Best Friends Forever

This weekend I head to Illinois with hubby, son, daughter and favorite son-in-law to spend some time with my parents, grandparents, and my sister's family. While it's going to be time focused on family, I'm most excited about going to my high school's alumni banquet. Open to anyone who has ever graduated from NCOE High School (Home of the Fighting Cardinals!), it's held every year over Memorial Weekend. My dad goes every year and tells me they honor the biggies-25 years (me? whoa!), 50 years, and probably others--I've never actually been before. While it's not really a full blown reunion since less than a dozen from my class will be going, I can hardly wait to see them.

I moved away from the small town I grew up in at age 18, after going to school there from kindergarten through Senior year. When I try to tell my friends who graduated from large schools (my husband's graduating class was 800), about the bonds of growing up with a class of 55, it’s hard to explain. We had so many shared experiences--the same teachers, same playgrounds, and same corner stores. We went to the same basketball games, took driver’s ed from the same instructor who had been our grade school gym teacher—we really grew up together in a shared small world. I tell them that many of my classmates were more like my close cousins. A few of them were like my extra brothers and sisters.

When I was in the third grade, I was in Mrs. Wood’s class, at the top of the wooden stairs on the second floor of the two-story elementary school. A new little girl was introduced to the class. Well, actually two little girls—twins. They had recently moved back to southern Illinois from a some strange place up north called Walled Lake, Michigan. They had rhyming first names as many twins do, and they were cute and smart and sweet. I was always concerned about kids that were new or struggling (My dad’s constant phrase during those years was, “Always try to be nice to everybody”), and decided I would be their friend. The oldest was a little more outgoing than the other, and we became friends quickly as I remember. Later that year, she stole my boyfriend (we’d been together since kindergarten!), but despite what I might have said teasingly over the years, I really didn’t care at all—I just like being her friend. We would go on to be “BFF’s”.

Her sister and I were friends too, although often not in the same classes (they usually separate twins) and so not quite as close. But, we two firstborn “bestest buddies” hung together as friends throughout our school years and beyond. She (along with her sis) was in my wedding and I played piano for hers. We visited each other occasionally over the years, even though many miles apart. Every time it seems like we just pick up where we left off, and we vow to do better on keeping in touch. But life tugs and pulls you in other directions sometimes, and mostly we only reconnect every few years.

It’s funny how our lives have flipped-flopped in many ways. While I married young and had my first child at 21, she finished college first, married, divorced (sadly, and with no children) and pursued a career. When my kids were in high school, she remarried a quite younger man (you go, girl!) and started a family. She was in Missouri then came back to live in southern Indiana only about 40 miles from where we grew up. And the funny thing is, I now live only a few miles from that strange city called “Walled Lake, Michigan”.

I looked up her number last week and left a message saying I would be at the banquet, and hoped she’d be able to come. I missed her call back, but enjoyed hearing the southern twang, that I’ve sadly lost most of by now, on voice mail saying, “I’ll be there!”

I’m so glad I was nice to her in third grade. And I’m so over boyfriend! See you soon, BFFTTE!

Sunshine with a Frappacino

Yes, it's another article on how coffee really is good for you! Come on, where else are you going to get this kind of helpful information? Where else can you glean vital facts to justify your reloading your Starbuck's card?

From the most recent issue of Good Housekeeping magazine, comes the information that "your daily coffee may help you fend off skin cancer." Researchers report that for every cup you drink per day, your chance of developing non-melanoma skin cancer later in life drops by 5%. A couple of Ventis per day would lower your chances by 30%. "It's possible coffee's antioxidant effect helps to protect against skin cancer," reports a professor from Detroit's Wayne State University School of Medicine. Of course the Michigander also admits that part of the benefits "may be that people who drink a lot of coffee tend to stay indoors more."

So, grab your frozen mocha frappacino or iced coffee and get out there and grab those few Michigan rays while we've got them! (Note: No French researchers were quoted during the writing of this article.)

People Who Make Me Happy!

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy. They are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom" Marcel Proust

A short list of the charming gardeners in my life. (Forgive me if you're not on here. I love you too. It's not unabridged.)


My husband, who gets me and still likes hanging out with me after 25 years. Even if when I'm whiny. And just started playing electric guitar for fun. Quietly.

My funny, thinks-like-me daughter, who recently sent me this line in an email:

"you're super executive assistant woman! You can leap over tall stacks of bulletins in a single bound! You can generate multiple Google docs while counseling whiney parishoners! You can speak Pastor! The world of executive assistants to the pastor salutes you!"
(not that any of you are whiny....)

My son-in-law who uses words like "Ridiculous!" and "Amazing!" to describe anything he deems cool/fun/crazy and plays guitar beautifully and is just fun and at least does a good job of pretending he likes hanging out with us.

My dad, who still calls me 'a varmit'.

My mom, who calls me just to talk. A lot.

My sister who manages to be sweet and encouraging even while 8 hours away.

My sister-in-law who actually trusts me to give her child raising advice from time to time.

My mentally handicapped friend, Barb, who calls just to say she's excited about going bowling with a friend. And wears pants that say "I'm a keeper".

My boss (honest, I'm not sucking up...!), who can quote Seinfeld and The Office and Eugene Petersen and is willing to share enough hilarious stories about his daughters so we don't go nuts in the office.

My friend Amy, who laughs at my lame jokes and is willing to sing stupid songs with me. ("The greatest Sub of all...")

Forever grateful to you all.

"Laugh with your happy friends when they're happy; share tears when they're down. Get along with each other; don't be stuck-up. Make friends with nobodies; don't be the great somebody. (The Message, Romans 12:14-16)

Live the Mission Here

From a great article in this month's Relevant Magazine titled "Fake Plastic World" comes this quote from a group of people who spent 3 months in communist China. They were challenged not only in their misconception of China, but also their thoughts about "mission work" in general:

"Some redefined thought patterns have been the incarnational realization that love without mission is fake; mission without love is injustice; and if we are not reaching out right now wherever we are with love, mission and excellence of work, why would we sincerely do that in another country?"

The Things I Remember

"Stories are for joining the past to the future. Stories are for those late hours in the night when you can't remember how you got from where you were to where you are. Stories are for eternity, when memory is erased, when there is nothing to remember except the story."
~Tim O'Brien, "The Things They Carried"

I can remember attending my great-grandfather's funeral. I was only 5. I remember that it was at the small country church up the gravel road from our house. Like you would imagine a one-room school house, it had a vestibule and one small sanctuary room, the far end elevated a step and accommodating a piano and pulpit. I walked there, with a relative, (I think my aunt), not my parents. I remember standing in the pew to sing, a man in a white suit, and looking in the casket at my paternal grandmother's father. He and my great-grandmother Cox had lived down the road from us in an old farmhouse. I remember visiting them, and I think, walking around in their yard and looking at their flowers (later note-my mother confirms that while the other grandkids didn't spend much time with him due to his hearing loss, he used to carry me around in the yard and talk to me). My mom has a picture of me with the two of them, taken in their kitchen, held in my grandfather's arms. They look proud and enthralled by the energy and whimsy that can only come from a little girl who is well loved.

I remember Grandad Cox sitting on the concrete front porch of my grandparent's farm house in his rocking chair with the wide flat armrests while we all sat in various chairs or on the cool concrete as we grew sleepy after Sunday dinner and sought out a cool spot after the residual heat from the kitchen leaked through the rest of the house. My great-grandmother would be around for many more years, living to be 98 years old. She died shortly after I was married, having spent her last years alternating monthly between living at my grandmother's and her sister's house. She was mostly unable to care for herself at the end, and so hard of hearing that time spent there left you exhausted from speaking loudly all afternoon so as to include her in the conversations. But, we did it, uncomplaining. Where I grew up, you showed respect to your elders--you honored them.

I remember very little else about my great-grandfather. I learned years later that he had not allowed his daughters to learn to drive, but that they waited until he went off to work, then taught themselves. My grandmother worked at a cafe in town when she was only 18, supposedly without him even knowing it.

My grandparents are both still living alone, "in town"(they sold the farm house only a few years ago). They are only able to do this because my dad and mom take care of them, checking on them every day. Some days dad takes Grandad Douglas to the local restaurant to visit, but most days now he's not up for it. He recently renewed his drivers liscence. After driving to the nearby town and taking the test, Grandmother had to drive him home-he was too tired. He doesn't really drive anymore. He is 99 years old after all. It's a "I am still a grown man" kind of statement. Grandmother turns 90 in July, and I'm sure she will fight to keep her independence, when he is gone--the same determined spirit she had when she was young still peeking through, even as she seems to emotionally hang on my father more and more. Having spent so many years caring for her own frail and demanding mother in her last years, she will not give up easily to being cared for in the daily routine things.

I am going to visit them in a couple of weeks. Getting a little older tends to make you take stock more often of how "you got from where you were to where you are", and there are times I see their life patterns imprinted in mine. How sad it is that we usually know so little of the truth and the real stories of our grandparent's lives. It should remind us to ask better questions of our own parents and grandparents that are still living. We should ask them to share their stories. We may be surprised at what they remember.

Heads Will Roll

One of the fun cultural things we did while we were in the Yucatan penninsula was visit Mayan ruins. I guess it was technically the only cultural thing we did while we were there, other than the day I went shopping at the "Hacienda" and bargained for a cute shell bracelet that may or may not have been made locally. Most people visit the ruins at Tulum, which are beautifully situated on the ocean. Since we had rented a car and were halfway there when we visited the cenotes, we decided instead to go to the less touristy site of Coba. "Coba is estimated to have had some 50,000 inhabitants (and possibly significantly more) at its peak of civilization, and the built up area extends over some 80 km." states Wikipedia. Mexican cultural sites are nothing like our national parks or historic areas in the U.S. At Coba, you pull into a gravel parking lot and pay $4 to park. We walked up to what seemed to be a place that sold maps, but they said "no maps". When we entered right away the local guides offered their services. Planning a speedy trip through we waved them off and continued on. A few hundred yards in, there is an area full of worn looking bicycles. We are told the largest 'pyramid' is several kilometers in. Looking ahead at the dusty, hot trail (it was near 90 degrees) we shelled out the 60 pesos ($6 US) for 2 bikes and started riding.
Now is when I have to admit that most of what I know about the Mayan culture I learned from watching "Apocalypto", a movie rated R for "sequences of graphic violence and disturbing images", and my Frommer's Guide book. So, not much. Suffice it to say that the experience would have been more historically enriching if I'd known what I was looking at. There were no nice national park service signs (you've got to check out that link) telling you facinating stuff like "ahead on your right you will see the largest specimen of igneous rock in the state of Arizona formed 20 million years ago".

I remembered seeing pictures describing the ball court, where my son later informed me games were played and the losing team would be put to death! And the Tigers think they're under pressure!











Still, we managed to get directions to the largest pyramid in the group, Nohoch Mul meaning 'large hill'. It is 138 feet high and is the highest in the Yucatan peninsula.

Here is my
"yes, I'm going to climb
this baby!" look.











Going up was hot and work, but easy.
















A sweet French couple took our picture.
Realization after I got down....I'm sitting on the spot where they cut off people's heads!

















The trip down is a little more intimidating....












Stopping for a rest.





















Dessert was so worth it that night!

Travel Diversity

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime. ~Mark Twain, The Innocents

Cultural diversity is something you are bound to encounter on any vacation. And I'm not just talking about there being Canadians from every province all visiting Mexico the week we were there. "We're from P.E.I! Where are you from? B.C.! My aunt lives there! Lovely here, eh?" (by the way, British Columbia's slogan is "Super, Natural B.C."--cool and spooky at the same time). Anyway, it was fun getting to practice our Spanish as we interacted with the Mexican people who took care of us. Off the resort, Dale struck up a conversation with a young man on a "collectivo", the Yucatan's answer to public transportation. These are 15 passenger vans that run up and down the main highway stopping to cram 12-18 people inside. For $2 they will drop you anywhere along the strip-a bargain for vacationers wanting to venture "off resort". Through their conversation (he had lived in the U.S. for a while and spoke very good English) hubby learned that he had been a desk clerk at the resort we were staying. Salary? $5 a day. That's it. You started to understand why the bus boys that deliver your luggage were always older men--they got frequent tips which would boost their daily salary tremendously. It was a step up from desk clerk. Sobering. Now I know that there is a great difference in cost of living there, but I also know how much the collectivo cost-$2 a person.

I need to appreciate what I have more than I do, that's for sure. And to quit whining about gas prices.

Of course, then there's these guys:

They run a kiteboarding business on Paradise Beach in Tulum. The kites were amazing to watch, and of course hubby would have loved to give it a try. Cost? $200 for a 4 hour lesson. That's right-$50 bucks and hour. Are we in the wrong business or what? (They are eating some kind of pies they bought from a young Mexican kid that was selling them from a tray.) Too cool.

Tommorrow I'll tell you about the Mayan component of our trip. No heads will roll, I promise.

La Buena Vida! (or "The Good Life")

Carpe Mañana! Translation: "seize the day...tomorrow!" Well, maybe not the literal translation, but this T-shirt saying is meant to convey the type of laid back atmosphere and attitude at "La Buena Vida" Bar & Restaurant on Half Moon Bay near Akumal, Mexico. I hadn't posted any more trip pictures for fear you'd all think this blog was going to be the equivalent of a neighbor inviting you over to see the slide show of pictures from their Poconos trip. But in honor of Cinco de Mayo, or rather it's lesser celebrated, Seis de Mayo, I felt compelled to share. So grab your margarita or Coruna's (come ooonnn, live a little!) and check these out.

The bar, with hanging fishbone--shark!

(well, actually I don't know what kind of fishbones, but don't you think they would be shark?)

What's not to love about a place
with swings for seating....

and a view like this....

And fish tacos and ceviche that was to die for?

Or maybe it was just
the view with the food that made it so good?

How about this 'seat with a view'?

Oh, Honey? I dropped my lime wedge. Could you get me another?

No, we didn't actually eat up here,

but I wouldn't miss a chance to check it out.

I didn't spit on anyone. Really.

This was the best meal we had the whole week. Better than the French gourmet, better than the Italian tirimisu, better than the BBQ'ed ribs. And we almost passed it. We were on a long walk (25-30 minutes) back to the bus stop from Yal Ku Lagoon, a beautiful inland lagoon where fresh water meets salt water and there are hundreds of beautiful tropical fish.

Does he look happy or what?

It was hot and dusty and we were damp. We almost passed it.
But, I said, "I think I read about this place in the Frommers book!" Good thing your wife is a reader. He's going to owe me for a while for this one.

More pics mañana .

Nap Vs. Coffee

Haven't we all been there before? At least if you are a coffee lover. I have an open Sunday afternoon with the freedom to nap off the lingering effects of a busy Sunday morning followed by a yummy Sunday dinner (that's what we called Sunday lunch growing up, and gosh darn it, why should I bow to the northern grammar police on everything!). I have good stuff to read though, online & off. Do I go for a cup of the brew, or catch a few zzz's to propel me back to semi-alertness?


According to a recent French study, (what is it with the French and their coffee studies? Don't they have other things to research? Like, how staying skinny while eating chocolate and drinking wine may be the reason we choose to portray them as rude?) "the older you are, the less efficient napping is at increasing your alertness". Two groups were tested-one ages 20-25, the other in their 40's. The test was to see if they could stay in their lane driving 80 miles an hour--first during the daytime, then again at 2:00 am. In the daytime, both groups did fine (80?these must have been Michigan drivers). At 2:00 am, and after a cup of decaf, neither group did well (who volunteers to ride along with these people?). After a nap, only the the younger group did well, while for the over 40 group only regular coffee helped keep them in line. Why? Researchers say that the 20 somethings got more restful deep sleep during their half hour of napping than the 40+ group.


So, if you are over forty, once again coffee again proves itself as vital to our cognitive processes. So go enjoy your afternoon cup! I'm going to make a pot myself--after I take my Sunday afternoon nap.

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

"All of us in our forties and beyond need to come to a reckoning of what we wanted to be and who we actually are; that's one definition of maturity. Grown-ups can accept that they aren't international opera stars or Nobel Prizewinners in medicine, rather than live in disappointment, they appreciate the reality of who they've become and acknowledge their skills, accomplishments and lessons learned." (Laura Fraser in an article in More Magazine)

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

A simple question we ask children from the time they are very small. When I was a kid, at various points I wanted to be a vet, a music teacher, an author, a poet, and I'm sure a few other things I've long since forgotten. With the exception of the vet, I've actually been all of the other things at one time or another, to one degree or another. We've owned 2 dogs during our marriage, both of which developed nasty biting habits and had to be sent away (one to be put down, the other to live in the country in what really could be considered 'doggy heaven'), so I'm thinking there's a reason for that one. I wrote poetry when I was in high school and won some minor awards, enough to feel my poetic and oh-so-mournful 16 year old soul had been taken seriously. Even without a teaching degree, I was able to teach piano for many years and enjoyed the interaction and joy of seeing children learn a new skill. A few years ago I taught vocal music at a private school, preschool through 5th grade, and enjoyed it, but realized this would not have been a good long term career for me for various reasons.

As far as writer....well, other than the drama stuff, I haven't really lived that one out. That is part of the reason for this blog--I really wanted something that compelled me to write on a more regular basis, with the hope it might develop into more.

Did I want to be a Nobel Prize winner? Nope. Opera star? Maybe Grand Ol' Opry...but no, not really. Did I want to be a church secretary and pastor's assistant? To quote an often used co-worker's phrase...'Are you kidding me?'

Few of us end up where we thought we'd be when we were first asked that question. Is it 'giving up' or 'growing up' when we let go of the early dreams we had for ourselves? Maybe the maturity lies in examining our early dreams for the underlying desire that gave them birth.

The little boy that wanted to be a fireman may have had a longing to help and rescue people in distress. That desire might play out in adulthood to a lucrative career as a doctor or a calling as a missionary.

We shouldn't live in disappointment that we didn't grow up to be ballerinas or major league baseball players, but as Ms. Fraser states, we should "appreciate the reality" of who we've become. I agree, but with one caveat. While I think it is necessary to "come to a reckoning of what we wanted to be and who we actually are", I don't think we should give up so easily on that earlier unrealized dream.

Wanted to be a ballerina? It's never to late to have fun learning to move and sway in a dance class. Wanted to be a Major League player? There are some really fun softball leagues playing for the joy of the sport.

Want to be a writer? Why not start out with a blog? You never know what you might end up being when you finally grow up.

Getting Younger on the Inside

"How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" (seen on a magnet in O'Hare airport).

If you had to totally rely on your inner heart/mind/soul clock, how old would you be? Take out of the equation what the mirror tells you and what others might say. Just imagine. 22? 37? 64? We always tell our children to 'act their age'. If you really didn't know, would you act the same? Are you acting a certain way because it's how you believe you are supposed to act at your age?

Maybe a way to measure is to ask, do you look or act like your mother or father did at your age? This is a tough one, since it's always a challenge to know what they were truly like at that time. By the time she was my age, my mother had already lived with a difficult and painful disease for almost 20 years. She was affected and shaped by a weight that I have not had to bear-limited physically, but not in spirit. I have been physically active, purposely so through my adult life, and the strength and energy boost that comes with that has affected me physically and mentally.
Age really is an attitude thing though. Want to be younger at heart? Don't like the inner age you've settled for? Ask yourself:

Do I embrace change and look for the positive in it?
Do I still seek out new experiences or always choose the safe course?
Do I reach out to others and develop new friendships with people of all ages?
Do I believe in the God who is always making all things new and gives us chances to start over?

I take comfort in the fact that God renews us in our inner being. Sounds like the best makeover to me!

By the way, I guess I'd be 34. Except on some days when I'd swear I'm 23! And others when I'm at least 68! (Decisiveness is not one of my strong points--maybe it's a lack of maturity thing)

How about you?