Guest Bloggers – Page 43 – Disney Leadership Keynote Speaker

Dear Almost Grown Up Sons Of Mine

Midlife wisdom and insight from Guest Blogger, Connie Wright:

Dear almost grown up sons of mine,

While you still need me for the tuition check and spending money, I know that you don’t really need me emotionally. At 20 and 22, you have full days (and nights!) filled with friends, fun, studies and stresses. You juggle your classes, social networking, parties and maintenance of your own home and selves. While I did manage to do my mothering in the small allotted time that parent’s weekends might avail me during our visits – you guys seem to be doing pretty well.

I did notice that you both had a pretty clean living space in your own bedrooms. Not sure if that was because of the descending of parents for the weekend or just the way you keep it. The community spaces in your apartments allowed me to do some clean-up and if I had more time I would have cooked –but that might have been a bit overboard – maybe. I hope your housemates didn’t mind my puttering.

But that is the small stuff – most importantly, I like the adults you have become. While you might feel you have arrived – you still have some roads to travel – and my comfort lies in that you are both pretty grounded and getting there without me and I like the paths you are on. I know you will have speed bumps and undefined paths that will cause you stresses and concerns and that it isn’t totally clear where you will end up and what exactly you will be doing – but you have shown me that you are pretty equipped to handle all that might be thrown at you.

I left each of your campuses with that bittersweet feeling. I wanted to stay and visit more, but knew that I was the intruder in a life that had a pattern to it and my presence was not part of that rhythm anymore. The bitter is coming to terms that you have those lives without me; the sweet is that you have those lives without me and as young men – this is how it should be.

I am fortunate – my days are very busy and full – I work and am involved in building a business that includes trips to major cities to work with our new offices. So my change of habits with the kids out of the house is not extreme – but there are changes none-the-less. This is a time of incredible changes – both for the you guys and for me. Having you both 1000 miles away (at different schools) makes it better (for you) because there are no surprise drop-in-visits.

The biggest area where I need to exert control is the phone calls. I just can’t call you because I miss them – who wants to talk to their mom about their day and what they did. And I’m not going to hear about some social issue that needs solving or a professor issue that I can fix for them. So my calls need to be spaced appropriate out. And timed – don’t call in the early morning – not an endearing trait to be the wakeup alarm. Too late and then its intruding on the social time and midday – well that’s class time. And I need something topical – something to tell you that is interesting or a real need to have information (so when does your driver’s license expire?).

You will come home for some more holidays – I have counted them. My oldest, you have only 2 more that I can be sure of; then you will have a job and more than likely live in another city far away. The 20 year-old you’re in a 5year program – so I have 4 more holiday seasons that I can count on – the summers – well with any luck you too will be in an internship and not home over your summers……ahh bittersweet.

Thanks for letting me share your lives these past two weekends!

Love Mom

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Cheeseburger In Paradise?

Lorie Sheffer is back with her enlightening look at fast food and happiness:

Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. – Nathaniel Hawthorne

I dreaded going to the nursing home. The 80 days of visiting my dad in the hospital and the two weeks in the rehabilitation hospital were draining at times, but not as depressing as the nursing facility. Insurance for hospitalization has ended now, but thankfully he can finish recovering in a nursing home where he can get the minimal care he still requires and the physical therapy he desperately needs. We can’t worry about the atmosphere at this stage. It is difficult for him, psychologically, to be there, but it is temporary and we have no choice. I try to think of things to lighten the mood and to make his stay as normal as possible. He refuses to eat in the dining room. Maybe just having lost my aunt to Alzheimer’s a few years ago, he is not ready to be in that setting, especially considering all he has been through. Interacting with the residents is too emotionally draining for him at this point.

Driving across town gave me time to think of something to do for him. Harley Davidson had just ended its shift and traffic was almost at a standstill. He hinted to me more than once that he enjoys Wendy’s baked potatoes and chicken sandwiches more than restaurant food. I think this comment was in response to my raving about Thai food I had one afternoon. Continuing west on route 30, I saw the giant inflatable Frosty perched atop Wendy’s, and my decision was made. When I got to the drive thru, confusion set in. There are several types of chicken sandwiches from which to choose. Knowing my father as I do, I immediately ruled out the spicy one, and then just randomly guessed at which to choose. Homestyle; that sounded like Dad. But I also decided to get a deluxe cheeseburger just in case. I agonized for the 5 minutes it took me to get to the nursing home. What if I got the wrong thing? He was sitting in his room, alone, waiting for the staff to bring his tray of soup and sandwich. The residents eat their main meal at noon and just have a light dinner. When he saw the Wendy’s bags his eyes lit up. My guess about the chicken was correct, so now I had a cheeseburger left in the bag. The nurse came in and smiled that Dad was getting some “real” food. I asked her if she knew anyone who was interested in a cheeseburger. She said she didn’t think so, but then she got an idea. Apparently the lady across the hall refuses to eat. Sometimes her family brings things in for her. They have to coax her. The nurse took the bag across the hall. She came back with a huge smile on her face. “You just made her day!” I never saw this lady, but I got the report that she ate the entire burger and she enjoyed every bite of it.

When I got into my car later that evening, I didn’t feel the anxiety and exhaustion I normally feel. I had a smile on my face. I was happy that I was able to take something in for Dad, but I was thinking more about how I was able to randomly do something nice for someone who I have still never even laid eyes on. Something as small as a cheeseburger, which was an afterthought that I would have thrown away had nobody wanted it, had meant that this elderly lady could enjoy a taste of the outside world. Maybe sometimes we just over think things, assuming it requires some grand gesture to make people happy, when in fact we can make someone else’s day for the price of a fast food burger.

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Love Letters

Happy Friday everyone. Peace, LOVE & Mickey Mouse. Lorie Sheffer returns today to share a story – a trip back in time. Take it away Lorie:

Well, I heard over the radio that it’s all over now. I’ve been on pins and needles all week. Wish I were there with you. This is one of the happiest moments of my life. Now I know, Darling, what’s in store for me, that’s why I’m so happy.

We now soon can start our peaceful struggle. It will be a peaceful and pleasant one, I know. Still know nothing of my furlough, now back to the suspense of waiting to see you, Darling.

As ever, all my love and kisses,

Frank

The postmark says August 15, 1945 and the return address is from Camp Ritchie, Md.

This was one of a stack of love letters that my husband’s Aunt Grace received from her husband, Frank. He passed away in 1974, she in 1998. I love to brew a pot of tea and drink it from a really nice old china cup while reading these letters. I knew Aunt Grace. She was a lovely woman. Now I feel as though I also knew Uncle Frank. They were playful, romantic and very much in love. Sometimes I get out an old slate record, crank up my antique Victrola and listen to some background music while reading through their huge stack of beautifully handwritten love letters. I have learned that they loved music and they loved to dance. They were also the parents of my dear friend Mary. We found the letters with her belongings after she died this past winter.

While I appreciate the convenience of email and the clear sounds of music downloaded onto my computer, somehow they pale in comparison to the scratch of an old record and the sight of a handwritten letter. The romance is undeniable, and it makes me sadly aware of how long it’s been since I’ve taken a real letter from my mailbox.

It was also through old letters that I learned of my late friend’s Aunt Irene. She had a PhD in biology and she worked on some projects for the space program when it was in its infancy. She also was accepted into a research program in Sweden. Never married, she lived in a house that sat on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. The photographs are amazing. What makes this so remarkable is that Irene, her Polish name was Eryna, was born in 1914! This lady was WAY ahead of her time. She died 4 years ago, and I regret never having met her in person.

Soon I will tie Frank and Grace’s letters with the satin hair ribbon I found them in and place Irene’s letters back in their little box. I cannot stand the thought of throwing them away so I will make room for them on a closet shelf.

Maybe, just maybe, I will shop for some pretty stationery and a nice pen, and spend an afternoon catching up on correspondence. How nice for someone to go to their mailbox and find a real letter; how nice if they respond in kind.

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Empty Nest

Connie Wright returns today to give us a glimpse (or a reminder) of what lies ahead. One day, we will no longer be the most important person in someone’s life.

For days there has been that sound; doors and drawers slamming – “ugh”s, and a frustrated stomping of feet. There were piles sorted and resorted – stay, go, go if room, stay and bring up later. The last child packed her bags. The car was stuffed like a tetras game – each item fit in tightly with no spare room, I couldn’t see out the back.

Dave sort of hung low, skulking around corners to avoid the confrontation of our daughter. He has never handled transition well and seeing his offspring physically manifest her frustrations with this transition through her packing gave him pause. He turned to his own “make busy” work to keep out of the way – she had him in her crosshairs – now seems like a great time to trim the trees and chip the trimmings.

It was easy for him to avoid driving her up to school – there were only two seats left in the car and driving a second car to campus was absolutely redundant – mother and daughter could handle the unpacking – and there would be no fireworks.

The drive up to school was easy and we chatted – she had pushed away her father, but had not yet done that to me – she was going to make the trip a pleasant one. I got to listen as she chatted about seeing friends again and not knowing people in her dorm. She was processing the comfortable with the unknown. Once there – I let her do most of the shuttling of boxes up to the room – after a few trips I set to my ritual that I have done with each child when they get to school – I make their bed. This is my way to assure that I can visualize them when the lights do eventually go out. I did a few more box runs and tried to unpack the clothes – but the separation began – she started to push – get a bit annoyed with my efforts – we were done now. A hug goodbye and I was set on my way for the drive home alone.

Not sure how I got here – 50 something with 3 kids – skating back and forth to make peace when the house explodes, to help each child get to where they need to be in life and assure them that they are on track and doing just fine. Though not completely grown up, with two in college, I tend to see my job mostly over and if they ask me for advice, I am overjoyed that they seek my opinion. They don’t need me so much now – and that is as it should be.

The hugs are rarer, they don’t need my reassurance- and I think that when they do hug me, we turned that corner that where the hugs used to be for them, now they are more for me. It happened slowly- for the boys; hugs just stopped being cool. I still got them –but in private and when they needed reassurance. Now – they seek to measure my mood and other than arrivals and departures (where hugs are the ritual) the hugs come because they see me in distress or think I am in need of a hug.

The house is empty, sans my husband – quiet except for computer keys typing away – I can even hear the refrigerator going – now when was the last time you noticed that! They come home for holidays and summers, at least sometimes – and with my oldest – this might be his last Christmas with us – pout. So now what?

It hits me – I have become my mother – my children are leaving – and they will build their lives – for awhile they too will have that lifeline back to me, should they need it. If their world comes crashing in – they can come to me to rebuild. I lost that lifeline with my mother some years ago – without knowing it. And now I have flipped into a new role. No longer anyone’s anchor; I have, however become safe harbor.

Connie’s post reminds me that the clock is ticking, for all of us. The big question then – what will we do today to….. Live, before we die?

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Pastor Martin Neimoller

Ok, it’s Thursday, not Sunday. Makes no difference to Lorie Sheffer which day her Guest Blogger post hits the press. Please enjoy this. If you have a brain and a heart, this one’s for you.

“They came first for the Communists, and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Communist.   Then they came for the trade unionists,  and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a trade unionist.   Then they came for the Jews,  and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Jew.   Then they came for me  and by that time no one was left to speak up.”
That famous quote is credited to Pastor Martin Neimoller (1892-1984). He was referring to the fact that basically decent German people turned a blind eye as the Nazis targeted group after group in their horrifying rise to power. In doing so, over six million Jews were exterminated, along with five million others including Jehovah’s Witnesses, Gypsies, Poles, homosexuals, Soviet POWs, the handicapped and mentally ill and political groups including liberals and socialists.

Over thirty years ago, I learned what it feels like to be a religious minority when I married a Jew. Most of the bigotry wasn’t overt, but that seemed to make it even scarier; if danger wears a sign, we are not caught unaware. I lived in this rather conservative, predominantly Christian area we were not exposed to different cultures or religions. When he moved here from New York City, my ex-husband was the only Jew in his new, small high school. He was forced to participate with Christmas and Easter programs in this public school, but denied excused absences for observance of Jewish holy days or holidays. When a teacher angrily referred to him as “a kike”, there were no consequences for that slur. It was assumed he was “a rich Jew”. When we got married, comments were made to me that if I converted to Judaism, all of our children and I would burn in Hell for not accepting Jesus as our Savior. I once sat across the table at a family Hanukkah dinner in The Bronx from an elderly couple, their concentration camp numbers still crudely tattooed on their forearms. Grandpa would tell us of how, when he immigrated to America, he was forced to walk on the opposite side of the street from the churches or he would be spit on. In my heart I knew that there was most certainly a place for them in heaven.
Not too many years ago, a remark was made to me concerning a play at my son’s high school. It was Children of a Lesser God. “My kids could never put on that play because of what’s across the street from their high school. You know how THEY are. They don’t believe in God.” This was a reference to our city’s only Synagogue. I do, in fact, know how “they” are. They are people whose religious beliefs mean as much to them as anyone else who is a person of faith. They are not all investment bankers or doctors. They are not all wealthy. They are not ALL anything. The family I was part of didn’t fit any of the stereotypes.

I now watch as another religion is being looked upon with scorn, fear and hatred. Just as all Germans were not Nazis, not all Muslims are terrorists. None of my homosexual friends are trying to destroy my marriage or anyone else’s marriage. My non-Christian friends are not trying to take away Christmas. I know some very moral, wonderful agnostics and atheists. Perhaps this is a perfect time to step back and take a good look at history. It seems to have a way of repeating itself.

Thank you Lorie, for your insight. It seems we all have a lot to learn about each other. Let us never tire in this endeavor.