Here's Your Sign: CHANGE

Sometimes in life it takes getting hit with a Mack truck for you to realize that you are going down the wrong path in life. It is as if your momentum makes it so much easier to stay in automatic pilot and keep everything at status quo so you continue doing the same things you always do, expecting nothing more and nothing less. You hang out with the same people, expecting the same treatment, going to the same places, using your time the same way. The red flags pop up, from time to time, indicating changes need to be made and God sends in special people to show you need reinforcements and readjustments made to your life but you choose to ignore them.

I spent some time recently with someone who saw the sign. He shared his story with his realization that his life was on a slippery slope where there was only one way to go and gravity was pulling him there, slowly but surely. I am not sure how far back his life was like that but the timeframe he talked about was from high school on. He was a star athlete and had an extremely high IQ. His relatives say he was written in local newspapers, covered on local sports and talked about by everyone in the city as the wonder boy on the court; he was unreal with a basketball what he could do as a point guard! But his life off the court, well, life was a party. He did not take anything serious except partying, basketball and possibly women, at least hanging out with them. I am not sure he was ever into the idea of long term commitment so much. Life was meant to be totally enjoyed, living for the moment. This attitude carried him to an exotic place to live after high school and easily through most of adulthood, up to this point in time.

The dysfunction of a life of nothing but partying sometimes never catches up with folks. With this man, it did. He never got his with a Mack truck per se, I think a light just went off in his head. He decided, on his own terms, he wanted a change, a better life for himself. Maybe it was the DUI, maybe it was for his sons and just maybe for his deceased father to be able to look down from the heavens and see what a wonderful man he had become but he was motivated to change.

Our stories we shared of what was currently going on in our lives were different but then were quite similar. The current of our lives tend to carry us with their ebb and flow down the river of life. Many times, that path may not be the best direction to be going either. And yet, we do not resist; we take the path of least resistance, afraid to confront change, having an internal fear of what is unfamiliar and uncomfortable. This is not the healthiest way to live a life. And yet many of us convince ourselves we have no choice, that this is our chemical make-up, this is our family, our friends and our lifestyle and we cannot change them or ourselves. Acceptance of what is wrong is ignorance.

What he is learning is that conscious choices are our divine human right. It is one of the things that separate humans from beasts, the animal kingdom. We have the ability to choose our paths to walk and can change paths in mid stream with thought and deliberation. We must exercise that right, consciously. He is learning to be sober means to not frequent bars, not go to parties nightly, and find new ways to exert energy. He is renewing his love of basketball. He is letting go of some old friends and finding some new ones that are supportive of his new changes and inadvertently inspires some old ones to be more introspective with themselves. He takes his own inventory and avoids events, family members and friends that trigger feelings that make him more inclined to drink.

He is learning more now that he has learned in a long time as he is experiencing life continually sober. He is sharing his thoughts and feelings with sober individuals continually also. It is like watching a new world open up to him. He even looks different too. Sure, there are still some of the old battle wounds there, some of the same old behavior flaws, and much of the same personality structure but you can sense a change coming over him. He is avoiding those folks that brought out the worst in him and trying to surround himself more often than not with people that bring out the best in him. This is a plan for success.

How many of us make certain our inner circle of family and friends is a group that bring out the best of who we are? Is yours a group that builds you up, respects you for what you are and what you strive to be? If they are not, no matter whom they are, take yourself out of automatic pilot and shift gears. Negative people will drag you down. If your inner circle does not respect you, you will have a hard time respecting yourselves. If they do not respect your choices, you will have a hard time accepting your freedom to choice. Being an alcoholic, he must choose wisely who he is with routinely or risk his sobriety.

We see ourselves through the reflections of others; they are like mirrors to us as we are social beings by nature. We get our affirmation from others. It will be hard to have a good self image if you are surrounded by an inner circle that is not full of loving caring unconditional regard. Pick your friends carefully and make certain your family is a family of chose, that is healthy family members or adopt one if your natural family is not supportive of your right to be free from dysfunction and healthy living.

Know that others look at you and evaluate you in much the same way. What do you bring to others lives, is it positivity, is it the fullness of life, is it signs of God’s goodness? It is important to show others you are supportive of their efforts, to give signs of unconditional regard and to know silence is a statement that hurts when someone is hurting and needs encouragement. Take time to be a friend, even when it is family. Friends and family are always there for each other, in good times and in bad. Love has no boundaries. If your friends and family do put limits on their support, then maybe the love is not without restrictions. You maybe getting the sure sign that you need a family of choice, one that is dotted also with special friend members you adopt as your surrogate family. Many of my friends have done this over the years and love the concept!

Are you real to others about your feelings or just a fabrication of what you think the other person wants to see or what you are trying to project? This week he and I talked about the AA meetings he attends. He said these meetings inspire him to speak from the heart, no more half truths, speak honestly. Mean what you say and don’t just say what you don’t really mean. This week we talked a great deal about people saying things untrue, half lies and how to discern the difference. Many times it is hard to tell the difference. Our conclusion, look to the actions. If someone really loves you, look at what they do. In tough times, do they truly forgive, do they pick up the phone when you are hurting or ignore you? That is a sign of reaching out. Do they allow you to vent or do they shut you out when your view differs from theirs? Do they offer hugs when you need a shoulder to lean on? Are they judgemental of your faults or give you hope when you are feeling down trodden? We all need to feel inspired and that is what true family and friends are for in our lives.

False images take too much wasted energy. First, get real with yourself and then with everyone else in your life that matters. He has the first step down, be honest with yourself. Then, make a plan. You are never too old to make changes in your life. Those that love you will support you and be there to give you what you need to be a better you. Those that fade in the woodwork and let the silence become deafening, well; perhaps that is a statement in and of itself. It may not be, initially, one that you want to hear but maybe what you need to know. Living with an illusion of love, caring or friendship is not healthy. We need to know who is in our court with us. A wise professor once said in college,” change for the better and those that love you and care about you will change for the better with you. Those that don’t, well, maybe now is the time to let them go.”

I am glad he realizes now, before he gets hit by a Mack truck, or dies like his father or grandfather died, that alcoholism is a serious disease. It can ruin lives. It hurts so many others that are affected by it. How many of us have been touched by loved ones suffering from this disease? The pain it causes is immeasurable. He may stumble and fall, but I feel certain, if and when he does, he will pick himself back up and continue on. He now knows what it means to be clean and loves it.

We all need to address major dysfunction in our lives that is causing us pain. The pain of fixing it is a great deal less than the pain it causes to let it go unchecked, unchanged. It reminds me of every time I move the furniture around in the living room. My husband questions why it needs to be moved around as if the change will cause him major heart ache. Once it is moved, he is pleasantly surprised. You may find, the very change folks resist in your life, they will be overjoyed when it materializes much as you will be when you see the new you. There is a cost involved for fixing things but enjoying a healthy life to the fullest extent is worth the price, if it is something you can change in yourself. Ask yourself this question, “What part of this do I control?” You can only change the parts that you can control, the rest is up to others so let go of the other stuff, stop worrying and fretting over it. They can opt out; it is their right much as it is your right to change. They may prefer things go unchecked But it does not need or have to stop you from changing.

Along the same line, allow others that you love to change for the better. That is what makes this world a better place. True friends and family members love and are supportive of our right to be healthy, learn and grow. They embrace positive change and encourage to reach their full potential no matter their age. If you can’t allow it in others, if you can’t accept it, then you need to look hard at yourself in the mirror. Then ask yourself, simply, why?

Releasing the Reins (By Karen D. Koeppe)

When I read this short prose below, written by a dear friend, I immediately found that the more I read it, the more it said. I asked her permission to print it here on my blog page as I know from the traffic report, there is a following. I wanted her to get the exposure she deserves for writing this and for the piece, I wanted it to have a chance to resound in others as it has with me. I hope you will find it equally moving and share it with others. Enjoy!

I don’t want to be “in control” of the comings and goings in my life. I want to trust in the universe to take care of my agenda. Let me just fly through my day doing, getting and giving the way my guides and angels see fit for me.


I think that if I try to plan “as I have in the past” I shall miss something that might have been important or fun! Allowing the universe to guide my steps will ultimately bring me to everything.


My life is to unfold a certain way. Who am I to block it with my “know it all” thinking and planning. Sure I want certain desirable things and events to happen, but can’t I just wish for those and leave it up to the universe to surprise me? Yes, I do believe I can and from this point on I will.


It may be difficult to give up the reins but the horse always knows his way home and why should I try to lead it differently.


Come now and join my flight, we are all being led to the same spiritual destination. We will all be home in the end.

Generation Gap - Bridge It

When did my parents get so smart? Why wasn’t I told a long time ago? I would have paid more attention and listened on the first time around had I only known!

I thought they were wrong most of the time. Now, all these years later, I find out they were right so many of the times. Back then, I hated their input and influence in my life, so much so that even when I knew they were right about something, I argued that they were wrong. If they told me they did not care about what the people down the street were doing, I stood up long and hard for those people down the street as a defense, even if I hated their kids just on principle!

In those days, my parents were uncool, not hip and it seemed their childhood was a lifetime away from mine. I recall saying things like “Things were way different when you both were kids in the dark ages.” They agreed, letting me know just how spoiled they thought I was because I only had to walk two miles to school, compared to their five mile walk in snow twice as deep as the snow I was drudging through. Our parents tied to tell us what makes the world go round to no avail. My friends and I thought we knew what made the world a better place, money, good looks, fun times and no parents. Oh yeah, no rules was an added bonus as well with no curfew!

Ah, how simple was life then, looking at life through rose colored sun glasses at the beach. But as the years go by, I got older and realized, so many of their darn rules were for valid reasons and were rightfully enforced. Staying out late at night as a young person, is not safe. I grew up to became the enforcer to my own children and was met with the ‘wicked look’ when they got home that I have given my own parents at about the same age my kids started giving it to me. Wow, did I ever look that mean, my daughter seemed to have it done to a science, heck, she downright scared me!

The facts of what makes true happiness were words of wisdom imparted on me by my parents at a tender age that I simply did not heed. It was lost in the wind, too immature to digest. Slowly but surely, those words circled back to me as I aged. How ironic that they turned out to me so similar to what my parents had said many moons ago but I was not ready to accept the answer would be so simple. Who would have thought it was tied to simply looking within myself and not associated with a dollar sign, a look or another person. No, happiness is not found inside or connected with commercialization and it is not materialistic. All those items do is cover up the emptiness many of us tend to feel inside to avoid feeling.

When I became a mother and a wife, the advice came without boundaries and without limits from my parents, now new grandparents. It was aimed at how to have a better marriage, effective communication standards, efficient parenting roles, strategic financial planning, etc….. Each tidbit of advice was met with a resigned “oh here we go again, unasked for advice” followed by a “and what do they know.” I saw their mood swings change as things changed in my life. I wondered what was so wrong with them that they could not just back totally out of my life and leave me the heck alone. I sometimes thought maybe we all just needed distance from each other but then I saw the goodness and love and that kept me grounded in the relationship. I knew my children needed them and they were heaven sent to my kids also. I also needed and wanted our bond to last a lifetime.

I am not sure what happened, when it happened or why. Perhaps it was recovering from cancer, or maybe it was recovering from the trauma of hitting fifty or being a certified grandmother of several grandchildren but things changed, seemingly overnight. I went through a metamorphosis. I started recalling, little by little, pieces of advice my parents had given me over the years. The more I recalled, it came back with velocity and momentum. My shock grew as I realized how smart and practical my parents really were. I started to wonder also why did I not have that common sense or did I have it and were my own kids wrong as they seemed to question me every step of the way. And I kept coming back to the same point, the same question, how did I miss the fact that my parents were so darn smart on so many practical things in life?

Then I realized the crux of the issue. Kids, no matter the age, do not want to hear what parents have to say. It is only with age, perhaps facing mortality, that we realize our days are numbered and we are just a short time away from our parents demise. We all must one day be willing to put aside the years and the fact that they are our parents and really reflect and listen with open ears and heart. Their words come from a place of love, even if the words are not always perfect or exactly right. To listen like this is not to judge, those who gave us life deserve that from us. Look in your heart and pray, that before your parents demise, you find that place to bridge the gap.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

As I sat out front in my car, staring at that black door that had changed my life, it was hard to get up the courage to walk back inside. First it was cold out and so nice and warm in my car. Secondly, I knew, stepping out of my car put me one step closer to that black door. And once through it, a haunting memory would come back. One I had avoided looking at for quite some time. But, summoning up inner strength I knew I had, I opened the door and I walked out.

There, that wasn’t so bad. I walked around and approached the door, remembering how it felt like alittle over three years ago to be standing right here, at the same spot, infront of this shop, the same person but feeling so much different. It seemed like a lifetime ago. I opened the door very slowly, then reached out for the inner door knob to go in the offices and once inside, I was immediately greeted by Gale Nowlen, the owner. “Wow, you look great!” I saw down, looked around, breathed deep and then relaxed. Yes, I was back.

The woman Gale was attending to was having her hair trimmed. She looked over at me and sensed something special was going on, something was in the air. She said, looking from Gale to I, “Do you two have a secret or something?” I told her the short version, “Mame, the last time I was in here, she shaved my head. Yep, this lady here shaved off every hair off of my head and had me walk out of here stark bald!” Gale and I laughed as the woman grabbed the top of her head not seeming to find my comments near as humorous as I. Gale intervened explaining that I had begun cancer treatment and was about to lose all of my hair from the drug. I had been advised to have my hair taken off since it was long to avoid the shock of it falling out. I came in like a scared rabbit, intending on having it cut down quite abit. Gale gave me the courage to say “take it all off” and leave it behind, there on the floor of that salon and not look back. I walked back out of that shop, with a scarf tied around my head , standing up straight and saying “One day I will come back to this shop and you will do my hair and next time, it won’t be on the darn floor when I leave!”

I thought of that day many times over the past three years. Not just on the days when I was bald, but on the days when the fuzz starting coming back on my head and I felt like a peach. Then when my hair started picking up a bit of curl I wanted to come back and show Gale how my hair didn’t come back pocker straight and thin and flaunt the fact it was a wee bit nicer. But somehow, even then, I could not bring myself to walk in that door. It was as if, walking in there, was facing demons, facing one of the real ugly parts of having cancer I did not want to look at eye to eye. And then as it grew and I colored it and cut it, it was easier to push that memory way back and give up that darn idea of going back to that shop. What did it matter now anyways?

On Wednesday of this week, I was at a luncheon with a group of cancer survivors. I had just got done saying to someone I needed to find a new hair dresser. A mutual friend walked in the tea house we were at and came over to join us. She overhead my question and told me of a wonderful lady that does her hair and is fabulous. She even knew this stylist was a cancer survivor herself so was very compassionate. The name of her shop was All About Changes and she owned the shop. As she said the stylist’s name, I instantly recognized it. My mouth dropped open; it seemed like a sign that I was supposed to go there. My friend gave me the number to the shop and told me to call her. The next day, after putting it off, I finally did, half hoping she wouldn’t answer. But she did answer and there I was, on the phone and wondering what are the odds of her remembering me? I recanted some of who I was and she pretty quickly said, “Oh, I remember you, you were Italian and had long dark hair and I talked you into just having it all shaved off. “

Today, I walked in there. Today, she saw that my hair has returned. Today, she told me that my hair is as beautiful as ever. Today that floor was not covered with my hair when I left. Today I left with my head of hair held high. Today, before I left, she was crying because she told me the saddest day in her cancer battle was the day she lost her hair. See when Gale shaves someone’s head for cancer, she does it for free, as a way of giving back to others and it forces her to relive one of the saddest moments in her life. And she does so willingly for others. She did that for me, over three years ago. We shared a bond in that moment, one that needs no words.

Shaving a head is hard for a cancer patient, no matter what your occupation. But being a stylist and having a client come back to your shop to say thank you for shaving my head with so much compassion when I thought my world was caving in made her feel wonderful and she should. I will always be grateful for the part she played in my recovery. And to think I gave her such added joy by simply walking back in there and saying, please style my hair,well that made us both smile. Yes, today there was hardly any hair on the floor, there were only tears of joy and thanksgiving to flow and a sense we will continue to see each other as survivors. Ah, I have come to love that word! Oh, and yes, the feel of my hands and fingers running through my hair. No such thing as a bad hair day once you have had no hair! Today, Gale and I experienced some healing. Perhaps it is fitting that her shop then is called All About Change.

Thank you Lord for every strand of hair on my head! >

Ty Ry

There is a little boy
Who is shy and demure
He has innocent eyes
And a kindred soul so pure.

He is usually very quiet
Content to let others steal the light.
He is the middle child, so, even in his innocence
He knows how to fight…and bite!

Once he gets over his shyness
He loves to explore
He literally gets lost in his curiosity,
Going room to room, door to drawer!

And he opens his mouth
And laughs with glee
He usually emits a little scream
That sounds totally off key.

When he dances he smiles
Rolling his hands to the beat of his feet,
He rocks to and fro repeatedly
Till he falls with a kerplunk to his seat.

Oh, this one is a cutie,
God sent him Special Delivery,
My grandson is like no other,
Yes, Ty Ry, you are a star to me.

As I wrote this, I could not help but wonder what the meaning of my grandson’s name, Ty, was, so I researched it. I was surprised to find out that the biblical meaning is, honorable. What a wonderful meaning behind the name for such a delightful little boy. Those of us that have come to know Ty and cherish him will find it fitting his name has such a special meaning. I hope, in reading my little rant, you have to come to know some of what makes Ty so special to us. I also hope you remember that, often times, the quietest child may have just as much to say and share!

Winter Cup of Milk & Surgar

When I see the scene outside, with the landscape outlined in snow, I am taken back over the years to a place I spent many weekend winters as a youngster. My family was the only one, at the time, that had moved outside of the Italian fold and lived outside of Toledo, Ohio. Toledo was where my grandparents had came to and called home when leaving Italy after marrying and entering the United States via Ellis Island like so many other immigrants.

At least once a month, we would pack up our suitcases and head up to Toledo for a visit. One of the highlights of these trips in the winter was my sister and I got to spend time at my cousin Julie’s house. Julie lived in a neighborhood right off the lake, and that neighborhood had some of the best snowfalls I have ever seen, even to this day and those winters there was a sight to behold.

Terri and I were giddy with excitement to go over to Aunt Carmen and Uncle Joe’s house. It was always brimming with activity. With four children in the family and a neighborhood of kids, there never seemed to be a dull moment. Those days left an Indelible mark on me.

I would walk in my aunt’s house and be immediately met with the strongest whiff of coffee brewing imaginable. I don’t know what my aunt and uncle put in their coffee but the two of them should have been in a coffee commercial for sure. The sight of the two of them, hunkered down over that old kitchen table drinking a cup of java was a picture of the American family everywhere in America. It kinda reflected them having a moment of reflection, bonding and reprieve from the day’s worries and stress in that moment of coffee. I remember them sitting there, taking a good long time to drink it, savoring every drop, just like the commercials say. There was something about those times, the look on their faces, that will stay with me forever. I think it was the look of pure contentment, of peace. Even with four kids and the noise of the house, that coffee was going to be drunk and they were not, most days, going to be pushed to bypass this ritual. I loved the tradition, the fact that they shared this moment, in an otherwise hectic household!

I can still hear the sound of the slamming door. It was, for some reason, a welcome sound to me. It still brings a smile to my face just thinking about that door, the familiarity of hearing it and the repetitiveness of it, every time I was there.

It might be Jenny, the beautiful oldest daughter that had to be the most outspoken cheerleader I have ever met slamming the door. She was this petite brunette with eyes and a face that would melt a man’s heart at any age and a body hand carved to perfection. What was included in the package was a fiery spark that, once ignited, it became a force to be reckoned with and for some reason, my aunt and uncle seemed to be a catalyst for sparking it, or at least in her mind they were. Looking back, maybe it was that boyfriend that just seemed to honk when he came to pick her up also that added to the turmoil? I never met him but he sure was lucky to be dating my wonderful cousin. He would honk his horn as his car pulled up to the front of the house, she would look out the bay window to see it was him and then she ran out that front door, slamming that screen door while my aunt were screaming at her. Jenny would either scream back or pretend she didn’t hear.

Personally, I think that screaming was an art form perfected by my grandparents. When I stayed with them, my grandparents did the same thing, only they spoke in Italian so I could not understand what was being said but it sounded pretty much the same. But, when they did it, my sister and I laughed so hard. With it being spoken in a native tongue, not only did it sound funny but their faces took on these weird contorted expressions that, as kids, we thought it was all pretty funny!

Joey, the next child in the sibling line up, also was known to slam the door. He was a great hockey player in the neighborhood. He was a good looking young man just a few years younger than Jenny. We could tell, he was a young version of our Uncle Joe in appearance. Personality wise, they seemed very different, in fact, they clashed. Terri and I loved Joey, we wished he would pay more attention to us but he didn’t seem to be around the house long enough to spend time with us and we were sure two little girls were boring to a big rough tough guy like him.

Joey played hockey on the rink down the road and was great at it. We were told by Julie, his sister, he loved to fight. I am not sure if he instigated them or if it was the nature of the neighborhood. He was muscular, well built and looked confidant and secure with himself so I am sure it was not due to anyone picking on Joey, no one would be that stupid to intentionally tick him off! Joey seemed to have an edge to him thought that always made me think he was not going to take anything from anyone on that rink, and apparently he didn’t. Boy, he would come home and have the scars, the cuts and bruises to show he didn’t! He would leave the house with those skates over this shoulders and the door slamming with Uncle Joe yelling at him but I never about what. Then next, there, the familiar sound came, the door slamming, and it was quiet again.

The house was somewhat quieter now with only two kids left. By now, Uncle Joe would be leaving to head into work or go do some chores or whatever Uncle Joe did when he left. As a kid, I really didn’t know and wasn’t concerned. My life was about living in the moment, and having fun. We were ready to go outside and play. Our agenda was building snowmen and making a igloo as, where they lived was pretty close to Michigan and had fantastic snow to build things with. We would get bundled up now to go outside to play for the day. And then, as we headed out, with our cousin closest to our age Julie, leading the way, the door would slam behind us. Only to be opened again and then slam again with the sound of a strong boy’s voice yelling ,‘Wait up!”

Ohps, we forgot Jeffy again! Jeffy was the youngest. I never asked if he was an accident but he was not only the youngest but there was quite an age gap between him and the other three. He was a sweetheart boy, quite large for his age but he always seemed a little out of place. He wanted to tag along with us and yet seemed oblivious to the fact of his age difference. It is funny, looking back, to say that now, because the same thing is true of me, in regards to my sister and cousin but, at the time, I never noticed it either. Hindsight is twenty- twenty! Anyways, we all loved Jeffy. He was a bundle of love, energetic and always wanted to please, sometimes maybe too much. He could be exasperating with his limitless energy and questions and yet you could not help but love him. He had a heart of gold and a warm spirit and just wanted to be loved and belong.

We would stay out there for hours. We would build snowmans. We would make snow angels and walk through the neighborhood just loving the feel of walking in snow drifts and getting lost in the piles that had gotten pushed by the roadside. Jeffy and I could get in ones over our head and have to scream for help to get out. Terri and my cousin Julie found that so funny and Jeffy and I found it sort of scary but kept doing it to make the older two laugh. Our igloos we used as bases for our snow ball fights. We switched teams because we wanted to each have a turn being on the winning team.

Our noses would turn so red, they looked like bright red cherries. Our fingers would get so cold, they would be numb as would our toes, and yet we would still stay outside. I laugh thinking about it now as I live in a neighborhood with children and see snow all over and not one child outside in two days. When I was a child, you could not get me inside! Aunt Carmen would yell over and over again till she got so angry, her face turned as red as our noses to get us in the house.

When we finally responded, my favorite part came next, warm milk with sugar in it. I had never had this from anyone nor have I had it since. In my mind, this was a pure gift from Aunt Carmen and my cousin Julie. We would hunker down over the mug of it and sit at that rickety kitchen table just as my Aunt and Uncle had done in the morning. We kids would have removed all our wet clothing and sit on those chairs, teeth chattering and grab our mugs and it was like a reenactment of the morning scene with my aunt and uncle. We would sit there and we would kinda have a moment of reflection, bonding and reprieve from the day’s activities that moment of drinking that mug. I remember sitting there, taking a good long time to drink it, savoring every drop, just like a commercial. There was something about those times, the look on our faces, that will stay with me forever. I think it was the look of pure contentment, of peace.

Ah, the price of peace = a warm cup of milk with sugar in it. Could peace come so simply to our world?

Tutus Aren't for All Little Girls

This morning I decided to change the template of my blog page. When I looked at all the choices, to those that know me well, the choice of ballerina slippers seems an unlikely choice. Ah, but therein lies a story behind those slippers. Once I saw them, it reminded me instantly of my youth.

Years ago, when my sister Terri and I were only about 9 and 7, respectively, we were put in ballet classes. See, our father had been divorced for several years but had retained full custody of us. We were not what you would call ‘tomboys’ but we were also not ‘girly girls’ by any stretch. Up into that point, we had been without a mother in our home for years. So, no, we were most definitely not into pink or flowers, we did not have a mother to lovingly watch apply her makeup, we did not have smelly perfume in our home, we did not even know what a razor was, nor home baked cookies and other things little girls our age had exposure too.

Our escapades were not dance recitals, thus far in life, but were more likely to be scenes like the one involving Terri getting accidentally hit with a fly ball at a neighbor’s house when Jean, a boy close to my sister’s age, smacked a good fly ball right in the vicinity of my sister’s nose. I am not sure who cried harder at the sight of all that blood, her or me. So neither of us were sports girls, the first picked to be on anyone’s teams.

As far as cheerleading, we both thought it was stupid. Oh, except when it came to Terri cheering me on. For example, when I was being taught how to ride a bike and she wanted me to pick up the speed some, she would yell at me to hurry up. There was that one time, when she challenged me to go further up the big hill we lived on and come down it, with lightening speed. She was so proud of me, as I zoomed past her. She cheered loud enough that I thought all the neighbors could hear her, particularly when she screamed “Brake” at the precise spot where she has rehearsed with me multiple times to apply the brakes. This spot was important as we lived off a major road and running into it meant going straight into two lanes of major traffic,

Funny how that last time down the road I forgot that one little tip and all I can remember thinking about is “Wow, I am really going fast, this is pretty cool, I wonder how I slow down some?” The closer I got to the main road I took, what I saw as the only alternative, oblivious to my older sister’s heated warnings and screams. I quickly jolted my steering bars to the right turning the bike straight towards the creek bed alongside our house. As I literally flew off the road, up over the creek, I stayed composed enough to stay glued to my bike sea. Very uncermoniously, I then crumbled to the pile of rocks below. The rest is a blur - except for the sound of my sister Terri. I heard my sister, in muttered slow motion speed yell “Oh no…..” The next sounds I heard were her sobbing, during a ride to the ER. This time she cried harder than me, I am not sure if she was crying more out of anger or fear of Dad's anger over her failed teaching lesson to me!

In this environment, our step mother was brought onto the scene with two girls who she was determined to try to make into two proper ladies in waiting. One of the first things on the list was getting us abit more poised, thus ballet lessons. This was met with much resistance. I was a follower so if Terri did not like it, I would follow suit. She hated the thought of it. Even worse than having to be somewhere with a room full of strange little girls was having to wear the silly little tutus.

Off we were both carted to classes, religiously and we had to attend weekly. It felt like a death sentence to us both. We both did so poorly that our teachers strongly suggested we get a great deal of practice time at home. Great, the classes were bad enough and now, condemned to spend more time pointing toes!

Both of us showed no initiative to practice on our own so thus began, what we saw, as an extreme form of punishment, “mandatory ballet practice.” Oh yes, I can remember the sounds of us moaning and groaning while doing plies than were as graceful as the Incredible Hulk twirling on his tippie toes. We hated it was a major understatement.

Our dancing in life had been limited to merely doing impromptu performances to Lawrence Welk for our live-in housekeeper Mrs. Train on Saturday nights. Until this time, when our dad was out dating on weekends, Mrs. Train would let Terri and I run around the living room, like dancing fools, as if we were the stars of the show. When the music came on, we would proudly, take turns introducing each other and being the lead dancer. What fun we had and how good we thought we were! This ballet stuff, this was way different. This organized controlled performance dancing was for the birds, in our little heads. We still hated pink, giggled at each other in the silly looking tutus and thought the other little prissy girls in the classes were boring.

This ritual of go to dance classes and practice ballet almost daily went on for what seemed like months on end. Eventually, as the fights continued over 'why we must go,' our new mother finally decided it was not worth the battle time. I think all mothers find out, sooner or later, they must pick their battles more cautiously. The battle of the tutu was apparently not high enough of a priority to my mom to waste energy over. Thus, the tattered unloved, uncared for ballet shoes were put to rest. The tutus were retired to the basement. Perhaps they were given to some other little girls more appreciative of wearing pink. And my sister and I never ever looked back. Adieu.....

When I saw this picture, this template, I could not help but remember how silly we looked in ballet. Each of us standing there, like two farm hands dressed in pink from head to toe, with lower lips out so miserable and yet both Terri and I so wanting to be loved and needing to belong to something. We found our place in life, Terri and I, but thank goodness, for the wonderful world of dance, it was not in ballet.

Oh Terri, some people look ‘Pretty in Pink’ dear but, you and I most certainly, we did not!

Do Head High Kicks Matter?

At Stebbins High School in Dayton Ohio, many girls dreamed of being on the Drill team and being able to proudly be called a Stebbinette, or in other circles merely called a drillee. With it came the responsibility of attending many practices, attending band camp in the summer for a week long drudgery of practices followed by evening free time to recover from sore muscles and potential heat strong. Summers in Wilmington Ohio at Bluffton College, were camp was held, were hot. Marching and dancing for the afternoon in the blistering sun on a football field void of shade could be quite grueling. All this was done just to get the girls and the Marching Band “show ready” for the first football game of the year. And each year, without fault, the show went on with each new routine just as exciting in its own way as the previous year’s show.

At the time, those of us on the squads thought Drill Team was about being popular, learning dance routines, having fun and getting into football and basketball games for free. There were a few other fringe benefits, such as four period in high school, when we were not performing, it was a free period and we were known to leave school and slip out to lunch off campus. (Oh, the stories that could be told!) The camaraderie of the other girls, the friendships that were formed, was an added benefit also. But, a drawback was also being forced to spend time with some folks that you might otherwise choose to not be around nearly as much. There were the typical personalities on that team, the Divas, the loud mouth complainers, the back stabbers, the party girls, the comics, the miss congeniality(s), and all those in between. Yes, it was a diverse melting pot, just like the population at large at our high school W. E. Stebbins. And those of us on the drill team were so very proud to be members!

The focus, in those days, on that team were a few basics. Top on the list was being able to do a head high kick. This meant keeping one leg straight on the ground and kicking the other leg perfectly straight (with no knee bent) and extending it consistently on a kick line perfectly in time and in line with other girls side by side, arm in arm with each kick over the head in unison. No easy feat! This required regular stretching and practice, as an individual and with the team. Other obstacles were thrown in the way over the years also, such as doing this on bar stools, doing splits in ripple lines, etc…. Each feat required new muscle groups to be worked, rehearsed in unison with the team and staged perfectly.

We were coached to hold our head high, to make certain our chin was in line with the back of the stands and to maintain a smile at all times during our performance. In the beginning, we called this faking a smile but over time, as we found our comfort level and realized we really did have something to smile about, it came more naturally. With confidence, comes pride.

So many times, over the years, I have remembered the silly things, the high white ‘go-go’ looking boots, the white eye shadow we all had to wear up to our eyebrows to look uniform, whether or not it looked good on any of us! But, through it all, much like looking back at my children’s experience with sports, I do see the big picture, the life experiences that were gained from being a drillee.

Everyone on the drill team learned to step in time, to make certain we performed in unison which meant you had to not only concentrate on your steps but the person on either side of you. This truly enforced the idea of interdependence. When this is done well, the walk of life is beautiful.

Our team was full of diversity and we had to get along to make a routine make sense. Our world is full of unique personalities as well. The challenges we face, day to day, is understanding through our differences. Without doing this well, we are ignorant.

We were given demerits on drill team as punishment. Rules are made for a reason and we do not get the luxury of making them. Abiding by them is our civic responsibility. If we disobey, we must pay in some way. Learning there are consequences in high school taught us to think about our actions before reacting.

Being able to bend this way and that takes flexibility. This can only be accomplished by exercising. There was no one to remind you, in between practices to stretch either. Similarly, there was no one in between practices to remind you to rehearse the dance routines. But being in shape and being in step was a responsibility. If you were not on, individually, you hurt more than just yourself, you hurt your team. Thus, being on, meant taking self responsibility to work out on your own and everyone took that initiative or did not last on drill team. You had to have some drive, some motivation and some self discipline.

I remember once when I was a sophomore my mother telling me a French teacher called her about a class I was in. She told my mother she thought I was spending too much time doing something irrelevant, “swinging pompoms” as she put it to my mother. My mom responded angrily, “Do you mean that the time my daughter spends working out hard for the Drill team is not of value?”

Thank you Mom! Head high kicks do matter. They helped make me who I am today.

Have a Colorful 2011!

As I cleaned out the closets one by one, I made my way to the upstairs room where most of the forgotten items are placed. The closet that seldom gets opened. Where items hardly ever seen or heard from are viewed. And as I opened it, and glanced at the door, this new year, I paid particular attention to the colors of the scarves hanging on the inside of the door.

My husband had so created specially designed hanger to hold every single scarf that been made, bought and given to me during my long battle with cancer years ago. I was struck by how many colors I saw, the diversity of patterns, the sheer volume of scarves there were. I gathered all the various scarves hanging there up in my hands, closed my eyes and then, laid my face up down in them.

Standing there, bent over, inhaling deeply I thought about the hands that had lovingly supported me all those months long ago. I recall the angels that had supported m, one by one, far too many to list. Memories that were priceless; Candida who made me homemade cards, and sent them out of the blue sporadically with special notes of encouragement. Suzanne and Janet, two dear cousins of my husband’s, letting me know I was as sweet as they candy they were sending me. Marlene in DC hand picking out the color of scarves to send me that she thought would bring the light back into my eyes at a time when all I saw was a lot of darkness in the inside of my bedroom. There was a beautiful basket of goodies two friends, Carolyn and Sherry had dropped at the hospital to me after one of my surgeries. They were my only visitors that stay in the hospital so I truly was touched by the visit! The basket was used to hold, for my entire treatment time, to hold cards I received. By the conclusion of treatment, it spilled over with cards from friends, family and people I did not even know with good wishes and prayers for a recovery. Then there was dear Marc, a Christian friend, who had his young church class praying for me, and yes I felt their young prayers weekly. I smiled with the blessing of it and looked over at my husband who smiled back at me. Holding all those scarves I knew what a blessing I had experienced.

With the passage of times, I no longer wear scarves but cannot bear the thought of letting go of even one of those scarves. I feel as if they are a part of the fabric of me. In remembrance, one year in celebrating my birthday with girlfriends, I wore one over my hair to a luncheon. One friend looked at me inquisitively and asked why I was wearing it. I said “To remember.” I think I need to do that more often. In fact, I challenge all women, wear a scarf one day a year, walk the walk of a cancer patient and see the world from their perspective. Having cancer is not a cake walk, the rest of the world, when a woman loses their hair, tends to look at your funny at a time when you already feel isolated and hurting inside. Do not judge that which is different or avoid it but try, through the grace of God, understanding and possibly embrace it. As I use to tell my children when they were little, a smile goes a long way. To a cancer patient, on a bad day, it is a sign from an angel.

As I closed the door of that closet, I cannot help but feel so grateful that my life has forever changed. So many people I have met, along this path of recovery, either survivors, care takers or those taken by God to everlasting peace have too. Some wonderful people have walked into my life, and some old friendships have been rekindled with the awareness the light of life on this earth is fading. I don’t know when the clock will stop ticking but I am certain one day, it will and I do have strong enough faith that I live void of the fear. But I also live feeling as if every day counts. I have attended far too many funerals to prove it. I just love my friend Carole’s comment to me at a mutual cancer’s friend funeral “I need to start hanging out with a different group of friends!” and yet, she is always near to those in need. That woman has a heart of gold and even when her husband was diagnosed with cancer, her faith seldom falters, what an example to others.

When our group of survivors meets, we always talk about how important it is to surround ourselves with healthy relationships, people that make us feel beautiful and whole. Anyone who tears us down or makes us feel part of a dysfunctional relationship is a threat to our physical and emotional health. This can cut our lifespan short. This is true for everyone. Boundaries are also important. Just like pulling the scarves out to reflect on them and then closing the door, we all must do that also with the ghosts in our closet. Not everything about those scarves brings back positive happy memories either, cancer is not pretty. Our pasts are usually full of some hurts and some unfulfilled needs. Take a look at them, ‘your scarves’ accept responsibility for them and then move on. It does no good to harbor resentment towards anyone, your parents make mistakes, and you make mistakes. We all must accept accountability for our lives, at some point, and move on. Live. Live healthy. Boundaries must be set and healthy relationships need to start there. Those scarves and the cancer do not define me, therefore, they do not need to be out front and center in our home, and they will never be placed prominently.

With a new year comes new promises, new hopes, and new tomorrows. But those scarves remind me of wonderful yesteryears and also of sorrows. Those memories make me who I am today. We can run from our past but should we? Part of who we are today is where we came from. I choose to look back, reflect, draw strength from what I did right, and from those that gave me strength and hope when I was weak, and grow from it. We all must live in the present and surround ourselves with those people that accept us for who we are and make us feel beautiful. The range of colors in that closet represent God's array of people, the diversity in His children, the assortment of gifts. I hope those 'gift givers' that contributed to the array of colors on the inside of my closet door like the view of what they see in me today....

Happy New Year and may 2011 be colorful and full of hope and promise!

The Christmas Story

The church was small, the congregation young. They were all Catholic but more conventional than most Catholics in the area. The Men’s group hosted every year a Lunch with Santa free for all parishioners that wanted to attend. Included was a hot dog lunch, chips, soft drinks and a chance to sit on Santa’s lap for each boy and girl that attended. It was announced. Lunch With Santa, through the community so that any child could attend in the area, all were welcome, not just members of the parish. The goal of the Men’s Club was not one child would be left out of God’s house nor be missed from sitting on Santa’s lap. Christmas was simply weeks away.

Two young women, both moms with two small children of their own decided to make this year’s event slightly more memorable. Seeming as how they had just got involved with the youth group, they thought it was the perfect opportunity to get the young adults they were leading to truly see the light of Christmas through the eyes of the children. Too often that wide eyed innocence is lost. These two best friends, in their jeans and t shirts, with no assistance, and two youngsters each, began meeting with a plan to bring a play to life and week by week planned it with the youth group.

At first, it was met with much resistance. What teenager wants to get up in front of his/her peers in costume, look out of the norm and perform? Who wants to be silly in public and act interested in younger children? So they began with simply assigning stage duties, help to build stage scenery, as the play was Twas the Night Before Christmas, a fireplace was needed to be made, a Christmas tree had to be constructed, etc….. Quickly progress was made and a life force took hold.

Suddenly donations started coming in from nowhere. A costume was donated for Mrs. Santa, materials were donated for the construction of the chimney, and the young teens grew excited. Before the adults had a chance to discuss and re-approach the subject and ask individuals who should play what part, the group decided amongst themselves who should play what! The project took on a live of its own. Yes, God brought this story to life….the two women quickly realized they were nothing more but the catalyst and they were blessed to be there to enjoy the unfolding of a Christmas miracle.

As the rehearsals grew more frequent, the laughter abounded out of that hallway. As miscues happened, lost lines, hugs and songs were added, friendships formed, cookies were brought in to be shared, a real kinship was formed by all. It was a given that the moment the play would end, all present would lapse into a Christian Christmas song. It seemed only fitting.

Finally, the Sunday came for the play; lunch was served. The lights went down after plates were cleared. The two women stepped to the front of the crowd to introduce the play and then stepped off stage, where they silently held hands and prayed that God would let the play go without a hitch and more importantly, touch those present in a special way. Before their eyes were even open, they knew, , the prayer was not needed….they were in God’s house and He alone was in control. Surely, as God had drawn them together in friendship, the young people together for this project, the young children to be here this day, this play would indeed touch all present with its message of Christmas joy.

With all the practices under their belt, the play, that day was unlike ever before. It began and ended much the same way, pure perfection! Lines were said perfectly, the crowd laughed frequently and hard, the children were interactive and sat well throughout the show. Then, without a word, without a hesitation, once the play ended, the youth group in its entirety gathered on stage. They quietly assembled, joined hands and began to sing. As they sang in unison, with voices raised with joy and a light in their eyes, all present that day in the church hall joined in and sang with loud abandonment. Oh, did the sound of singing fill that hall? Oh yes, what a beautiful sound it was! Surely the angels came down from heaven just a moment or two to hear the praise given to Jesus that day.

And through the crowd, I dare say, I saw a tear or two come from both of the women’s eyes. They were smiling and singing, one slightly off key and one singing just as beautifully as can be as they smiled and held hands all the tighter. That tear, I realized, was a tear of joy. They knew, in that instant, in that fleeting moment, that they had been an instrument for God’s message that special Christmas.

Sing Alleluia. Sing. Sing it loud, sing it proud!