Childhood giggles

Saturday's brief shower reminded me of hot summer days when friends and I would run out into the gentle rain. We would laugh as we ran around the backyard in our bathing suits as though the raindrops were just for us. Other times it would be giggles as we ran through the sprinkler. We figured out how to take the hose from the sprinkler and, using our thumb over the spout, squirt water at each other. Laughter was the result of planned attacks as the 'hoser' or the 'target' or mutual drenching with squirt guns. Games like Simon Says had kids of all ages in awkward positions on the front lawn or in the basement. 

My first backyard giggles were toddling barefoot in the grass toward grandma. Then my dad built a sandbox. He painted it grey and put a bench on each corner so my neighborhood friends and I could sit and wiggle our toes in the sand. Jamie, who was a year younger than me and lived across the street, liked to use our different sized pails to build cities of round houses and we would create elaborate roadways. Once our kingdoms were finished we would sit above those cities and make up stories about who lived there before we came crashing down and destroyed what we'd built. Sometimes both the stories and the destruction involved shared giggles.

Adults both smile and cringe when kids discover knock-knock jokes, for they know they are in for endless conversations of "who's there?" What cracks up a 6 old year can make a 60 year old groan. In junior high our chuckles included the fad of elephant jokes.

Q: How many elephants fit in a Mini?

A: Four. Two in the front and two in the back.

Q: How many giraffes fit in a Mini?

A. None. The Mini is full of elephants!

By then our neighborhood games had disappeared. The older kids were too cool to play with the few younger ones and my friends and I had discovered Nancy Drew and movie magazines. Girlfriends and I would giggle over movie stars and popular singers, and, of course, boys at school, although none of that for very long, even at slumber parties. We might moon through Teen Angel but then One-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater would come on and we'd shout along and laugh.

Giggles, chuckles, laughter and smiles were contagious in childhood and remain the same today. Just the other day I heard this one. What does the buffalo say to the calf heading off to school? Bison!

Finding more than what was lost

When I was 8 years old, the big gift for me under the Christmas tree was a Timex watch with a dark grey leather band. Sometime that spring the watch went missing. I  retraced my steps and searched my bedroom but to no avail. When I 'fessed up over dinner one night, both my parents gave me 'the look.' You know the one. It's two main elements are disappointment and disapproval.

The loss of an expensive present certainly was an appropriate occasion for the use of this parental tool, but the moment it appeared was a touchtone in my young life. It was the first time my father's features reflected those characteristics I was so accustomed to seeing on my mother's face. By then I had realized that my mother was an unhappy person. It was decades before I made peace with the fact that while I know she loved me as best she could, her love was not unconditional, and as hard as I tried, her disappointment and disapproval were an underlying factor in our relationship.

But my dad was another story. My 8 year old self suddenly saw that my dad also had limits for his love and I had reached it. I had lost more than my watch. I'd lost some of his love and respect.

Several months later, during which time I'm sure my mother also searched my room, I found the watch in a purse that was hanging on a hook in my closet. I don't remember why I hadn't looked in or used that purse. What I do remember is the elation at finding what I'd lost and at thinking I could now get back that portion of my dad's love. When I ran downstairs shouting "I found my watch!" his response was, "Well, at least you're not as irresponsible as we thought."

I had my watch, but my feeling of acceptance and place within the family, diminished with the loss of the watch, was not restored with its reappearance. In the scheme of things, when an otherwise responsible child loses a material item, it should not ultimately be a big deal. It should, however, be noticed when a child is feeling like an outsider, having to earn their way back in to love.

From that point on I was cautious and careful not just with things, but with feelings. My 8 year old self could not have articulated what the passing years helped me understand. Something more than a watch and love had been lost. I lost some innocence and a piece of my security. But something was also gained. I took my first steps in learning to rely on myself more than on others. A pretty good lesson put into action while wearing a pretty cool (for the time) watch.

Marilyn

Lessons from a cap gun summer

If your neighborhood is like mine, there have been blasts of firecrackers day and night for the last couple of weeks. When I was young the most frequent explosive sounds leading up to the 4th of July, and indeed all summer, were the 'pops' from a cap gun. A red roll of 500 explosives bought at the store for a nickel was inserted into the play revolver. Pulling the trigger enabled the hammer to hit a flammable dot of the roll, resulting in a puff of smoke and a loud 'pop.'

Cap guns were also part of our outdoor neighborhood play as we mimicked the pretend worlds we were watching on this new thing called television. Cowboys and Indians fired their rifles and enemies fell off mountains but were back on the show the following week. Annie Oakley and Dale Evans had guns in their holsters and could ride their horses and shoot and, while the bad guys were shot, there was no blood. Fights were choreographed so that even as saloon furniture was destroyed, the actors' hats stayed on their heads. Violence was fake.

The lessons related to my cap gun came when my mother served venison stew one late summer evening when I was seven. "What's venison?" I asked, enjoying an early taste of autumn.

My mother began her answer with, "Remember when Uncle Eddie went hunting last year?"

"Sure," I replied. "Sandy and Aunt Del came over for lunch."

"Well," she continued. "He shot a deer, and cut it up and wrapped the meat in small packages that Aunt Del put in the freezer. Yesterday she took out a couple of packages to thaw and gave us one of them."

"Venison is deer meat?" I exclaimed, putting down my fork.

"Yes," said my dad entering the conversation.

"Uncle Eddie shot a DEER?" I continued, thinking of the beautiful animals we sometimes saw on rides in the country, for I hadn't yet seen or read about Bambi.

"Yes," came the reply from my mother who was sitting across the table watching me intently.

"With a GUN?" I persisted.

"Well, with his rifle," said my dad patting my hand.

"And the deer died and we are eating it?" I sobbed as I absorbed my first lesson in a cycle of life and lost a piece of my childhood innocence. I've heard of similar stories that turned the child into a vegetarian. My parents must have handled the situation in a manner that didn't push me in that direction or maybe I hadn't heard about such a choice.

The second result of that evening was the loss of a desire to be Annie Oakley. She had been a role model and I enjoyed our pretend plots where I got to be her. Maybe it was time the cap gun and my cowgirl outfit stayed in the drawer, and while it was my decision for them to stay there, it seemed the result of a harsh reality rather than outgrowing a toy.

Now that I understood what it meant when Uncle Eddie went hunting, my view of him changed. It was one thing for pioneers to have to hunt for food but to hunt for fun, which is how my seven year old mind perceived it, was quite another. I was not truly and fully comfortable around him after that meal.

The last lesson was my mother's. She never served venison again.

Marilyn

Anyone can whistle

When I was 6 years old I would sit at my mother's dressing table to look in the mirror as I practiced puckering my lips, blowing out air and trying to make music. Everyone else in my world seemed to have this frustrating combination of three simultaneous tasks down pat, but it seemed beyond my capability. I was learning to play the piano and to read, two important skills that were moving along nicely, thank-you-very-much, but couldn't get my lips, breath and brain to cooperate. 

Then I discovered it was easier to make a sound while breathing in. It was only one tone, but it was a beginning. From that small success I found I could make the same sound sucking air in and blowing air out. It wasn't a musical phrase, but it was a note and I was on my way.

 

When things finally clicked and I performed the "twinkle, twinkle little star" tune for anyone within range, and then quickly moved on to something else. If I'd had a to-do list of required childhood learnings, whistling would then have gotten crossed off. 

This came to mind yesterday as I took an introduction to the pottery wheel class where I again learned there are lots of things to think about and do at the same time in order to create art. My first piece fell apart. The second is a rather interesting lopsided dish. The third has potential as a small key or change bowl, but I won't know until I can pick up the finished piece after it is fired.  

I don't know why whistling was something I was so determined to master. Maybe a favorite friend or character in a book was a great whistler. I do know that whistling is an example of many things in my life. I dabble and then move on. In the art world it has led me to try many things, from paper making to pottery. In my career, this has made me a generalist, a Jill-of-all-trades. And, you know, I'm quite content being someone who is not a star but who has a varied resume of work and art and who can still whistle a little. What about you? What are you glad you tried but don't excel at?

Marilyn

Scabs, scars and bruises

Two weeks ago our Lunch 'n Learn session featured basic CPR and first aid. Last Tuesday I needed to put some of that learning into action. Just as a friend was turning the corner to drop me back at the office after a catch-up breakfast, we saw a woman fall onto the street. As soon as the car was in park we both jumped out to run to her aid as did other good samaritans who were walking by.

Thanks to the recent class I knew to: assess the situation to determine if it was safe to leave her where she fell (it was), see if she was conscious (she sat up, blood streaming down her face), tell someone to call 911 (my friend did), and go for an emergency kit (my role). By the time I returned with the red and white box holding needed plastic gloves and other supplies, we heard a siren in the distance. Besides a broken nose, a gash on her forehead and contusions, it seemed she was okay but we were glad when the paramedics arrived. She'll have some bruises and maybe end up with a scar both inside and out.

It got me thinking about the summer I was seven. There seems to be a childhood year when either scabby elbows or knees are ever present. For me it was knees, with the biggest contributor being falls from my hand-me-down red bike. I remember sitting on the third step of the wooden stairs that led up to my bedroom and picking at a delightfully thick scab. It was just at that point where the edges were starting to separate from the skin. That's an intriguing stage to a child because the hurt is gone and the healing is progressing. 

At that age we are still learning about our bodies and need our parents to tell us to leave the scab alone, advice we will probably ignore. We watch with fascination as bruises change colors as they heal. We're also learning that true healing often requires more pain, a lot of patience and some action.

Some hurts need iodine, not just mercurochrome, or work with a therapist, not just talking with friends. All hurts need time, time for the natural processes to occur. That can include using our thought processes to understand the corresponding emotional layers. Finally, hurts require action, which can mean non-action, like not picking up a hot pan without a potholder, or the positive step of getting back on the bike.

Like most of us, my scars from childhood include a few chicken pox marks. I also know where there were stitches in my hand from a fall on the running track. It's the emotional scars that have taken more than a few days or weeks of bandaids and itching. Some are scabbed over, not gone, but the scab is doing its job. Others I know that if I pick at the scab, the pain will ooze out again. Perhaps it's time to do that. Finally, there are those where I know that I really should pick at the scab. It's at the point where the healing is finished underneath and the new skin will be healthy. I think I'll start with those. What about you?

Marilyn

What are you afraid of?

Beyond not liking spiders or heights or going to the dentist, and underneath the challenge of getting on an airplane or standing at a podium, and ignoring the fact that there is nothing you can do about getting older, deep down what's your biggest fear? For some it is a fear of intimacy, or being poor or dependent. Medical words like cancer or Alzheimer evoke dread, and while none of us like to fail, that fear can keep us from acting at all. New anxieties and fears stem from today's technologies.

For me, when all else is stripped away, my bottom line fear is that I'll be forgotten. Perhaps this comes from growing up in a family where after someone had died they were never mentioned. I look back and realize that grandma, the only grandparent I knew, was a huge influence and a major stabilizing factor of my first six years. After she died, she was simply gone. It's not like she was erased, as there were pictures in photo albums and in frames, but she was never referenced or outwardly remembered. When I inquired about the three grandparents I never knew, or about Uncle Harold who died from being gassed in WWI or other faces in some of those pictures, no meaningful personal tidbits or fun stories about them were ever shared. It was like it never mattered that they existed.

I've learned that the same is true in many families. Whether a family or cultural norm, I do my best to change it. I find it comforting to talk about someone who is no longer around to talk with. I understand that it is difficult when the grief is too new, when feelings are raw, but memories either make me smile or help me understand.

When my poker group gets together, at some point during the evening we usually remember one person no longer around the table. We don't speak of her with reverence, which can so often become the case when someone has died, but of who she really was. I like that. If I were hit by a bus tomorrow I'd like to think that group they would raise a toast to me occasionally also. 

Maybe my fear of being forgotten is quite common and one cause of the billions of selfies. I'm sure it's one reason why I publish these musings in a public way. Naming and facing a fear can be the first step to overcoming it. So, here are words I've put together on a road toward that. What are you afraid of that you're willing to acknowledge and take at least one step to face it head on?

Technological gluttony

This past week I ran across that jarring phrase. Those words came at the end of a paragraph in Richard Foster's book Sanctuary of the Soul where he describes how people complain about our wired world while utilizing all the gadgets at their disposal. He states that the Internet culture is symbolic of a fundamental problem, namely, distraction. We will do anything to fill time, to feel busy, to believe we are connected and engaged. Later on he quotes Blaise Pascal, "The sole cause of man's unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room."

Since buying my iPad seven weeks ago my room is now seldom 'quiet.' I enjoy doing puzzles, playing dominos and a few card games. These I usually do while the TV is on in the background. While some might call it overlapping, Foster might call it distraction. I call it the inability to stay focused on one thing. That's part of my Myers-Briggs profile. I'm a high P and can easily flit from one interesting thing to another. Give me two to deal with at the same time and it might seem that I should thrive. But, actually, I'm getting worn out.

Someone recently mentioned that there is only one facility focused on technological addiction and that the waiting list is two years long. Part of me gets it. Once I didn't go to the health club because I had forgotten my MP3 player. How could I be on the treadmill without my story/distraction? At the office we wonder what to do when the server goes down. even though there is plenty of paperwork, planning, and simply thinking to be done.

Just like in everything else, technologically there are the haves and the have nots. There is a technological divide and there are technological deserts. I might be late to the table of phone and pad, but drawn in nevertheless because I live in a place where that is possible. Meanwhile schools around the world struggle for access to information. There are places where people still go to bed when it gets dark. Here we live in a society where we fight sleep in order to finish the movie or chapter or until we get to the next level of a game.

Even as I am grateful for the small mobile screen and separate keyboard that allows me to write, search, and play, and for all of the good that technology does, I shudder at the electronic speed of life today and its accompanying lack of need to sit quietly in a room. One goal for this week is to take a breather from the technological gluttony of my life and see if I can sit quietly in my room just for a little while. You up for the same challenge?

Marilyn