the landscape began to green up.

We arrived to find my cousin Lisa talking with the doctor, and Aunt Helen’s frail frame in the bed.  She was awake and recognized me before I fully made it into the room.  We exchanged “I-love-you’s” and I asked the questions I always ask at such a time as this.

”Are you afraid?”  She said no.

”Are you in pain?”  She said yes.

And I swear, it was like seeing Mama in her hospital bed, living that scenario all over again.

In the days that followed, our phones blazed with text messages and calls.  How was Aunt Helen doing?  Was Lisa eating?  Did anybody sleep last night?  Might they send Aunt Helen home?  What exactly would hospice entail or provide?

That Tuesday night, Aunt Helen went home with hospice care.

Wednesday morning, Hazen called again to tell me that Aunt Helen had died about a half hour before. Stacy was texting while Hazen and I talked.  I was at my newish job learning a very new task, and Amy, my trainer, who was aware of Aunt Helen’s condition, let me have her office for a while to make phone calls and cry.  It was a kindness I will always remember.

The Second Sunday of Lent was Aunt Helen’s memorial service.  Years ago she had asked me to do her eulogy, and I agreed.  My cousin Lisa asked if I could sing as well, which I also agreed to do.  I never sing well at funerals.  But I do it anyway, with the understanding that, while it won’t be beautiful, it will be loving.  I’m doing the best I can.

Rumors and speculation about coronavirus had already started to churn, and looking back now, I am grateful that we had the chance to gather as Aunt Helen’s family, by blood and choice, to honor and remember her.  I was able to hug my people, cry, sing, and laugh.  The church was packed with others whose lives Aunt Helen had blessed.  If a couple more weeks had passed, we wouldn’t have had the chance to be together like that.

The remainder of Lent saw us all self-isolating, exercising caution, and avoiding crowds as much as possible.  Many of our workplaces shut down, or drastically curtailed their activities and staffs.  A trip to the store became a major event. Toilet paper, of all things, became almost impossible to find!  And our church buildings have sat empty.

But The Church has, in many cases, been more vibrant and active than it was before coronavirus flipped everything sideways.  Technology has allowed us to stay connected to our church families via live streams and Zoom calls, for example.  I was privileged to assist my own congregation in worship on Palm Sunday and Easter, with a few other musicians and our pastors, from our mostly empty sanctuary, properly distanced from each other.

I miss hugging people.  I miss sharing space with my church family and my kinfolks. And Lord, how I miss Aunt Helen.

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(My last photo with Aunt Helen, February 2019, during #OperationTakeAMinute.  She was my first stop on a month-long road trip, and the days and nights I spent at her house are memories I will cherish forever, especially now that her New Home is someplace I can’t visit.  YET.)

Mar29

Church On My Couch

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It’s not about the building…

This morning I went to church.  On my couch.  The flippant, sarcastic, class-clown side of my personality wants to call it:

The Fifth-Sunday Singing Service at The First Church of St. Social Isolation.

The trusted-Jesus-in-my-childhood side of me knows that it is, in truth:

The Church Is Not About The Building.

My childhood church had a motto that was printed on our bulletins.  It read, “Enter to Worship—Depart to Serve”.  That is ringing more true to me in these days of social distancing, self-imposed isolation, safer-at-home.  Thanks to the Interwebz, we can still participate in worship, work from home, see about our friends and family.  We can stay fairly well connected.

We can donate to causes, including the local church, that are working to provide necessary resources to our neighbors in need.  We can share music, humor, insight, and even our own original thoughts, in an effort to keep our loved ones engaged, lifted up, and encouraged in the days of COVID-19.  We can drop non-perishable necessities off onto our neighbors’ porches.  We can call, text, Zoom/FaceTime/Messenger Chat to stay connected.  I think that all of these efforts are “church”.

I completed an extended unit of Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) in 2012.  The ages of my peer group ranged from mid-40s to late 60s.  The eldest member of our group was participating at the recommendation of a ministry of his church, a well-established, well-heeled, and well-respected faith community here in Knoxville.  Toward the end of our time together, Bob remarked that he was “seeing more church happen inside the walls of the hospital” than he had ever seen at “church”.

Which illustrates the point, once again, that it’s not about the building.

Church is loving our neighbor, whoever they are, wherever they are, however we can, without trying to judge whether or not they are worthy.  When we are unable to gather face-to-face, church can still happen.  Loving our neighbor from a distance is still love.  Prayers, financial support offered online, front-porch drop-offs, whatever we can do…we can still love our neighbor.

We can be the church.

We ARE the church.

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Mar22

Fifteen Pounds Of Words

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And sometimes I STILL can’t find the right one…

It has been over a month since I wrote a post here.  I have wanted to write, but it has been difficult to find the words for my emotions lately.  The thoughts I want and need to convey, are sometimes beyond words.

For five months I worked as a temporary contract employee at the Oak Ridge Public Library.  It was only supposed to be a three-to-four week assignment, but some changes in library staff, illnesses, and retirements allowed me to stay far longer than the original time frame. It was only part-time, certainly not enough to live on.  But the assignment was more enjoyable than I ever imagined, so I stayed as long as there was funding for my position.

Early in the assignment, I assisted with processing items being withdrawn from circulation.  On one of the carts I was to stamp and sticker one day was an ancient and ENORMOUS dictionary.  I stamped and stickered it, and inquired as to what happens to items when they are withdrawn.  William, the reference librarian who was working that day, told me they are either donated to the Friends of the Library for their book sales, or, in some sad cases, destroyed. I asked about the huge dictionary, (having fallen quite in love with it) and he said it might go to the FOL, and might be available to purchase.  When I returned to work the next day, he had pulled it out for me.

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I placed my donation into the “bird box”,  a bird feeder on the wall in the Friends of the Library nook where people place their donations for the books they purchase.  Then I brought in a sturdy bag to contain my new/old treasure as I carried it out to my car.  A regular grocery bag would never begin to hold a volume of its size and weight.

Not long after, I visited my Dad and Bonus Mom Carole, taking along my dictionary for them to see.  The copyright pages are gone, but the illustration pages all have “1934” printed on them…before Dad was born.  I thought they would get a kick out of seeing such an artifact, and they did.  We actually weighed it.  It weighs fifteen pounds!

As a lover of words and language, this dictionary is far more than just a book for me.  It is a work of art, with line drawings and sketches adorning its pages to illustrate many of the words therein.  It is a piece of history as well, especially considering that it lived in Oak Ridge during the Manhattan Project and Cold War years.  I imagine what hands might have turned its pages, whose brains may have searched its contents…scientists, perhaps, or educators, as well as students seeking the right words for their research papers and university applications.  Old books have a scent and feel about them that appeals to people like me.

And to my friend, Isaac, who rejoiced with me over my find.

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To answer his question…1934 smells like history, nostalgia, a mixture of curiosity, knowledge and wisdom…its pages are smooth and yellowed from age and use.  Its  contents are the very foundation of communication.  Fifteen pounds of words…and still sometimes, I can’t find the one I want.  But at least I have a tool that can help me as I search.

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(My hand is for scale, to show how thick this dictionary is!)

I found a similar but not-nearly-as-nice volume online that was destined for the trash heap and bought it for a song.  It is now destined to be repurposed into art and craft projects.  Its pages will find their way into the homes and lives of others who, like me, appreciate the beauty of words and language, even if not as originally intended.  I still like to think that some knowledge and wisdom will go with them.

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Dec31

My 2020 Vision

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And so many interpretations of that idea…

I am running out of time.

We all are.

Not to sound nihilistic, but it is a fact.  When a person is born, the meter starts running.  We are given a finite, and unknown to us, number of years/days/seconds in which we are to fulfill our life’s purpose.  Some of us never even determine what that purpose is, much less fulfill it.

I remember when we perched on the cusp of THE YEAR 2000, and Y2K Fever was rampant.  Doomsayers warned us that computer systems would fail, grinding the economy to a violent, albeit temporary, halt.  End-time prophets advised us all to lay in extra supplies of food, water, medicines, and cash, to protect us from the coming mini-apocalypse that the start of The New Millennium would bring.  All that the paranoid pundits feared amounted to a lot of nothing.  I am grateful that the predicted collapse didn’t happen.

That was 20 years ago!  Now we perch on the eve of another year that has a zero on the end of it, and I’ve been thinking about the phrase “20/20 vision”.  Medically, the term refers to perfect eyesight.  I have not enjoyed decent eyesight without correction since I was 9 years old and began wearing glasses.

But I have also been thinking about my vision for the coming year…MY 2020 Vision.  I won’t lie; I have no idea what may be coming.  I know that I should be doing all the things: I need a full-time job, in the most urgent way imaginable, and I need to be looking much harder to find one; I should be writing every single day; I should be seeking out the best books and reading them constantly; I should be exercising my body and my voice daily as well to condition them and keep them supple; I should be intentional in keeping my relationships strong, expressing appreciation for every person who inhabits my family/circle/village/tribe.  And all the things seem to require way more energy than I have.  Every day I know I’m running out of time.

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This time last year my emotions were mixed as I anticipated the end of a job I had held for almost 18 years.  I felt uncertain, but also hopeful, looking forward to a road trip that I christened #OperationTakeAMinute.  I enjoyed that trip, but looking back now, part of me feels like it was a waste of time and resources.  I lost a month of time with my precious dog, #OurBoyRoy, and my husband.  (The photo below is from last New Year’s Eve.  We had to let #OurBoyRoy go to Heaven in July.)

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I spent money I should have saved.  It was an indulgence that felt necessary at the time; now I wonder if it was the right thing to do after all.

Hence I recall another adage about vision and sight:

Hindsight is always 20/20.

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And I’m running out of time.

#My2020Vision