A Writer's Voice

The Promise

2011-10-22T07:25:00.001-05:00

It started with a hospital room promise.

My dad and I were sitting in his hospital room, a day after a surgeon managed to squeeze a few stents into some very narrow arteries. The nurse was on her way with discharge papers, and I was taking my dad home. He was two months away from turning 66. This was his fifth heart procedure.

To pass the time, we turned on the television. It was the first day of televised baseball during spring training, and the St. Louis Cardinals were playing. My dad started talking about how he looked forward to the season, and he couldn’t wait because he thought the Cardinals had a chance to do something.

“If the Cardinals go to the World Series, I’ll take you to a game.” I blurted it out without thinking. My dad looked at me and said, “OK.”

I opened a savings account later that day, called it “World Series” and set up weekly automatic deposits. Now I just needed the Cardinals to win. Easy, right?

Nothing about the 2011 St. Louis Cardinals was easy. The team would win, and then they would lose. They would sweep tough teams before getting swept themselves by mediocre teams. Sometimes they were difficult to watch, but I didn’t give up.

I attended as many games as I could, sometimes going as often as once a week. I traveled to San Francisco and Chicago to watch them play. Somehow, I felt like they had a chance if I were there.

I checked the standings daily. The Cardinals would claim first place in the National League Central, and then lose it to another team. They fell further and further behind, while the Milwaukee Brewers surged. It seemed no one could beat the Brewers.

I first checked the wild card standings in mid-July. The Cardinals were a few games behind the Atlanta Braves at that time. If I were going to take my dad to the World Series, I suspected the wild card would be the ticket.

But the team couldn’t seem to pull together a decent string of wins. Eventually, they were 10 and a half games out of the wild card. It seemed impossible, but I didn’t give up. That’s because I knew baseball history.

When I was a little girl, my dad would tell me bedtime stories about the 1964 St. Louis Cardinals. That team was 11 games behind the Philadelphia Phillies in August, went on a winning steak while the Phillies collapsed and eventually won the World Series. When skeptical friends announced the 2011 Cardinals were finished, I would remind them of the 1964 version. It can happen, I’d said. As long as the math worked, I had hope.

I was leaving Busch Stadium after a Cardinals game when I learned the Brewers won the National League Central. It was wild card or nothing now.

I started going to even more games, and when I wasn’t there, I was watching or listening. I prayed. One night, in desperation, I made my dog Henry Aaron wear his Cardinals jersey. The team came back and won. Henry continued to wear his jersey.

I rooted for whatever teams played the Braves, even when it required rooting for the Cubs. It was a sacrifice worth making.

Slowly, the Cardinals inched their way toward the wild card while the Braves collapsed. People told me I was crazy. “They’re done,” they would say. I would shake my head and think about my dad’s stories. It can happen.

When they finally clinched the wild card, I called my dad. He never mentioned my promise, and neither did I. But we were close, and I wasn’t giving up, even though the Cardinals drew the Phillies, a team everyone was convinced would win it all, in the National League Division Series. It would be tough, but it could be done.

They did it in dramatic fashion, using all five games and knocking the Phillies off in a 1-0 heart pounding victory. The Cardinals were on the way to the National League Championship Series.

When the team sent me an email the next day announcing I was selected to purchase World Series tickets, it felt like fate.

That Monday, I called my dad and asked the question I’d been waiting to ask for six months: “Would you like to go to the World Series?” I broke down in tears before I could finish the question. When he told me this might be his last chance to go to a World Series game, I cried even harder.

The dreaded Milwaukee Brewers stood in our way as the Cardinals moved to the NLCS. But I had faith and a dog in a Cardinals jersey. The good guys won in six games.

My dad and I walked into Busch Stadium for Game 2 of the 2011 World Series, seven months and one week after my promise. As we sat down, my dad looked around the field and said, “I can’t believe I’m at the World Series.” I didn’t cry this time. He did.

The Most Generous City

2011-04-30T06:48:00.000-05:00

I traveled to Spokane, Washington last fall for a seminar at Gonzaga University. I am a graduate student through Gonzaga’s online communications program, and I looked forward to finally meeting many of my classmates in person.

At the opening session, we did the usual “go around the room and tell us about yourselves.” I mentioned I live in St. Louis in my opening sentence. It didn’t take long before the comments started.

“They have a lot of crime in St. Louis. It’s worse than Detroit.”

“Isn’t St. Louis one of the most dangerous cities? I thought I read that somewhere.”

“Wow, St. Louis, huh? I don’t think I could live there because of the crime.”

I spent most of my time during that three day seminar conducting damage control for my city. Yes, there is crime in St. Louis, but there is crime in any city. We have a lot to offer: culture, sports, great restaurants, a world class zoo, and of course, the Arch. I was exhausted at the end of the three day seminar, yet hopeful that I had changed one or two people’s viewpoints about St. Louis.

St. Louis was in the national spotlight again last weekend when tornadoes slammed into the area on Good Friday evening. While the damage and destruction was breathtaking, no one was killed or even seriously injured.

I turned on my television the morning after the storms and couldn’t believe the images of homes that now resembled matchsticks. Our airport was in shambles. The destruction was heartbreaking. Again, I was amazed no one was killed.

But I was amazed by something else as well: generosity. Donations were pouring into the local American Red Cross and United Way chapters. Neighbors were helping neighbors clean up from this nightmare. Strangers were calling charities, volunteering to help clean up, too. Offers were made for places to stay to those who could no longer stay in their own homes.

I was, and still am, proud of St. Louis for coming together to help their own in this time of crisis. The outpouring of generosity is inspiring.

The St. Louis storms made national news. I hope my Gonzaga classmates saw the tornado coverage, and I hope they give St. Louis a new nickname: The Most Generous City.

Fearless

2011-02-05T10:18:00.000-06:00

It’s snowing this morning. I sit at my desk, looking out the window and thinking. I don’t care for snow, even though it’s beautiful. I’m lucky enough that I don’t have to be anywhere today. I have the luxury of simply sitting and watching the snowflakes fall.

I find myself thinking about my mother. She recently had her hip replaced at age 63. It was a long, tough surgery. My suspicions that she had osteoporosis were confirmed. Her bones were thinner and more brittle than realized, but the surgeon was able to successfully complete the procedure.

I cried the first time I saw her post surgery. She didn’t look like my mother, but rather a haggard, diseased stranger. She was exhausted and in tremendous pain, but when I asked if she planned to walk soon, she nodded her head furiously.

She took her first steps the next morning, and when I saw her again two days post surgery, she looked like herself. She walked slowly down the hall, clutching her walker and grimacing. It hurt, but she was determined to walk. The quicker and farther she walked, the faster she could go home.

Her doctor was shocked by her progress. I wasn’t.

My mother was diagnosed with liver disease almost 10 years ago. One day she was fine and the next day she wasn’t. She was admitted to the hospital, and the doctors didn’t seem to have much hope. We were told to “prepare ourselves.”

My father was in denial, so my brothers and I stepped in. We made funeral arrangements. I bought a black dress and wrote her eulogy. We waited.

Then she did the one thing no one expected her to do. She started getting better. She fought back, determined to get out of the hospital by early May. My younger brother was graduating college then, and she wasn’t going to miss it.

When early May arrived, she asked her doctors about being discharged so she could attend graduation. They told her no, so she came up with “Plan B.” That involved me putting her in a wheelchair under the guise of going for a walk. We just failed to mention that the walk involved going out to the parking garage to my car, and then driving over to the university for the graduation ceremony. We were back at the hospital by early afternoon. No one even realized we were gone.

It was during this time when I realized just how strong and tough my mother is in times of crisis. She ended up being discharged from the hospital three months after she was admitted. The doctors who were so sure she would die ended up writing a medical paper on her case. She taught us an important lesson: never underestimate her.

My mother is home now, and she continues to walk a little more each day. She inspires me with each step she takes. She is fearless. I want to be, too.

It Finally Happened

2011-01-17T12:03:00.001-06:00

My family didn’t have a lot of money growing up. We had enough for needs. We had a roof over our heads, food on the table and clothes on our backs. We were never homeless, nor did we ever go hungry. But there wasn’t much left over for wants.

I thought about this while traveling to downtown St. Louis on Saturday. I made a last minute decision to go to the St. Louis Cardinals Winter Warmup, an annual event our baseball team hosts every January to raise money for their charity, Cardinals Care. If this event had been during my childhood, I would not have been able to attend it. We simply couldn’t afford it.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at the hotel where the event took place. It was crowded, and everyone seemed to be wearing either Cardinals shirts or the color red. I asked where I could buy my pass, walked over to the booth and handed over my money. In return, I was given a laminated pass to wear around my neck and a piece of paper that would help me realize a childhood dream.

I’ve watched Cardinals baseball my entire life. I’ve been fortunate in my careers as a news producer and PR professional to have interviewed and met many of the fine players who sported the birds on bat. But not Joe Magrane.

I was 13 years old the first time I saw Magrane pitch, and I developed an instant crush. He wasn’t a superstar pitcher. He ended his career with a losing record, although he did lead the National League in ERA one season. But none of this mattered to me. I had a crush and wanted to meet him.

Sadly, I never got my chance. The closest I got was one summer when we actually had field seats at Busch Stadium. I had a baseball and walked down to a place behind the Cardinals dugout. While I managed to collect some signatures, Magrane never appeared. He was on the disabled list that year, but I kept hoping that maybe he would walk out of the dugout. I was disappointed.

As I scanned the names on the list of players signing autographs, one jumped out at me: Joe Magrane. I swear I held my breath as I scrambled to find out when he would be signing. It was that afternoon. In fact, it was in 10 minutes. I asked a volunteer where the line was and rushed to take my place in it. I stood there, touching the baseball I had bought “just in case” and waited.

I felt like a 13-year-old girl again when I saw him step out from behind the curtain to take his place at the autograph table. “Hurry up, hurry up,” I thought as the line seemed to take forever to move. I had my baseball in hand and thought about what I was going to say.

When it was my turn, I walked up to the table, a 37-year-old woman about to meet a former big leaguer who made me swoon as a gawky teen. I wondered if people could hear my heart pounding. When I got to the table, I looked him in the eye and handed him my baseball. “Hi,” he said, “How are you?” He then smiled at me.

That did it. “I had a huge crush on you when I was growing up,” I blurted out. Not the cool meeting I wanted.

His smile got wider. He winked at me and said, “How you doin’?” in his best Joey from Friends voice. I felt the blush start in my neck and then make its way up my face. He laughed. “You’re pretty when you blush.” He then signed my baseball, handed it to me and told me to have a good rest of my day.

I grinned from ear to ear as I walked away from the table, clutching my newly autographed baseball in my hand. I thought about my teenage self, the one who was disappointed that summer day at Busch Stadium, and how grateful I was to have this opportunity as an adult.

I walked past an elderly volunteer on my way out of the room. “You look happy,” he said.

“I am,” I replied. That day, I was the happiest woman on the planet.

Oh, Christmas Tree

2010-12-06T18:02:00.000-06:00

The Christmas tree met my requirements: it was taller than me and already had lights on it. It was fake, but it would have to do. Even my parents had moved on to artificial Christmas trees after years of the real deal.

I bought the tree last minute on clearance a few days before Christmas. I wasn’t planning on having my own tree. I also wasn’t planning on getting dumped the week before Christmas, either. Life has a way of doing that to you.

For years, we always decorated his house for Christmas. My tiny apartment had a stocking or two, but the big tree, the fancy decorations, and the lights were at his house. But he was gone. It was just the tiny apartment and me.

I dragged the new fake tree home, determined to salvage some kind of holiday spirit. I managed to pull the tree from its box, figured out the confusing directions and put it together. I plugged the tree in and smiled when the lights worked. The smile faded when I realized I had no ornaments.

I burst into tears. The phone started ringing. I checked the caller ID and saw it was Grandma Betty. I knew if I didn’t answer, she would worry, so I tried to stifle the tears and picked up the phone. She asked what I was doing. The waterworks erupted.

She told me to come see her. That afternoon. I hung up the phone and looked for my coat. I cried for most of the hour drive to her house.

The box was sitting on the dining room table. It was full of ornaments: simple glass bulbs of all sizes; larger ornaments with glitter; and red and white bows I could tie on the tree branches. Grandma Betty was sitting at the table holding something in her hand. When she saw me walk into the dining room, she struggled to get up so she could hand it to me.

The ornament was simple. It was a rectangle and had a green ribbon on top. The front of the ornament had a winter scene in an old fashioned downtown, sort of like the town where I grew up. Its message was simple: Merry Christmas and Have a Joyous New Year.

When I returned home that evening, that ornament was placed front and center on my new tree. This isn’t so bad, I thought. I can do this.

Five years have passed. I still decorate that last minute Christmas tree, except now it’s in my own home. I smile every time I see my dog and cat sleeping together in front of it, bathed in the warm glow of the lights. And that simple rectangle ornament is still front and center.

Moving Forward

2010-09-15T08:08:00.001-05:00

I value friendship. I am fortunate and grateful to have people I can call friends. I work hard to be the kind of friend I want to have: kind, considerate, a good listener, thoughtful. I don’t always succeed, but I try.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I was amazed at the outpouring of calls, texts and messages I received from both close friends and acquaintances. Knowing that so many people acknowledged my day was incredible. I hope I thanked everyone, but if I didn’t—thank you! You made my day.

However, I also noticed the lack of response. To be honest, it hurt. But as I begin the next year of my life, I’ve decided that I’m focusing on what I have, rather than what I don’t (“It’s not having what you want—it’s wanting what you’ve got”), and not worrying about the rest. I’m done wasting time and energy on activities and people who don’t matter.

Finding Inspiration in a Surprising Place

2010-07-20T15:01:00.000-05:00

I decided to join Facebook on a sunny, spring morning after turning my nose up at the social networking platform for months. I was a hardcore Twitter girl. I don’t remember why I changed my mind, but I did.

One of the first people I connected—or rather reconnected—with was my friend Julie. I met Julie in my first year of junior high. We were 12 years old and became good friends. We stayed that way until high school graduation, when life took us in different directions. But I thought of her often and hoped she was well.

We quickly made up for lost time via Facebook. I learned what she’d done in the almost 20 years since graduation. I looked at photos of her family. Soon, it was like no time had passed at all.

However, I was surprised to find myself inspired by Julie. Every morning, she would rave about what a beautiful day it was and wish everyone good morning. She would come home from work and wish everyone a good evening. She’d find five minutes to tell everyone good night.

Julie has bad days, like we all do. The difference is she doesn’t let them hold her back. Her morning may not have been the best, but the afternoon is going to be better. She gets tired, but she’s grateful for the job that allows her to take care of her husband and daughters. If she has trouble sleeping, then she’s grateful for the extra time allowed in the morning for a walk in the countryside. Julie takes life’s lemons and really does turn them into lemonade.

I look forward to Julie’s Facebook posts and messages because they are reminders that life is a blessing, even when it throws everything it possibly can at you. I’m grateful that, almost 25 years after we met (!), I can still call her my friend.

A couple of months ago, Julie posted a note on her Facebook page titled “The Positive Side of Me.” The last two paragraphs moved me:

“Everyday, EVERY person in this world wakes up with a decision to make... be happy and feel blessed with what you have or be pissy and complain about what you don't have... I refuse to complain... It took me years to realize that I have exactly what I NEED: Love, security, a home, a job, and THE best family a person can ask for...

“So each day when you wake up, ask yourself how your day will be... Only YOU make that decision. Only YOU decide how you will live your life...”

I want to live my life like Julie: full of gratitude and counting my blessings while being a good friend.

Love Letters

2010-06-27T16:06:00.000-05:00

I recently read an article in Vanity Fair about the “Romance of the Century” between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The article is an excerpt from a new book about the romance and marriages between the two actors.

The article touched on the already well-known facts about the two: they met on the set of Cleopatra, had an affair and were eventually married twice. But what stood out for me—even more than the large jewels that Burton frequently bestowed upon Taylor—was the fact that he wrote her love letters. She shared them with the authors of the article/book, and they quote from them extensively.

The letters are beautiful and passionate. Burton needed no special occasion to write them. In fact, he wrote one letter while Taylor was asleep in the next room. In the letter, he writes “I have decided that for a second or two, the precious potential of you in the next room is the only thing in the world worth living for.”

Reading this article made me wonder: do people even write love letters anymore? In a world of texts, emails, tweets and Facebook posts, is there room for an old fashioned love letter? I’d like to think so.

Among my most prized possessions are love letters my grandfather wrote to my grandmother. He died when I was six, and my grandmother never really talked about him. When she died, she left the letters to me, with a note asking me to treasure them as she did. I am grateful to her because these letters gave me a chance to get to know both my grandfather and the love they shared. My favorite is the one in which he wrote about a baby on the way. That baby was my mother.

According to the Vanity Fair article, Burton even wrote Taylor a letter a few hours before he died. The article stated she would not allow the authors to have a copy of that letter. Instead, she read it to them. She received it the day she arrived home from his memorial service, and it has remained in a dresser drawer next to her bed since.

That’s love.

What is Good?

2010-06-22T09:26:00.001-05:00

One of my goals is to be a good person, so I spend a lot of my time thinking about what that means.

Good is a simple word, yet is has several different meanings: of a favorable character; bountiful; attractive; pleasant; kind . . . and that’s just a start. But do any of these meanings fit my view of what is a good person?

Being a good person means being the kind of friend I would want to have: loyal, caring, unselfish, giving. The person who is always there. The one who never judges, even when you do something incredibly stupid. Someone who follows the “golden rule.”

A good person accepts you for you, both the good and the bad. A good person is honest, but with tact. The intent is to be a clear communicator, not to hurt someone else.

A good person sees the beauty in the world and practices random acts of kindness. A good person forgives others and asks for forgiveness of themselves. A good person loves unconditionally, yet asks for nothing in return.

Some days I hit the mark. Others I fail miserably. I might come close on others. But I won’t stop trying.

Human Nature

2010-06-20T05:59:00.003-05:00

I’ve learned a lot about people in the past week.

Some of us will reach out through our own grief and comfort others, pushing aside our own sadness to make someone else feel better.

Some of us are scared of connecting with others and push us away. Anything to avoid being hurt. Some of us don’t know what we want and send mixed messages.

Some of us are spontaneous. We think nothing of dropping everything and going long distances just because we miss our friends.

Friendship is the tie that binds, and that tie is strong even after time, distance and space. It is amazing how we can pick up where we left off—like time stopped for a moment.

People surprise me, thrill me, disappoint me . . . and never cease to amaze me.

I'm Going to Tell Your Dad

2010-05-25T17:50:00.000-05:00

Today I learned that the high school in my hometown was vandalized over the weekend in an apparent senior class prank. Curious, (let’s be honest—nosy) I went to the hometown newspaper’s website and read the story.

The vandals not only trashed the school, but being in the social media age, they videotaped their prank and posted it to You Tube. The article had a link to the video, so I watched it.

As the camera panned across the building to show graffiti and toilet paper, I realized I never did anything like that growing up for two reasons: Mom and Dad.

See, they terrified me. Or rather, hearing this phrase did: “I’m going to tell your dad.”

My dad was the bad cop in my parents’ disciplinary routine. Mom would give it her best, but if she felt that my brothers and I weren’t responding, she’d trot out the magic phrase. She never bluffed, either. If she uttered those six words, she meant it. And boy was it scary.

To be honest, my parents spanked me twice in my life, and I deserved it. The threat of spanking was enough for me. My dad is a big guy. He wore a thick leather belt. All he had to do after being informed of whatever infraction my brothers and I had committed was to take off said belt and snap it. I’ve never heard a sound scarier than that. The brothers and I would cry and beg forgiveness, throwing out promises to never do it again after hearing that snap.

The thought of being punished by my dad was enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. It wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t perfect (I’m still not), but the thought of punishment from Pops made me think twice before doing anything.

I could hear Mom’s voice in my head (“I’m going to tell your dad”) as I noticed the faces of the guilty students reflected in the glass trophy case in several scenes in the short video. If I had done something like that, I would have called the police myself when it was over and begged them to take me to jail. It would have been safer there.

I was visiting my parents last week when I heard my mom say the magic words while talking to my brother. My heart stopped and my stomach flipped before I realized it was in a completely different context.

It still works after all these years.

A Lesson Learned

2010-05-24T18:58:00.000-05:00

One of the blogs I enjoy reading on a regular basis is The Simple Dollar. While it’s a personal finance blog, the author also writes some great “life lesson” posts.

A post today reminded me of an important lesson I learned myself in the past couple of years. In his post, the author writes about how being negative comes at a great cost. I couldn’t agree more.

We are always going to come into contact with negative people in life, or people who behave in ways that don’t meet our approval. That’s a given. However, while you cannot control their behavior, you can control how you react to it.

That is a simple idea, yet it’s one that changed my life for the better. I used to let negative people drag me down. When I would see someone bending the rules, it would upset me. I would vent. I was not a nice person to be around.

I wish I could tell you the moment I discovered that great life lesson, but I cannot. There was no a-ha, Oprah type moment with bright lights and music. It just simply dawned on me that people are going to behave in ways that either don’t meet my standards or are just plain bad. But that doesn’t mean I have to let it get to me.

Because I cannot control their behavior. I can only control my own. I remind myself that whenever someone does something that upsets me. I have a choice. I can get upset and vent or I can let it go and get on with my day. I have been a much happier and healthier person since coming to this realization.

I have a good life. I am blessed with a wonderful family, friends, and a career that allows me to take care of myself. There’s a roof over my head (and I bought it all by myself) and food on my table. I have two furballs who bring me joy with their silly antics. There is so much pain, hunger and suffering in this world. I have no reason not to be happy. I choose happiness.

Happy Mothers Day

2010-05-09T12:16:00.000-05:00

I was embarrassed by and often ashamed of my mother growing up. She was loud, brash and wore too much makeup.

I felt this way for years, even as a young adult, until my mother was diagnosed with liver disease. She was admitted to the hospital, stayed four days and came home. She made an emergency return two days later after almost dying on the living room sofa.

She went on to spend the next two months in the hospital, fighting for her life. I learned a lot about her in those two months. I learned a lot about myself as well.

Her doctors had basically written her off, and they often seemed annoyed that she was there, taking up their time and a hospital bed. She would ignore them and remind them that she would be going home. She was not going to die, and she “sure as hell was not going to die in this miserable place.”

My mother spent every day of that two month hospital stay being poked, prodded and forced to undergo some incredibly painful medical procedures. Her failing liver meant that fluid collected in her abdomen, and that required the doctors to drain her abdomen several times a week in a process they referred to as tapping. Yes, like a keg. For some reason, the nurses would collect the fluid in mason jars and leave it on the windowsill in the hospital room. One time, there were six jars.

I never realized how tough my mother was until that hospital stay. She beat the odds and everyone’s expectations. She looked death in the face and kicked its ass. She’s never looked back. Her doctor is amazed each year when she returns for her annual checkups, and he uses her as an example to his other patients as someone who faced the odds, didn’t give up and beat them. He even wrote a medical journal article about her progress.

My mother is still brash and loud and wears too much makeup, but I am no longer embarrassed by her. Her brush with death taught me a lesson I should have learned long before I did. It does not matter what a person looks like on the outside. It matters what they are on the inside—what kind of character they are. I am proud to say that my mother is a good person. She is kind and caring, especially when it comes to her three children. I laugh because she still answers “What?” when she hears a child scream “Mom!” in the grocery store. She still insists we have family birthday parties, and she still cooks the birthday child’s favorite foods.

I am grateful I realized this before it was too late. Happy Mothers Day, Mom. I love you.

A Dream Come True

2010-04-11T21:02:00.000-05:00

I have been a St. Louis Cardinals fan my entire life. I have attended hundreds of baseball games in two St. Louis stadiums, but I never met Fredbird.

I fell in love with Fredbird during one of my trips to Busch Stadium as a kid. I loved watching him dance on top of the dugouts and act silly. I’d laugh when he would climb into the stands and tease someone. I wondered if the people singled out for Fredbird’s attentions were embarrassed.

We always sat in the upper deck, so the chances of meeting him were slim. Every time we went to a game, I always hoped he would find his way to our seats, but he never did, causing me to leave the stadium just a little disappointed. Pops would always squeeze my hand and say “next time” when it was time to go home, but I knew that next time would never come.

Next time arrived today when I least expected it.

I was sitting at my organization’s booth at a festival when I looked outside the tent and caught a glimpse of that familiar red costume. Fredbird was there, and I wasn’t in the cheap seats.

I fished through my purse for my Blackberry and ran out of the tent and toward that large stuffed bird as if my life depended on it. “Fredbird,” I shouted, “I can’t believe you’re here!”

I was impatient as he posed for a photo with some kids, but I made sure I was next. The camera flash went off and he turned to me. “It’s you,” I said. “I can’t believe it’s really you!”

I’m sure the people around me thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. This was Fredbird. I got a hug and someone was kind enough to take a photo for me. In that moment, I was a little kid again.

As soon as it was over, I called Pops. “Guess who I met?” I asked. I was so excited I could barely speak, and I didn’t give Pops I chance to finish. “Fredbird, Pops! I met Fredbird!”

He laughed at my enthusiasm. “I always knew you would,” he said.

Returning the Favor

2010-02-16T19:52:00.000-06:00

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve taken my father home from the hospital. I somehow got the honor after his numerous heart surgeries. The routine was always the same: I’d wheel Pops and his huge bag of whatever my mother packed out of the hospital to my car, load Pops and his stuff in while lecturing him to watch his stitches. Once, after a triple bypass, the nurse told me Pops had to place “something soft” between the seat belt and his chest. All we had was a teddy bear the heart patients received in rehab (nicknamed “Sir Koffs A Lot”—no idea why), so I drove Pops home with a teddy bear nestled to his chest.

A friend once commented she didn’t know how I did it. It’s easy. I owe him.

I was in a terrible car accident shortly after my 18th birthday. I was a passenger in a car that hit a utility pole. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt and ended up taking out the windshield with my face. My injuries were extensive, especially to my forehead. It was sliced three quarters of the way across and down to the skull. I also had cuts on my chin, a fat lip, chipped tooth and a very bruised face.

I required 300 stitches in my forehead, and I had to wait hours for the bleeding to stop before the surgeon could sew me up. My father had jumped out of bed and made the 15 minute trip to the hospital in eight minutes to be with me. He made my mother stay home after my friend told him how serious my injuries were. He didn’t want her seeing me hurt.

When it was time to start the stitches, Pops refused to leave the exam room. The surgeon was much smaller than my father and didn’t want a fight, so he said Pops could stay with me. And I’m glad he did.

I wouldn’t have made it without him. The shots the nurse gave me to “numb the pain” hurt so badly I insisted she stop and that the surgeon just sew. The surgeon yelled at me for crying. Pops told me to squeeze his hand when it hurt. He told me later he thought I was going to break it.

It was years before my father told me how he almost fainted watching me get stitched up. But I couldn’t tell. I just stayed still, squeezing his hand to block out the excruciating pain while tears silently ran down my face. It took the surgeon two hours to close my gaping head wound.

So, all those times I’ve spent in the hospital with my dad, being annoyed by him, praying he will make it through yet another surgery and then trucking him home are nothing compared to what he did for me.

I haven’t been in a vehicle without a seat belt since then.

I'm the Only One

2010-02-01T20:20:00.000-06:00

I’m in the middle of taking a course on diversity and leadership. We’re studying gender, and that’s got me thinking about how gender plays out in my life.

I am the only girl in a family of boys. I don’t just mean my immediate family (2 brothers and me). I mean both sides of my extended family. My paternal grandparents have 10 grandchildren—9 boys and me. My maternal grandparents have six—five boys and, once again, me.

I am five of six on my mother’s side, so the real chance of having female cousins fell to my father’s side, where I am two of 10 in the birth order. My grandparents have five children born several years apart. There are 23 years between my father, the oldest, and his youngest sister. I never really thought about being the only girl until I was 11 and my aunt and uncle were expecting their first baby. I used to get so angry when my aunt would tell people they wanted a boy because we had plenty of them already. Disappointed flooded me when we got the call that yet another boy joined the family.

A year later, I got another chance. My aunt and uncle were having another baby. No way could this be a boy. Disappointed again. I didn’t get my hopes up when another aunt and uncle (when your father is the oldest of five, you have lots of aunts and uncles) announced they were expecting the following year. Glad I didn’t because—you guessed it—another boy. We were up to eight grandchildren at that point.

Five years went by before another grandchild was on the way. I thought this was going to be it. I was 19 and still hoping for another girl in the family. But it was Zachary instead of Christina, and I gave up. I accepted that I was going to be it.

My father’s youngest sister married then, but as the years went by and no kids, we just assumed they didn’t want or couldn’t have them. I got the shock of my life in 2003 when my aunt announced she was pregnant. Could I hope? After all these years and grandchildren—could we finally have another girl? This baby would be magic number 10. Surely the odds would be in favor of a girl.

I was visiting my parents when my aunt and uncle stopped by to visit. “We found out what we’re having,” my aunt said. I knew it by looking at her face and accepted defeat. Sean was born in December 2003, three months after I turned 30. I was destined to be surrounded by boys. Holding the tiny newborn at the hospital, I decided that wasn’t so bad.

When I tell people I’m the only girl on both sides of my family, they laugh and comment about how I must be spoiled. I wasn’t. I was treated the same as the boys, especially in my immediate family. I had to mow the lawn and help my father around our farm just like my brothers. My brothers had to help with meals, dishes and laundry like me. My father taught me how to shoot a gun, throw a punch and even drive a tractor. I never once felt like I couldn’t do anything because I was a girl, and I will be forever grateful to my parents for that.

My special place in our family hit me the last time I saw my Grandma Betty. I went to visit her in the hospital the day before she died to say good-bye. I was sitting next to her bed when her doctor came into the room. “Who is this?” he asked her.

“This is my only granddaughter,” she announced, placing extra emphasis on the word only. “She is special.”

And at that moment, I didn’t mind being the only girl.

Skin Deep

2010-01-04T14:36:00.000-06:00

I was waiting in line for coffee when I noticed the woman staring at me. Curious, I held her gaze until she shuffled a bit before blurting out, “You have pretty skin.”

There was a time when that compliment was rare, even unheard of. Growing up, if I caught someone staring at me, they would have done so because of my skin tone.

A polite term for what I am is pale. My grandmothers used to call it “alabaster.” The kids I grew up with called me “dead” or “super white” or “like a corpse.” I am so fair that I can see veins underneath my skin. I have never had a tan, and even the fake tan products can’t help me.

Growing up, I wanted nothing more than a tan. I would spend hours outside in the summers between sixth and eighth grades, with my beach towel spread on the lawn and me poured into a bikini in hopes of getting a golden glow. Despite my best efforts, I would end up pink or red if the sunburn were bad. Then, just as quickly, I would fade back to white. I hated the first day back to school, when my classmates were bronze and I was still “like a corpse.”

The worst part of being so fair was the questions. Why was I so white? Didn’t I tan? Why not try a tanning bed? Or makeup? As if I wanted to be so pale.

I finally gave up on the tanning quest after an eighth grade physical. I asked my doctor why I was so pale, and he did a great job of patiently explaining to me about melanin and skin cancer and sunscreen. Terrified of the word cancer after my grandfather’s death from the disease, I immediately started wearing sunscreen whenever I was outside—a habit that continues to this day.

The name calling stopped after I “embraced the pale,” but there was still a part of me that longed for a tan. Bronzed skin seemed so beautiful and healthy. But then I went away to college and met and noticed people like me. Fair skinned, alabaster, pale. I was no longer alone. I started getting compliments instead of taunts.

And now we’ve come full circle. Thanks to Twilight and True Blood, pale skin is “in.” The trait that caused me so much grief growing up is coveted. It may have taken vampires to make it acceptable, but I’ll take it if it means another kid won’t be teased for not having a tan.

As for me, I’m doing fine with the paleness. I still avoid the sun and religiously wear sunscreen. I have few wrinkles or lines, and I still get carded from time to time. Someone told me the other day that “there’s no way you can be 30.” I’m not—I’m 36. I’ll take it.

A New Year

2010-01-01T09:04:00.000-06:00

A new year brings with it the promise of new beginnings and fresh starts. Many of us have resolutions. We want to lose weight, stop smoking, exercise, read more or a host of other goals too numerous to mention. Today, the first day of 2010, we are brimming with excitement, energy and promise. This will be “the” year.

I have not yet decided exactly what I want to accomplish in 2010. But while I think about what the new year will hold for me, I will also take the time to be grateful for what I have. My wonderful family and friends. A challenging, steady job that allows me to take care of myself while meeting my professional needs. I own my home. There is food on the table and money in the bank. I am in good health, and after years of illness, so are my parents. My two furballs are happy, healthy and bringing joy to my days. I could go on.

Today, the temptation to focus on what to improve is great. But don’t forget about the joys and blessings that already fill your days. Want what you already have—not what you don’t.

Reframing the List

2009-11-21T19:13:00.001-06:00

The request arrived even earlier this year in the form of an email.

“Have you thought about your Christmas List?” my mother wrote. “I’d like to start shopping early this year.”

It was mid-October. She usually waits until early November before she starts asking (or nagging, depending on my mood) and gives my brothers and me a Thanksgiving deadline. But for some reason she decided to start early, and I felt the pressure.

It’s been a month since she first made the request, and I still haven’t attempted a list. I always struggle with it, but this year seems even more challenging than usual. There isn’t anything I need, and I can’t think of anything I want.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about why I struggle with such a simple task, asking my parents to buy me gifts. I used to think it was about clutter and not wanting a bunch of “stuff” in my house, but I realize it’s deeper than that.

It’s about money. Something we never had much of growing up.

We never went hungry, or were homeless or anything like that. We always had food on the table, clothes on our backs and a roof over our heads. But I always knew that it wasn’t easy at times for my parents. My father worked 41 years at a job he didn’t care for, barely missing a day of work and putting in plenty of overtime, in order to take care of his family.

My father is retired now and providing for my mother and himself with a pension and social security. The same roof remains over their heads, and food and clothing are plenty. In theory, since they no longer support my brothers and me, money for Christmas shouldn’t be an issue.

But in reality, there are bills. Both my parents have battled major illness in the past eight years. Both almost died. They survived, but their health requires a large chunk of that retirement income. They don’t mention it, but I’ve seen the thick binder of medical bills that sits on my father’s desk next to the computer.

The thought of them spending money on me makes me feel guilty. The guilt makes me struggle with the Christmas List. Yes, my mother asks for it. But the guilt is still there, hanging over my head like a storm cloud.

I mentioned my struggle to a friend. She suggested I reframe the idea of the Christmas List and look at it from my mother’s point-of-view. Mom enjoys shopping, especially at the holidays. She wants my brothers and me to have a happy Christmas, and in her mind that involves presents wrapped underneath a tree. She also doesn’t want to disappoint and buy us something we don’t want, like or already own, so that’s why she places such value on the list. Write a list, my friend suggested. Don’t worry about if they can afford it. They know their limits. Enjoy making her happy.

And that’s what I’m going to do.

Acceptance

2009-11-04T15:21:00.000-06:00

Merriam Webster defines acceptance as “the act of being accepting.” To accept something is “to receive willingly” or “to agree to.”

I accept that many people do not hold beliefs that are compatible to mine. That is fine. I support their right to their beliefs, as well as their right to support their opinions—even when I disagree. Some of the people I admire, love and hold near and dear have different ideas and opinions from mine. I accept that. That is what makes America great.

However, I do not support name calling. Just because someone does not agree with you does not make her a Nazi, a whiny liberal, an idiot, self-righteous or any other of the host of hateful names I’ve seen people called today. I do not accept name calling.

It is one thing to disagree, but do it without name calling. If you cannot form an argument without resorting to name calling, then work on your rhetorical and critical thinking skills. We are adults. Act like it.

Baseball Heaven

2009-10-09T11:26:00.000-05:00

I grew up in what is known as “baseball heaven,” and I attended my first St. Louis Cardinals game at the tender age of 11 days old. My father’s rationale was they already had the tickets, so why not? Thus, I (like most St. Louis residents) began my love affair with baseball at an early age.

The first game I remember attending was as a five-year-old in what is now known as “Busch 2” since the Cardinals opened their new stadium in 2006. The entire family went, but I got to sit next to my dad. He taught me to keep score with a scorecard and a grubby pencil. I made it until the seventh inning when the game got too complicated. We were up so high that the players looked like ants. Mom bought me a pennant and scolded me for hitting the bald guy in front of me in the head with it. That pennant still hangs on the wall of my childhood bedroom at my parents’ house. It’s yellow with age but the familiar birds on bat logo is still visible.

My family attended at least one Cardinals game every summer. My mom would load my brothers and me into the family truckster and we would pick my dad up from work before heading over to St. Louis. We always got to the stadium early enough to watch batting practice. We didn’t have much money, so we never got to sit close to the field. When I reached junior high, I earned ticket vouchers for my good grades, so we got to go to two games during those summers. I always sat next to my dad, whom I call Pops, and we always kept score—at least until the seventh inning when I seemed to get confused and would give up. The players still looked like ants, even after I got glasses.

I loved those games with my family, but I wanted to sit closer. I asked Pops why we couldn’t. He was blunt with honesty. We couldn’t afford it. The “nosebleed section,” as he called it, was it. But I wanted more.

I thought about my childhood at Busch 2 when I met Pops outside the stadium this past Sunday. It was the final game of the regular season. I was nervous with excitement. He knew we had “good seats,” but he didn’t know just how good. He was just happy to be at the game for a father-daughter day, but when I handed him his ticket, his eyes grew huge. He looked at me and said, “Wow.”

Then I walked into Busch Stadium, the home of the baseball team he introduced me to all those years ago, and led the man who could never afford anything but the nosebleed section down to the seats right behind the Cardinals dugout. It took all I had not to cry. Pops looked like a kid on Christmas morning. Players signed the new baseball I brought along for him. He took photos while never losing the smile on his face.

We kept score on shiny scorecards with new pencils. And I made it to the end of the game.

I Want to Shave My Legs, Not Make Meth

2009-09-27T20:18:00.001-05:00

It started out like an ordinary shopping trip. I decided to stop at the local Walgreen’s to pick up a few things before heading home for the day. I walked down the store aisles with list in hand, tossing items into a basket until I got to this one:

Razor blades.

I stood in the aisle, puzzled for a few moments while I searched for the blades I wanted to purchase. I was getting annoyed and impatient as I scanned the aisle until my eyes fell upon a display case of razors and replacement blades.

It was locked up. As in, with a key. As in, I needed to find a store clerk to open this display if I wanted my damn razor blades.

I briefly thought about going to another store, but curiosity got the better of me. I had to know why some . . . not all . . . of the women’s razors and blades were locked up. I noticed none of the men’s razors or blades were locked in a case.

After several minutes of walking around the store and briefly contemplating just picking the lock on the annoying display case, I finally found a sales clerk. As we walked over to the display, I asked why it was locked. “Oh, it’s policy,” she said as she whipped out a key ring with enough keys for everyone in the neighborhood to get at least two.

“What do you mean, it’s policy?” I asked. “Are people actually stealing razors and blades? Why aren’t the men’s razors locked up as well?”

Sighing heavily, she handed me the package I wanted and said, “And you have to pay for these in cosmetics” before walking away and leaving me with my package and unanswered questions.

If this is Walgreen’s “policy,” then they’ve lost me as a customer. I don’t appreciate the inconvenience and hassle when I just want a package of razor blades. After all, I just want to shave my legs . . . not make meth.

The Halfway Point

2009-09-14T18:57:00.001-05:00

Today I turn 36-years-old. It’s not a “special birthday,” as a co-worker pointed out last week. It doesn’t end in a “0” or “5,” and I’ve yet to see a “Lordy, Lordy, look who’s 36” birthday card.

But for me, it is a special birthday. I have now reached the halfway point.

I have spent half my life with and without the six scars on my face, the largest of which runs across most of my forehead. The remaining five scars are on my chin—three underneath my chin and two smaller ones on my chin. But the forehead scar is the one that reminds me.

I see it every time I look in the mirror. Others claim not to notice it. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I know where to look. After all, it is my face. The doctor who stitched up the gaping hole in my forehead took extra care with his work, and for this I am grateful. He left me with a white line that has faded over time.

When the wound was fresh and held together with black thread (not unlike Frankenstein’s monster), many would look at the white bandage on my forehead covering the wound and suggest “a nice haircut with bangs.” The bolder ones would mention plastic surgery. I often wonder what they would suggest if they saw the wound itself, but I always wore a bandage in public. The first few weeks after the car accident, I had white gauze wrapped around my head, a fat lip, chipped tooth, two black eyes and a swollen nose. It would be weeks before I would get the gauze removed and get by with a forehead only bandage. I had hair down my back then, much like I do now. The first thing I did after leaving the doctor’s office the day he took the gauze off my head was to go to the hairdresser to get my hair washed. When she mentioned there was blood in the water despite all my attempts to scrub it out of my hair, I told her to cut it off. It would be years before I would have long hair again.

The suggested plastic surgery was not necessary, thanks to the surgeon’s skill that long night in the ER. I haven’t researched it, but I sometimes wonder if technology has improved enough for a surgeon to remove the scar. However, I’ve had this scar half my life now, and I’m used to it. The scar is also a reminder. It reminds me of what I survived, how lucky I was to basically walk away from a bad accident. I think of how people pointed and whispered and stared when they saw my battered face and how I learned to stop worrying about what others think and to be more compassionate. My scars taught me words can be cruel and to be careful with mine.

When I think about what my scar represents, I am grateful for these lessons.

For I Love Her So

2009-07-30T21:27:00.002-05:00

The envelope was big and bulky, with my name and address written in an unfamiliar, loopy cursive scrawl. Curiosity got the better of me as I ripped it open.

Nancy is the last of my great aunts and the youngest sister of my maternal grandfather. She was born when my grandfather was 32 years old, so he was more like a father to her than a sibling. She is only 10 years old than her niece—my mother.

I last saw Aunt Nancy almost four years ago at the party my brothers and I hosted for our parents’ 40th wedding anniversary. It was the first time I officially met, and I was stunned at how much she looked like my grandfather. It had been 25 years since I last saw that face, with its dark complexion, high cheekbones and lined forehead. She still had a thick head of coal black hair with a tiny touch of gray, just like my grandfather did in his 70s. I couldn’t help but stare, and she couldn’t help but notice.

Aunt Nancy was very kind and gracious to me, answering the many questions I had about my grandfather. He died when I was six, so I had many. “He would have been proud of you,” she said, squeezing my hand before she left for the evening. I fought back tears and wished for time I would never have.

There was no contact with Aunt Nancy until the bulky envelope showed up in the mail. Inside I found a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon and a note from my aunt. She found these letters while cleaning out her attic and wanted me to have them.

These weren’t just any old letters. They were love letters, written by my grandfather to my grandmother, and there were dozens and dozens of them. How nice, I thought. Pa wrote Nana letters when they were dating, or “courting” as he called it. But as I paged through the large pile, I quickly realized the letters went beyond the courtship stage. There was a letter written on their wedding day. One written the day after my mother, his only child, was born. And many, many more in between—not to mention after that. He wrote letters to my Nana literally until the day before he died.

I organized the pile chronologically and sat down to read. Some letters were long, while others were short. I noticed a pattern. Pa always dated his letters in the upper right hand corner of the page in the European way with the date first, then the month and finally the year. He always called Nana “My dearest Zelma” and always mentioned the weather. They were always signed “All my love, Deacon.” I still do not know how he got that nickname.

He apparently traveled during their marriage, because those letters were longer and more detailed. The letters written from home were more like love notes, but they were still beautiful nonetheless. His language was poetic in its simpleness, and there was nothing sappy or embarrassing about his prose. His love for my grandmother leaped off the page, even when he wrote about the most unromantic things, such as planting tomatoes in the garden or hitting my mother’s dog with the car for the “umpteenth time.”

As I read, I started to get a picture of a life unfamiliar to me. I laughed out loud when I realized he was writing about me: “Our granddaughter has your hair color and your stubbornness.” I laughed even harder when I realized the letter was written during the weeks I stayed with my grandparents after the birth of my youngest brother. I desperately wanted a sister and cried with disappointment during these weeks. I obviously annoyed my grandfather, but he never let me see it. I just remember lots of hugs and many new Barbie dolls.

My grandfather eventually lost his voice to cancer, so he depended on the written word even more. He tended to reminisce in the letters written during his illness, while worrying about how my grandmother would cope after he was gone. But in the end, he knew she would be fine because she was strong. He was right.

The final letter in the pile wasn’t addressed to my grandmother. It was written to my mother just days before my grandfather lost his long battle with throat cancer. He ended it with these words: “Take care of your mother, for I love her so.”

My tears stained the old pages. I had the answers I was looking for.

Fathers Day

2009-06-19T20:59:00.002-05:00

It was supposed to be another angioplasty, but this didn’t feel right. We had been in the hospital waiting room for much longer than usual. Every so often, the surgeon would come out and say it was “going to be a bit longer.”

But it never dawned on me that something really was wrong when we were summoned to the ICU waiting room so we could go see my father. I was standing next to my mother, stifling my yawns, when the other family in the room became visibly upset. The woman started crying and saying someone was coding.

That someone was my father.

He was having a heart attack while his family stood in the next room, and we had no idea. We just stood there and waited for what seemed like an eternity, until the nurse came and took us back to our familiar waiting room. I still hadn’t put two and two together.

Pops’ surgeon looked exhausted when he finally showed up to the waiting room. Grimfaced, he pulled off his skull cap and sat next to my mother. He explained that the stent he placed into my father’s main artery was not the correct size, and that a blood clot had formed between the stent and the artery wall, causing my father to go into cardiac arrest. They managed to get the stent out, dissolve the clot and insert the correct size stent.

Pops wasn’t even close to being out of the woods yet. He was in intensive care on a lung machine that would breathe for him while his body tried to recover from his latest heart surgery. We had been through so many heart surgeries with Pops, both angioplasties and bypass, that we were expecting the usual routine of a few hours of surgery, stop in and visit Pops and then go to dinner and home exhausted.

We were allowed to go to ICU to see Pops before we were told to go home and rest. He was unconscious. I was 32 years old, a year younger than my mother when she lost her own father.

No one outside the five of us knew about this latest surgery. Pops didn’t want to worry anyone and asked us to call his mother and siblings after it was over. My older brother made the calls while I sat in the waiting room with Mom. My younger brother was living in San Diego at the time and couldn’t afford to come home.

I lived only a few miles from the hospital, so it was decided I would stay with Pops while my older brother stayed with Mom. The long trips to the hospital exhausted her, and we didn’t see the point in her just sitting there. My brother would stay on the farm with her and take care of things there, while I handled the hospital. He got the better end of the bargain, but nothing would have kept me from my father.

He remained on the lung machine for two days before he became strong enough to breathe on his own. I arrived at ICU shortly after the machine was removed. I had tears in my eyes when he motioned to me. His voice was barely a whisper. “Why was I being held hostage?”

I was confused. “Daddy, you’re in the hospital,” I replied. “You had a heart attack.”

He shook his head, insisting that he had been held hostage on a plane. I smashed the call button so hard I thought I had broken my hand. The nurse came running and then sat me down, explaining that my father had been under heavy sedation while on the machine and that was affecting his memory. She assured me it was temporary. She then turned to him and asked him if he knew who I was.

He said, yes, that I was his daughter. I smiled. Then he called me Patty. My mother’s name. The smile faded.

My father has always been a fan of conspiracy theories, and the sedation only amplified this. Besides the plane episode, he told my younger brother on the phone that he had been held captive in Iraq and fed radioactive material that made him have a stroke. He refused his medication and refused to wear his hospital gown. I would patiently remind him each time that he was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack. He would often tell me that he was not supposed to be there. He kept forgetting he was in the hospital.

The phone calls were the worst. Somehow, he managed to have a telephone in intensive care. The nurses were overworked and exhausted and would dial for him after they ran out of patience with him. My number was first on the list. I was surprised to hear his voice when I picked up the phone. “Something’s not right,” he said. “I’m not supposed to be here.” I explained again that he was and asked to speak to his nurse. Once she assured me he was fine, I told her to take the phone away and that I would be back in the morning.

The nurse called at four that morning to tell me that Pops tried to pull out his IV while the nurses were busy with a fellow patient having a heart attack. He told the nurses that he was going home. I got up, dressed and made the short drive to the hospital fuming with anger. I was going to get through to this man, or he was going to be committed.

Even he knew I was angry when I walked into his room. “I’m in trouble,” he said to me. “You’re damn right you are,” I replied, pushing the call button for the nurse, who got a lecture from me about the telephone.

Yet the phone remained in the room. If I weren’t available for calls, then he would call Mom and upset her. He even called his own mother, who could no longer drive. I found myself calling Grandma Betty, crying to her about my own exhaustion and fears that my father would not come to his senses. She let me cry and told me not to give up hope. He’ll come around, she said.

It happened the day my mother finally visited. He was in his now usual conspiracy mode and once again refusing to wear the hospital gown. After an hour, my mother was so exhausted she ordered the nurse to sedate him so she and my brother could sneak out and go home. She was gone when my father woke up, and this gesture finally seemed to wake him up. He was still not wearing a gown when I arrived at the hospital that afternoon, but he was lucid and throwing a fit about how “your mom left me.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t blame her, but instead I reminded him that he needed to wear a gown. He told me the nurses didn’t give him one. I said they actually gave him at least six before I called the nurse and requested pajamas. You’re wearing clothes, I commanded. He knew who was in charge. He put on the pajamas and took his medication when the nurses brought it to him. I was no longer tolerating this nonsense, and he knew it.

I left the hospital that Friday night after the doctor told me Pops would go home on Monday. The next morning, Pops called me at seven to tell me to come get him because he was going home. I asked to speak to the nurse, thinking it was more of his shenanigans, but it was true. Pops came around—just like Grandma Betty said he would.

It’s been three and a half years, but Pops does not remember any of it. When he starts laughing at how he basically tortured everyone with his conspiracy theories, I remind him that he refused to wear clothes. The laughter stops.

It was exhausting and stressful and scary, but I’d do it again if I had to because he’s my daddy. Now matter how old I am, he will always be daddy to me.

Happy Fathers Day, Pops.

We Are All Someone's Child

2009-05-26T19:43:00.001-05:00

I was driving on the two lane country highway to the small town hospital to say good-bye to Grandma Betty when I promised myself that I would not cry. She was dying—even she knew she didn’t have much time left—and I wasn’t going to upset her with my tears. This would be the last time I would see her, and I was determined to make sure it was full of love.

It was barely nine in the morning when I pulled into the parking lot next to the tiny, one-story hospital. I went inside, not sure where I was going when I wandered into a large group of Johnson relatives huddled in the hallway. The news wasn’t good. There was nothing else the doctors could do for Grandma, so we were going to make her comfortable and keep her company until she left us.

I left my dad and his siblings in the hallway and went into Grandma’s room. I was wearing my glasses, which were not familiar to her, so I spoke first out of concern she wouldn’t know who I was. Immediately recognizing my voice, she turned to the nurse who was combing her hair and proudly announced that her only granddaughter had come to visit.

I reminded myself of the promise I made in the car: no tears.

I took the comb from the nurse and continued fixing Grandma Betty’s short silvery-grey hair. It was unevenly cut and without any real style. I could tell my aunt had been cutting it at home again. I chuckled as I noticed a few strands of black woven into the silver and grey. I am the second oldest of Grandma Betty’s 10 grandchildren and remember when she had a full head of coal black hair. I struggled to remember when she turned grey, couldn’t and gave up.

I put the comb down and moved over to the chair on the other side of her bed. I sat and made small talk with her, telling her about the long drive (“No, Grandma, I did not see any deer and I will make sure to watch for them when I leave. I don’t want to hit one, either”) and listening to her tell me about my brothers visiting her the previous day. She clutched my hand and repeated weakly, “I am so happy to see you.” The same phrase she always said to me whenever I visited.

No tears.

The morning dragged on into afternoon as my family crowded into Grandma Betty’s tiny hospital room. She was the only patient in the room, so we took advantage and spread out. I tried to ignore the obvious struggle for breath coming from the hospital bed and laughed when she scolded my Uncle Mike about trying to access his work servers on his laptop. She even apologized to the nurses he had bring a long cable into her room in what turned out to be an unsuccessful attempt to log in. “My son and his computer,” she said, shaking her head.

After an uneventful lunch of hospital food, my four-year-old cousin, the youngest of Grandma Betty’s 10 grandchildren, arrived with his father. My mother always claims Sean “livens the place up” wherever he goes, and he didn’t fail to disappoint. He jabbered on about his day at summer camp when he suddenly stopped and stared at Grandma Betty. “When are you coming home, Meme?” he asked her, using the nickname all 10 of us called her whenever we first learned to talk and struggled to pronounce grandma. “I’ll be home soon,” she replied. “It won’t be much longer.”

No tears.

Afternoon turned into evening and the breathing got more and more labored. The oxygen mask was worn for longer periods of time and she struggled to stay awake. I sat in the chair next to her bed and held onto her hand. It was warm, just like it always was. She started to slip in and out of consciousness. I would put my mouth next to her ear and say, “I love you, Meme” and feel her squeeze my hand. Eventually, the squeezing stopped.

The nurse came into the room to check on Grandma Betty and announced that we had just a few hours. I practiced deep breathing like I was taught in yoga to stay calm and to keep the tears away. She was struggling and in pain. It was time.

But it wasn’t. Grandma came back to us. The oxygen mask came off and she leaned back into the pillows and closed her eyes. The struggle against death was exhausting.

I calmly walked over to her bed and stood next to her, taking her right hand in mine. This was the hand with all five fingers intact, unlike the left one I’d been clutching off and on all day. The left one had two stubs for the middle and ring fingers after a childhood accident with an axe. That’s why no knives or anything sharp were allowed around her grandchildren. I clutched her hand tight, bent forward until my mouth was next to her ear. I told her I loved her, that I admired her fight and knew she was in pain and that it was OK to let go. My voice was strong and steady.

I kissed her forehead and walked over to my father and watched as the family followed my lead and whispered their private good-byes to the woman who was the foundation of our family. I told my father to go. He seemed hesitant. I said go while she’s still with us and can hear.

My big, strong father—the man who can fix anything, whether it’s a broken bicycle or a broken heart—walked over to his mother’s bedside and took her hand. He began whispering in her ear when I felt the sob rise in my chest. Watching my father—my strong father—tell her mother good-bye was too much. I couldn’t stop the sob as it loudly escaped from me. It was so strong and sudden that it didn’t sound like a sob—more like the barking sea lions I’d seen the week before at the zoo—and it caused my Aunt Pat, the oldest of my father’s two sisters to look at me in alarm. It was my Aunt Peg, the sister who at 40 is closer in age to me than my father, who came running over and hugged me close, allowing the hot tears to spill onto her t-shirt as the sobs I fought all day came rushing forward. I finally found the one thing my father couldn’t fix, and it ripped my heart out.

Mother

2009-05-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

One of the earliest books I remember reading is called Mom, You’re Fired. It is story of a girl named Tina who was embarrassed by her mother.

I grew up feeling embarrassed by my mother. She was everything I didn’t want to be: married at 18, a mother at 19 and barely earning a GED. She wore her black hair in a short puffy style, weighed down with hairspray and dressed in shabby mismatched clothes. Her makeup looked like it was spackled on with a putty knife and always seemed to be the first thing people noticed when they saw her. She was the original Tammy Faye.

Most women cite their mothers as inspiration. I do, too, but in a different way. She drove me not to be like her. I studied hard, read everything I could get my hands on and counted the days until I could leave for college. I wanted to be a journalist and have a career instead of being an unhappy housewife with three kids and a stingy husband. I changed my hairstyle constantly, making sure to avoid anything short and puffy, and wore lightly applied makeup. I was determined to be better than her.

In Mom, You’re Fired Tina eventually learns to accept her mother and not be embarrassed by her. I didn’t outgrow that. I entered adulthood just as embarrassed of my mother as I was during childhood. I avoided her as much as possible.

I was 27 and just months into my new career in public relations when my mother was diagnosed with liver disease. She entered the hospital and was discharged home after a weekend with not much encouragement from the doctor. She was home 24 hours when my father called me at work, asking me to come home to see if she needed to go back to the hospital. I think he was afraid she would die and he wouldn’t know what to do. After much begging and pleading, I agreed.

She was propped up on the sofa when I entered the living room, holding a glass of water. She put the glass to her lips to drink and water started spilling out of the glass onto her sweatshirt. Her liver was functioning so poorly that bile was backing up into her bloodstream and poisoning her. She would die without medical attention. I called for the ambulance and followed in my car back to St. Louis, not expecting her to make it through the night. I brought my dad home with me and helped him call relatives until he fell asleep on the sofa.

I underestimated my mother. She’s a fighter. She made it through that night, and many rough days and nights after that. She spent six weeks in that hospital, willing her body to recover and start repairing itself so she could return home. Death could find someone else to visit. Mom was busy.

I got to know my mother during those six weeks. I would work all day and then spend evenings in her hospital room watching television or reading to her. She loved The Grapes of Wrath and The Great Gatsby—two of my favorite books. She told me about the first time she had read both books, which was when she returned to school for her GED. Growing up, the only time I saw my mother read was when a copy of the National Enquirer made it into the house. She told me that if she could have had a career, it would have been in the media, and that she was so proud that was the path I had chosen.

But I broke down when she told me she had read my copy of Mom, You’re Fired when I was a kid and liked the story. She read it because she thought the title was hysterical, and the story comforted her whenever one of her children became angry with her. Remembering how Tina came to accept her mother, she hoped that I would accept her. It took 27 years, but I did.

It’s been eight years, and my mother is still with us. I thought about those six weeks in the hospital while waiting with my family to be seated for lunch on Mothers Day. No longer embarrassed, I was proud to be standing next to her and honoring her that day. I think she liked that gift better than her actual Mothers Day present, a subscription to People magazine.

Searching for the Santa Claus Bandit

2009-04-13T19:22:00.001-05:00

It was the typical Christmas Day lunch. I was sitting at the table with my parents and brothers, listening to my father wax nostalgic for the holidays of his childhood when he dropped this shocker:

“Mom’s brother was the Santa Claus Bandit.”

My brothers and I stopped eating and stared at Dad. “What does that mean?” I asked. “Santa Claus Bandit?”

It was no secret that one of Grandma Betty’s brothers “had done time” in prison, but she would never talk about it, telling anyone who dared to ask that the past belonged in the past. Out of respect for her, I never pressed her on it.

However, this was our first Christmas without her, and my father’s comment caused my journalistic instincts to go into overdrive. Just who was this Santa Claus Bandit?

He was Abraham Dean, the oldest of Grandma Betty’s brothers. Named for their alcoholic, abusive father, he was nicknamed Jock and inherited what my father calls “the bad Dean gene.” He spent most of his life in trouble, having petty brushes with the law until for some unknown reason he started robbing banks. He earned his nickname because he apparently said “Merry Christmas” as he made his escape. He was eventually caught, served time in the state prison in Joliet and never saw his family again.

My father claimed not to know anything else. I told him he would have made a lousy journalist and I must have inherited that particular set of skills from Mom. I was disappointed that someone who grilled me so hard about the buffet at my hotel in Las Vegas that I felt like I was talking to a gluttonous Barbara Walters didn’t think to ask more questions about the Santa Claus Bandit. My brothers echoed my disappointment, claiming that for once Dad had an interesting family story and didn’t bother getting any of the details. They’ve forgotten about it, but I can’t let it go.

I am no longer a full time journalist, but I still know how to research a story. I could find out who the Santa Claus Bandit is. The question is do I really want to? See, I could find out the facts about the Santa Claus Bandit . . . who, what, when, where and how. But what I really want to know is why, and that’s not as easy to find. And I know I won’t find the why I really want to know because the one person who can answer that for me is gone.

What I really want to know is why Grandma Betty never talked about this brother, why she clammed up whenever anyone tried to ask her about it. She took his secrets to her grave, and I want to know why. I’m not sure that answer could be found in dusty old court and prison records.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try.

The Garlic Necklace

2009-04-05T18:26:00.001-05:00

I noticed a bit of annoyance creep into my mother’s tone when I asked how my father was doing. “He’s wearing garlic again,” she sighed.

I knew what she meant. I first encountered the garlic necklace a few years prior, when (ironically) I visited my parents the day after watching the remake of the Salem’s Lot miniseries. The faint odor of garlic hit me when I entered the house and got stronger as I approached the living room where my father sat watching a baseball game. I noticed an old green Army sock knotted on a leather chain wrapped loosely around his neck. I couldn’t keep the look of disgust off my face when I realized he was the reason for the garlicky smell.

“Are you wearing garlic?” I asked. “Is there garlic in that sock?”

“Yes, yes I am,” he replied without even looking at me, as if wearing garlic stuffed inside an old sock around your neck was something everyone was doing and I was behind on the trend.

I lost it then. Not even trying to stifle my laughter, I asked him if he had invited vampires into the house—just like in the previously viewed Salem’s Lot. “Why no,” he replied, as serious as ever and not getting the joke. “I’m fighting off a cold.”

My father is legendary for bizarre health remedies and conspiracy theories. When I was growing up, he was convinced chlorine in the drinking water caused cancer. I quickly learned to keep colds from him after the time he made me eat an entire baked onion because he was certain it would cure whatever ailed me. He was right in a way—I forgot about my cold because I was too busy throwing up after choking down layer after layer of that huge baked disgusting mess.

But the garlic necklace took the cake. His remedies and theories usually only involved him, so the family tolerated them, but this one was different. It looked weird. And Lord, did it smell terrible. I swear every room in their house reeked of garlic, like garlic seeped into the fibers of every bit of furniture and fabric in the place. And I’m sure being stuffed inside that nasty old Army sock only made the smell a million times worse. It was years before I could even think about cooking with garlic again after being traumatized by that necklace.

My poor mother tried everything she could to get rid of the garlic necklace. She bought him garlic tablets. She threw out all his old socks. She pumped him full of vitamins in hopes of keeping his immune system strong in order to fight off colds. Hand sanitizer became a requirement if you wanted to visit. But nothing worked. He somehow managed to find another old sock to stuff full of garlic in order to make his magic necklace whenever he felt a cold coming on. My mother finally shrugged her shoulders in defeat. My brothers and I still enjoyed vampire jokes.

But I think the garlic necklace may be in the past. Tonight on the phone, he mentioned his latest theory. It involves the beef industry, heart disease and the drug companies. I tuned it out after a bit because it was long and complicated. But as long as it doesn’t involve garlic in socks, I’m fine with it—unless he tries to make me eat a baked onion.

The Power of Words

2009-04-04T19:33:00.001-05:00

As a professional writer and communicator, I spend a lot of time thinking about words: their meanings, which ones sound better in a sentence, different interpretations of them, learning new ones. But it was a family tragedy that hammered home to me just how powerful words can be.

It was a cold Saturday morning in April when the phone rudely woke me from a rare deep sleep. I knew it was my parents before I picked up the receiver because I assigned them a ring. I grabbed the phone, wondering who was sick. Having two parents battling disease makes a person assume certain things. However, my assumption was wrong.

“Nick died. He killed himself last night,” my father said quietly, before I even had the chance to say hello. Nick was my cousin, the youngest son of my father’s youngest, troubled brother. I was 12 whenever he was born, and I remember going with my parents to the hospital to see him, disappointed that yet another boy was born into the already large Johnson family. His parents were young, not even in their mid-20s at the time, but they seemed old to my 12-year-old self.

I never really got to know Nick. His family moved away to a small town in central Illinois before he started school. But I didn’t have much hope for him. The son of an alcoholic father and a neglectful mother, he struggled in school and was recommended several times for special education classes. But his father refused, claiming no one would make fun of his son—the way his father had made fun of “those kids.”

Nick stumbled along through life, barely learning to read and getting passed along in school by teachers who didn’t really know what to do with him. His parents divorced when he was 11, and he spent the rest of his school years shuffling back and forth between his parents, who seemed determined to hurt each other instead of putting the needs of their two sons first.

I wasn’t surprised to see Nick smoking outside in his brother’s car at Grandma Betty’s house during one Thanksgiving. He didn’t even try to hide it, even though he wasn’t old enough to drive. It made me wonder what else he was doing.

My assumption that he was drinking turned out to be right. His body was found earlier that April morning, in an old beat up Dodge parked in the garage at his father’s former home, which my uncle had tried for years to sell with no success. The engine was still running. His stepmother found him slumped behind the wheel with beer cans haphazardly strewn all over the front seat. She told my father Nick’s skin was blue with carbon monoxide poisoning and asked him not to tell his brother. Nick was 19 and never graduated high school. He never held a job or seemed to have much of a chance. Now any future for him was gone.

I wondered about the eulogy as I drove along the two lane highways and country roads of central Illinois to the tiny town where Nick’s funeral and burial would take place. The priest was an old family friend. As a child, he worked on my grandparents’ farm. As an adult, he still visited the farm and traded stories. He married Nick’s parents. As a favor to the family he’d known for so long, he was making the long trip out of his parish to give the eulogy for a 19-year-old boy whose life seemed to be a waste. I had no idea what he would say at the funeral, and I did not envy his task.

The parking lot was crowded when I arrived. I was grateful we were at the large church and not the tiny country funeral home where Nick’s wake took place the day before. The church could hold this group with room to spare. I found my parents and brothers and took a seat with them.

The funeral started like most funerals do, with songs and prayer. The air seemed to be sucked out of the room when Father walked up to the pulpit. He was empty handed, which made me think he would be brief.

I don’t remember how long the eulogy was. What I remember is how Father took the life of a child who seemed to have no life and make it sound like he was something. He never mentioned how Nick died—after a night of drinking, he drove to his father’s old house and passed out in the garage with the car running—but instead, he took tiny details about Nick’s life and used them to paint a portrait. He talked about Nick’s love of animals and how he helped his mother bake and decorate cakes. He told us of Nick’s close relationship with his older brother, eventually leaving the audience with a picture of a young, sensitive and caring man who left us too early. That replaced the image I’d had of Nick in my mind before, as an idiot who died with a blue face. That was when I realized just how powerful words truly are.

I will always view Nick’s death as an untimely tragedy and a cautionary tale about drinking and driving. But I no longer view his life as a waste, thanks to Father’s carefully chosen words. That’s better than any lesson I’ve ever been taught.

Layoffs

2009-03-29T08:18:00.001-05:00

The messages poured into my inbox fast and furious. One after another, informing me of former co-workers who got laid off that day. In all, it was a total of eight. I knew layoffs were coming because the company that owns the television station where I once worked recently announced system wide cuts were needed.

This year marks the five year anniversary of my own layoff, and unlike my former co-workers, I didn’t know it was coming. It was a Monday in October. The sky was gray and the air damp with drizzling rain. The air was cold but not cold enough for a heavy coat. Jacket weather.

I was sitting at my desk in my cramped cubicle writing notes for the staff meeting that was to take place in about half an hour when my phone rang. It was our new department head. There was recently some restructuring in my department, and we were now part of the fundraising group. I had a new boss, but I wasn’t really sure what her duties were. We were in transition.

Looking back, I should have known this was coming. My former boss had left to start her own communications company, and we were her first client. She never seemed to care for me, acting uncomfortable and awkward around me while developing a close friendship with her assistant. I had heard through the office grapevine about her departure, but I was shocked to find out the entire department was restructured and that her assistant was promoted into a director role. This was two months before my job was cut.

Our new department head was, and still is, a very nice woman, but I had a knot in the pit of my stomach when she asked me to come into her office so close to our meeting. I started to realize what was happening and tried not to panic as I sat down at the round table across from her desk where she was already seated.

She made it brief, telling me that my job and two other positions in the corporate office were being eliminated due to budget issues. My head started swimming as I realized how unprepared I was. My professional portfolio had not been updated in months. There were copies of press releases and communication plans that I needed in order to represent the 14 months I worked at the company. She was kind enough to tell me I could call her and arrange to come back later in the week to retrieve the documents. It was clear she wanted me out of there before the staff meeting. I wanted to leave before I started to cry. I went back to my cube, grabbed my purse and rolodex off my desk and went home. It was nine a.m. I had a dozen resumes out by noon.

It took me four months to find another job, which I consider a short amount of time, especially compared to what laid off workers are facing now. But what really stands out from that time period is how people treated me when I told them I had lost my job. When I returned to the office two days later to get the rest of my things and to print off copies of documents for my portfolio, I went early in the morning to avoid as many people as possible. But those who were there were amazing. They were gracious and kind and sympathetic. Many tears were shed, and they weren’t just mine. I was treated with respect and allowed as much time as needed to get what I needed. By the weekend, I had received a card in the mail from my former department head, apologizing for how brief and cold she was when she told me the news. It turns out that she had never laid anyone off before, and she was just as shocked and hurt as I was. Their kind gestures still touch me to this day.

Unfortunately, not everyone was as gracious. I had kept in touch with several former co-workers and college classmates throughout the years, and I reached out to every one of them to tell them I was unemployed and looking for work. Many of their reactions disappointed me. Some ignored me, while others acted awkward and uncomfortable, as if being laid off were a contagious disease they hoped not to catch. Many friends stopped returning my calls and emails as well.

The person who helped me the most was one I didn’t expect to help. A college acquaintance invited me to networking events and made sure to introduce me to everyone. She contacted people to tell them I was looking and to sing my praises. She emailed me job leads and got me introductions. She never once shunned me or made me feel like I was nothing because I had lost my job. She is now a good friend, and I know that I can always depend on her.

When I finally got a new job, it was like I had been readmitted to the club. Former co-workers once again were happy to return my calls and answer my emails, acting as if nothing had happened. Friends started calling and inviting me out again now that I was getting a paycheck. Their behavior saddened and disappointed me, and I ended a few friendships as a result.

I am reminded of this time whenever I hear of another round of layoffs, which seems to be almost daily. When I learned of my former co-workers, I reached out to every single one, offering my sympathies and whatever assistance I can. Because this is what a laid off person needs the most: knowing there are people who care. Anyone can lose a job. Remember that the next time someone you know loses their job. Maybe you think you have nothing to offer because you don’t know of any available jobs, but you’re wrong. A kind gesture costs nothing and means everything.

Adventures in Eating

2009-03-14T17:33:00.000-05:00

Growing up in my Midwestern farm family, dinner always meant meat and mashed potatoes. Those two staples could be found on our table night after night. The potatoes were always lumpy and covered with flecks of black pepper. You couldn’t see the salt, but you discovered its presence the moment the fork slid inside your mouth. The meat was always dipped in flour and fried. When I was a little girl and we raised our own animals, it was fried in lard. When I was older and livestock was no longer part of our farm, it was fried in generic Crisco.

I asked my mother once why we had the same meals all the time. She tensed up as she said, “It’s what your father wants.” That was pretty much the reason given for all decisions made in my house growing up. My father was only mimicking what he witnessed growing up. A man dominating his household.

My mother was, and still is, a wonderful cook, but I looked forward to the evenings when my father “worked over.” This is term my family used when my father worked a double shift at his factory. It was never “working late” or “working a double,” but rather “worked over.” Those evenings my mother would abandon the family staples of fried meat and mashed potatoes and cook something exotic like spaghetti and meat sauce. When I was old enough to cook, I would often prepare dinner for my mother, brother and me. These meals usually consisted of Hamburger Helper or tacos made from a kit. This was simple, working class fare, but to me, the food was anything but working class. It was a nice break from the daily grind of meat and mashed potatoes.

But Mom always made sure there was leftover meat and mashed potatoes for Dad to eat when he came home late after “working over.” I remember he threw a fit one time when there wasn’t—he threw a fit with a mouth stuffed full of taco meat from the dinner I prepared hours earlier. He claimed he didn’t like it, but he finished off the big bowl of leftovers.

My tastes changed as I grew up, went to college and moved out into the world. I still ate meat and potatoes, but in a different form. I tried different cuisines that were foreign to my home. I didn’t like them all, but I did like the experience of branching out. Meantime, I could always count on a visit to my parents’ home for meat and mashed potatoes.

What I didn’t realize was that while I was testing my palate, so were my parents. They even tried Chinese food and discovered they liked it. When they insisted on taking me out to dinner for my 34th birthday, I insisted we go to the new Mexican restaurant that recently opened in my hometown. My mother was excited and tried a burrito. My father pouted and had fried chicken wings. He claimed he didn’t know what to order. At least he picked up the check.

My mother seemed to enjoy these culinary adventures more than my father. When my parents visited last year for my mother’s birthday, I baked salmon and made sure to fry chicken breasts for him. I thought of my mother’s stock answer, “It’s what your father wants” as I prepared the two entrees.

After years of meat and mashed potato meals and catering to my father’s taste buds, he surprised me one evening with an excited phone call. “I just had the best meal,” he said. I took a breath and expected him to tell me about the fried chicken and mashed potatoes my mother prepared for him. I almost fell out of the chair when he said, “Your mom made chicken noodle soup. It was a recipe she found on a can of broth. It is the best meal I’ve ever had. I could eat this every day for the rest of my life.”

Nothing was fried or mashed. It was simply chicken, broth, noodles, carrots and celery. Yet I had never heard my father rave about a meal like this. He waxed poetic about chicken soup, giving me the play-by-play of Mom’s meal preparation. I never knew he could be so descriptive. All this from a simple recipe on the side of a can.

He was so thrilled with the chicken soup that I looked forward to sampling some during my next visit to the farm. My mother had invited me for lunch, and when she called to confirm my arrival time, I asked what we were having. I expected her to say chicken noodle soup but she surprised me. “Fried chicken and mashed potatoes,” she said, heaving a deep sigh. “It’s what your father wants.”

Some things never change.

They're Just Arms

2009-03-08T13:39:00.001-05:00

Another day, another dozen articles about Michelle Obama’s preference for sleeveless dresses. Our new first lady is creating quite the stir with her finely sculpted arms.

I don’t get it. On one hand, I understand and even expect the articles on how to get arms like Mrs. Obama’s. She is in terrific shape, and her arms are an attainable asset for many women. I even find myself admiring and coveting them.

But what I don’t get are the editorials asking if it’s OK for Mrs. Obama to have bare arms. Even Maureen Dowd got in on the act today in the New York Times. The economy is in the tank and doesn’t show any signs of improving any time soon. People are losing jobs left and right. The country remains at war. Yet, Michelle Obama’s arms are international news. When her official White House portrait was unveiled, showing her in a beautiful black sheath dress, those impressive arms on display, many writers carried on like she had just posed for Playboy. It’s a sleeveless dress, people. Not a nuclear meltdown.

A journalist friend argued with me that people are tired of the bad news and want “something light and fun,” and that Mrs. Obama’s bare arms fit the bill. While I agree that soft news is needed, the tone behind many of these editorials is anything but “light and fun.” Many editorials I’ve read about Mrs. Obama’s so-called “right to bare arms” are mean and petty, as if her physical fitness is threatening. Is it because she’s strong and gives off an “I can take care of myself” vibe? Or is it because she’s in her 40s and is in better shape than many women, including those younger than her? Is it a combination of the two?

Whatever it is, I wish the media would move on and find something else to write about. There are many more important and interesting stories to tell.

Join the Public Insight Network

2009-02-26T09:38:00.002-06:00

Technology amazes me. While I agree with Neil Postman that we need to keep in mind that technology does have its faults, we cannot deny the benefits technology brings to our lives.

One benefit I enjoy is the ability to communicate with others, including both people I already know and new “friends” met through social media platforms like Twitter. The ability to blog has enabled me to find a new audience for my writing, which inspires me to keep writing and publishing. Blogs have also introduced me to many wonderful writers whom I most likely never would have found without the use of technology. I am able to learn in new ways I never thought possible because of technology.

Technology also allows us to “share what we know,” which brings me to my latest discovery: The Public Insight Network. This is a partnership between two St. Louis based media outlets: the St. Louis Beacon, an online independent publication, and KETC-TV, a PBS affiliate. According to the Beacon, the purpose of the network is sharing our knowledge. This network comes at a crucial time, as newsrooms continue to slash budgets and staff, with some newspapers closing up shop altogether. The shrinking we see on an almost daily basis in the media makes it harder and harder for many great stories to be told. That’s where the Public Insight Network comes into play.

It works like this: members join the PIN for free, stating their interests, areas of expertise and contact information. Requests are made, both via email or phone calls to members of the PIN, as well as on the Beacon web site, for information, knowledge and expertise on certain topics. You can choose to participate or simply ignore the request. If you participate, your information is sent to the editors, who pass it along to the reporters working on the story. If the reporter decides she wants to hear more, she contacts you. Your information is never used without your permission. Your privacy is protected. It’s that simple.

What I like about the PIN is it gives the audience a voice and a chance to participate in ways that traditional media do not. Reporters and editors are given access to stories and insight from people they might not have found without this network. My first journalism teacher, who ironically now writes for the Beacon, used to say that everyone has a story to tell. I agree with her observation, but my years in the news business lead me to take that observation one step further: everyone has a story to tell, but they don’t always have a way to tell it.

Now they do, thanks to the benefits of technology, which allowed the creation of the PIN. Take advantage of both and be heard. Don’t like the stories you see covered by the traditional media? Contact the PIN and tell them about it. Offer your alternatives, your insight, and your stories. Respond to their request and be an active citizen.

Readers in the St. Louis area, I ask you to consider joining the Public Insight Network. Those outside the St. Louis area, I ask you to consider forming your own Public Insight Network. The future of journalism depends on it.

Help

2009-01-29T09:06:00.000-06:00

I am the only girl in a family of boys. I have no sisters, no female cousins. While I still find myself hoping for a girl every time a relative announces a new baby is on the way, I have accepted that the men in my family will outnumber the women for years to come.

Growing up, I wasn’t treated any differently than the boys. I was expected to do and did perform my share of manual labor chores. I mowed the grass, raked leaves, learned to chop wood for the wood burning stove that heated our old farmhouse. I helped my father whenever farm machinery needed to be fixed. Gender wasn’t an issue when it came to farm work. Whatever needed to be done was done. While I hated the work growing up, I am now proud of it and grateful for having to do it. It means I am self-sufficient. I am not afraid of hard work, a little sweat equity.

I was reminded of this yesterday when I woke up to discover six inches of fresh snow on the ground. One of the responsibilities of homeownership is cleaning up, and the snow meant it was time to get out the shovel. Compared to my parents’ farm, I have very little to shovel. Just the front porch, the sidewalks in front of and next to the house and the deck in the backyard. It should have been simple.

It started out simply. I had finished cleaning off the deck and was working on the front porch when the man walked up to me. He started showing up last winter after storms, offering to clean off my paths. I’ve always politely declined. The first winter I owned my home, no one showed up. Now, they show up in numbers. A sign of the recession.

I should have politely declined again, but my back was aching. I have back problems that I didn’t have while growing up on the farm. I hesitated and let the ache get to me. I told him he could finish, we agreed on a price and that was that. So I thought.

That afternoon, I decided to try my luck and venture out to buy food for the dog. I at least needed to clean the several inches of snow off my car, even if I didn’t leave the house. I bundled up, grabbed the car keys and went outside. I was a few minutes into sweeping the snow off the car when a neighbor approached.

The first thing I noticed about him was his lack of two front teeth. He was tall and thin and had a faint body odor. “Let me do that,” he said, trying to grab the ice scraper/brush tool out of my hand. I waved him away at first, but he wouldn’t go. I was tired, still aching. I gave up and handed it to him.

He cleaned off my car and then asked if I had a shovel. He was right; I would need to shovel around my car if I hoped to drive away without getting stuck. I opened the trunk and pulled out the travel shovel I keep there for emergencies.

While he was shoveling around the car, I noticed the long stretch of sidewalk that runs parallel to the street next to my house. It was untouched. The man I gave into that morning walked away with my hard earned money without finishing the job. I sighed, upset with myself for being taken advantage of.

I turned my attention back to the man with the missing front teeth and told him he was finished. I grew up on a farm. I could get out of that snow. The car is front wheel drive. I can do it.

I thanked him and got into the car. He motioned for me to roll down the window. Impatient, I cracked it. “How come you don’t have no man,” he asked me. I wasn’t interested in this conversation. I politely replied that I did. He asked where he was. I realized he wanted to be paid for “helping” me and thought keeping the conversation going would weaken my hold on my wallet. I thanked him again and drove away, shaking my head at the snow covered sidewalk that I would have to shovel despite paying someone to “help” me.

I thought about all the requests I’ve received in the past year to shovel my sidewalks and mow my lawn. None of these came from children. All were from grown men looking to make some money. When I bought my home, everyone kept telling me I would be overwhelmed with offers from kids to do these chores. In the two years since, not a single child has offered. It’s always been grown men, and I suspect many of them don’t even live in my neighborhood.

I have a tangle of thoughts and emotions now. I am angry and feel taken advantage of. I am tired of men trying to make a quick buck off me under the guise of “helping.” I feel guilty when I say no because I can afford to pay for the work. Not everyone has a job, especially in this economy. But then I feel like a fool when I think about the unfinished sidewalk that I will have to shovel anyway.

But mostly I feel sad. Neighbors don’t seem to help neighbors anymore. When I was growing up, we knew our neighbors and everyone looked out for each other. My father would plow open our long, snow packed driveway and then drive his tractor over to the house next door, drop his blade and clear their driveway without being asked—or expecting anything in return. I don’t even know most of my neighbors. Everyone keeps to themselves. A quick, polite hello is uttered on sight, but no one offers to help. I don’t consider the toothless neighbor forcing himself onto my car “help.” He thought he would guilt me into paying him. I’m not interested in that.

I am going to finish shoveling the snow today. I am going to think about my feelings some more before letting them go. And I am going to get back into the polite “no, thank you” mode whenever I feel someone trying to take advantage of me. I can do it—aching back and all.

Happy New Year

2008-12-31T09:32:00.001-06:00

I started liking New Year’s Eve a lot more when I stopped worrying about having a date.

It started when I read in some magazine in junior high that you were doomed to a year of bad luck if you didn’t kiss someone at midnight on New Year’s Eve. That one kiss was the key to whether you had a good year or a bad year. Since I had never kissed anyone on the holiday at that point and thought my life was terrible (boys did not like me, therefore life sucked), it had to be true. Otherwise, why would Seventeen print such a claim?

The theme continued into high school. My freshman year, I was an awkward 14-year-old with bad hair who was taller than most of the other girls. I had strict parents who didn’t allow me to date, so I spent that New Year’s Eve baby-sitting with my friend Becky. We vowed that boys would like us in the New Year, and the vow was so strong that I convinced myself that it would come true, despite the lack of a New Year’s kiss. I spent the next year with even worse hair, no style and no boyfriends. I graduated with honors, a college scholarship, better hair and a total of four dates in four years of high school. College had to be different, I told myself. For starters, there would be more boys to choose from, and at least one of them had to like me. The odds were in my favor.

Well, the odds may have been in my favor, but they weren’t on my side when it came to New Year’s Eve. My college boyfriend spent the Christmas and New Year’s holidays in the Florida Keys with his father and stepmother, who were loud, obnoxious and liked to remind the world they had money. I spent them freezing in the Midwest winters with family and friends.

I finally had my first New Year’s Eve kiss in 1997, 12 years after I first read that Seventeen article. My then-boyfriend and I were four months into what would be an eight year relationship. I worked that evening, but I was off at 10:30. He met me at my apartment with a cheap bottle of champagne and kissed me at midnight. I expected to wake up the next morning with bluebirds singing around my head like Mary Poppins. Instead, I woke up with a headache and the taste of horrible champagne lingering in my mouth like a guest who refuses to leave.

That was the start of many New Year’s Eve nights with a date. None of them are memorable. In fact, I started taking it for granted until he left me a week before Christmas 2005. He had a date that New Year’s Eve. I didn’t. He married her a year later, so I assume he kissed her at midnight.

I stayed home that evening, watching a Sex and the City marathon and thinking back to that magazine article. It had been 20 years since I started worrying about the New Year’s Eve kiss. I had convinced myself that kissing someone at the stroke of midnight was the key to a happy life. I thought long and hard about my life. Some years were good, and some were bad, but I had a lot to be grateful for, and a lot of blessings to count. I had a good career that enabled me to support myself. I had family and friends who loved me. My father had almost died the month before from a heart attack, but he recovered and was still with us. My mother was beating the liver disease that almost took her life a few years ago. None of this had anything to do with a silly kiss.

I went to bed early that night and woke up the next morning with a clear head and no bad champagne taste in my mouth. That year, 2006, ended up being a good year. I stayed in and relaxed that New Year’s Eve, too. 2007 was an even better year because I bought my own home—the first woman in my family to buy her own house.

As we wind down 2008, I again have planned a relaxing evening. A local yoga studio is hosting a “24 Hours of Yoga” event starting tonight to raise funds for charity. I’m going to attend a few classes, go home and watch a movie. I plan to be asleep before midnight, with my dog and cat snuggled warmly beside me. I will talk to my parents before going to bed, wishing them a Happy New Year, and I will count my blessings. Because I realized on that New Year’s Eve three years ago that life is what you make of it. There are good times and bad times, but it is what we learn from and how we respond to those bad times that make the good times even sweeter.

A Writer's Goals

2008-12-28T08:25:00.001-06:00

We are just days away from the start of 2009, which means many of us are thinking about what we would like to accomplish in the next year. I want to take my writing to the next level, and I hope to do that by:

Continuing to blog: I’ve only been blogging a few months, but I’ve already seen an improvement in my writing. If I want readers, that means I need to post consistently—which means I need to write. Having an audience makes me think about my words and choose them carefully. I devote time each day to brainstorming, writing and editing, which I didn’t do in the past (despite my best intentions).

Reading more: I’ve always loved reading, but I noticed I haven’t read much besides newspapers and magazines in the past few years. So, I dusted off the library card, made a list of books I want to read and joined a book group. Reading the words of others, slowly and savoring them, inspires my writing and encourages me to take risks, trying genres and styles I probably wouldn’t have considered in the past.

Reviewing books, hosting blog tours and offering guest posts: One of the reasons I started my blog was to showcase writing, and that doesn’t necessarily mean my own. I want A Writer’s Voice to be a home for all kinds of writers. If you are interested in participating, please contact me.

Becoming more active in my writing group: I joined a local writing group at the same time I launched my blog, and I seem to have a million excuses why I haven’t participated much, even though they only meet monthly. Community is important to writers, and this is one way to grow mine. I need to quit making excuses and make the group a priority.

Developing my business: I’ve had success in my short time as a freelance writer, and I want to move forward to build upon that. I’m currently developing a web site to launch after the first of the year. In addition, I’m working on a business plan for offering writing coaching.

This is an ambitious list, but it energizes and engages me. It’s going to require more than just writing. It requires focus, time management and dedication, for starters. But I’m taking it one day at a time and not expecting perfection. Mistakes will be made, but I’m going to learn from them and not beat myself up when I make them. I am looking forward to a wonderful 2009, and I hope you are as well.

Different

2008-12-27T07:46:00.001-06:00

The first change I noticed was no one greeted us at the door when we walked inside the house. The place was crammed with the usual suspects—aunts, uncles, cousins—but we weren’t offered anything to eat.

The beige lift recliner carefully positioned by the front door was gone. In its place was a rosy colored plush rocking chair that swings back and forth if the person sitting in it isn’t careful. Her bed is gone, too, replaced by a futon, a huge box overflowing with toys and a small television attached to a Wii Fit.

Even the name of the house is gone. “Grandma’s house” is now referred to as “Peg and Bill’s” by my parents. I can’t bring myself to use the new name. It’s still her house in my mind, even though my aunt and uncle purchased it shortly after she died.

The pile of gifts under the tree marked “Grandma” or “Mom” wasn’t there. The tree looked naked. I wondered if it felt as lonely as I did. When it mysteriously toppled over, I thought maybe the tree was protesting. Perhaps it didn’t like the change, either.

We stayed an hour before politely excusing ourselves for the return trip home. My aunt was too busy with the Wii Fit to say good-bye. We were never offered anything to eat.

We were sitting around the dining room table inhaling lunch leftovers when my mother announced that we’ll just have Christmas here “from now on.” A new tradition, she called it.

And that’s when I knew it was different.

What Freelance Writing Has Taught Me

2008-12-21T10:02:00.001-06:00

It’s been two months since I decided to start pursuing freelance writing work. My long-term goal is to teach at the collegiate level, and I wanted to start developing other income streams now in order to make my dream a reality.

I freelanced a bit during my undergraduate days, but my opportunities were limited to “stringing” for local newspapers, covering city council meetings and interviewing the mother of triplets and some guy with a garden. I have a lot more opportunities now thanks to the internet and several years of professional experience behind me.

I wrongly assumed that freelancing would simply provide me with income and possibly some new research opportunities. I didn’t realize I had much more to learn. Three key lessons I’ve learned since hanging out my freelance shingle are:

Patience: I have never been known for being patient. It’s one of my biggest flaws. When I want something, I want it yesterday. Sometimes it’s an asset, like pursuing an interview for a story, and sometimes it’s a headache. But after sending out dozens of writing proposals and either not hearing back immediately or even at all, I realize that patience is a skill I’m going to have to develop if I’m going to have a successful freelance writing career. Otherwise, I’m just going to drive myself crazy and waste energy that could be used for writing.

Perseverance: It can be frustrating to bid on a project, only to see the work awarded to someone else. I’ve lost count of the number of proposals I’ve sent and never heard from again. It would have been easy to give up. I have a full time job. I’m also working on a master’s degree. I have plenty of activities and work to occupy my time. But I didn’t give up because I believed in myself and focused on my long-term goal. I keep moving forward with the proposals, and I finally started getting some work—and some regular clients.

It’s Not Personal: Writing is personal, but freelance writing is business. You may have talent and competitive rates, but you aren’t going to win every job. Your writing style may not be what the potential client is looking for, or you may not have the exact experience she wants. And those rates may be a little higher than what she wanted to pay. This doesn’t mean that you’re a bad writer or even a bad person. You aren’t right for the job—and that’s OK.

The last two months have been interesting, exciting and frustrating all at once as I attempt to build a successful freelance writing business. But each day is different, and I’m keeping my eye on the long-term—and there is no better motivation than that.

The Friday Four

2008-12-19T05:58:00.002-06:00

Here's what caught my eye in the blogosphere this week:

Girls Just Wanna Have Funds offers ten money lessons

Freelance Writing has three ways to win over clients

Sara at On Simplicity wants to know what family games you love to play

Get a look at the writing community over at Writing Forward

Happy reading!

The Best Christmas Ever

2008-12-18T13:36:00.000-06:00

I looked forward to Dress Up Day for weeks. I planned to show off my new Christmas dress. That year’s version was black with a large flower print. I think it was what one would call “tea length.” Three quarter sleeves and a boat neck line. Black tights and flats completed the look.

I woke up early. It was the Friday before the start of Christmas vacation, the last school day of the year. The final Christmas vacation of my high school career. I carefully put on the Christmas dress ensemble, pulled my long hair back into a low ponytail and went downstairs.

My mother was in the kitchen, standing next to the radio and smoking a cigarette in her bathrobe. She was shaking her head. “No school for you today,” she said when she spotted me. “Freezing rain. School is canceled because of ice.”

Disappointment flooded my body. There would be no more Dress Up Days. I didn’t see that as part of a college curriculum. I went into the living room and turned on the television and started Christmas vacation early.

My moping soon turned to boredom. There wasn’t much on television, so I started reading a book. After some time, I couldn’t concentrate and put the book down. The freezing rain had changed to snow. I decided to go outside and feed our cats.

We lived on a farm and had “indoor” and “outdoor” cats. The outdoor cats lived in our barn and stayed outside. Tabby was our indoor cat, but she ran away four months ago. I was heartbroken, but I refused my parents’ offer of replacing her. I was a senior in high school at the time, and we adopted Tabby when I was in the fifth grade. I couldn’t just replace her.

I grabbed the bag of cat food, pulled on my winter coat over my Christmas dress and went outside, still wearing my black flats and conveniently forgetting my hat and gloves. I gingerly made my way across our back yard to the barn, calling “here kitty” as I walked so the cats would know lunch was on its way. Our cats, whether indoor or outdoor, adored me and always recognized my voice.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally made it to the barn. I pulled open the door and realized I was having an early Christmas.

Sitting there calmly on a bale of straw in the middle of the outdoor cats was Tabby. I dropped the bag of cat food and opened my mouth to say her name. I didn’t need to because she came over to me as soon as she saw me. Forgetting about my original mission, feeding the cats, I scooped up Tabby and hurried toward the house, screaming “Tabby’s home!”

Mom thought I was hurt and came outside onto the porch to see what happened. Still clutching my beloved cat, I ran up the porch steps. Mom caught sight of Tabby. She had been talking to my dad on the phone (he was at work). She quickly said, “Tabby’s home,” and hung up on him.

Mom ushered Tabby and me into the house. She took Tabby from me while I quickly took off my coat. I grabbed Tabby back, afraid to let her go. She had been gone for four months. We had a lot of cuddling time to make up.

I was still holding Tabby when I picked up the phone and called Grandma Betty. “That’s the best Christmas present anyone could have given you,” she said.

Eighteen years later, it still is.

If You Don't Have to Get Out, Don't

2008-12-17T13:24:00.000-06:00

The man on the television screen violently shivered in the cold. His lips seemed to be turning a pale shade of blue as he struggled to open his mouth wide enough to sound coherent. Bundled up like an Eskimo, he managed to choke out one of my favorite phrases:

“If you don’t have to get out, don’t.”

During my full time news career, nothing excited me more than weather coverage. Most people would hear a forecast calling for rain, sleet or snow and cringe. I would grin ear to ear, looking forward to what awaited me.

Whenever bad weather was predicted, the station would put me up in the hotel next door for the night. They couldn’t risk me not being able to get to work, so it was automatically an evening of room service and bad television. Bad weather was like a mini vacation, only I didn’t have to pay for it.

Second, I never had to actually get out into the elements. I was a producer, which meant I got to boss reporters around from the comfort of a nice, warm newsroom. No shivering in the cold or blue lips for me. I got to do what I do best—boss people around—while staying toasty.

Weather coverage is also exciting. It’s fast paced, adrenaline rush work. The time flew by, so I barely noticed how many hours I was putting in or how much coffee I was consuming. No sitting around the newsroom trying to scrounge up a story idea or praying for breaking news. The day pretty much planned itself.

However, it wasn’t brain surgery. The information needed was basic: how bad was it out, what areas were hit hardest, road conditions, etc. Agencies that usually ignored us were suddenly eager to give us information during bad weather, so they often called me with news updates instead of the usual, which consisted of me calling and asking for information and getting the runaround.

My favorite part of weather coverage was seeing how many clichés I could fit into a newscast. There are so many in weather coverage, including my previously mentioned favorite. Weather in St. Louis also holds an additional treat. For some reason, people rush out to the store to buy milk and bread whenever a storm is forecast. I never understood that. What are you going to make with that? It sounds like a meal straight from a Dickens novel. My weather groceries of choice? Frozen dinners and tequila.

But my tune has changed now that I’m no longer in the news business. Bad weather makes me cranky instead of excited. I cringe whenever I hear a forecast calling for rain, sleet or snow. And whenever I hear my favorite weather cliché—if you don’t have to get out, don’t—I actually follow the advice. No more mini hotel vacations for me. I’ll just enjoy watching other people freeze from the nice, warm comfort of my living room sofa with a frozen dinner and tequila in hand.

Starting Over

2008-12-14T15:24:00.001-06:00

The headline caught my eye last week. “Oprah Weighs 200 Pounds!” It screamed at me from the computer screen. Intrigued, I clicked on the link.

The article was basically a promo for the upcoming issue of Oprah’s magazine, in which she wrote a column confessing she’s gained 40 pounds in two years, hitting what she calls “that dreaded 2-0-0.” However, I wasn’t surprised. Oprah’s weight struggles have been reported on for 20 years. This didn’t seem newsworthy to me.

But the article came back to haunt me when I weighed myself a few mornings later. I could tell the pounds had been creeping back on because my pants were tight. “You just need to cut back and you’ll be fine,” I told myself as I stepped on the scale.

Fine was the last word I’d use to describe myself when the digital number finally flashed at me. I had lost 23 pounds on Weight Watchers three and a half years ago. All my hard work was ruined—I had gained back 18 pounds, which is more than just a few.

Feelings of shame and disgust overwhelmed me as I showered and struggled to get dressed. The thesis from Oprah’s article danced through my head: How did I let this happen?

I’ve always been a “big” girl. I reached my current height of 5’9” by the time I was 12 and in seventh grade. I remember going to the doctor that year for an exam and finding out I weighed 120 pounds. I was devastated. I always felt so much bigger than my friends, who were several inches shorter and several pounds lighter than I was. I maintained that weight until I graduated from high school. I still felt like an Amazon next to my still shorter and thinner friends.

My weight started creeping up my freshman year of college. I kept my weight down in high school by skipping breakfast and lunch, starving myself all day until I came home and pigged out at dinner. Immediately after dinner, I would go for a 30 minute walk. All of that was history now. College brought pizza delivery, late nights out with friends and a steady diet of junk food. A bout of depression after my boyfriend left didn’t help. I packed on 50 pounds and was a bloated, lethargic mess.

I joined a gym after I started working at KMOX, determined to lose weight and get into shape once and for all. I started slowly, focusing on the treadmill and other cardio machines, but I was bored and struggling to motivate myself. Kickboxing was just starting to become popular, and a co-worker who belonged to my gym introduced to his trainer, a kickboxing instructor.

I hired Jamie for a weekly kickboxing lesson and started attending his classes at the gym. It was hell. I struggled during our first session, only lasting 30 minutes. But I finally found an exercise that I loved. I was determined not to give up. I kickboxed with Jamie for three years and lost 30 pounds. I also picked up a strength training routine and was in the best shape of my life. I went to Miami on vacation and proudly wore a bikini on the beach for the first time.
I returned from vacation to discover Jamie was leaving to open his “exclusive” gym. In other words, expensive. I was changing careers, moving from journalism in public relations, which meant I would be working a 9 to 5 schedule. Neither my gym nor Jamie’s new expensive gym were convenient after I changed jobs.

I had been without a gym for three months when I found a new gym close to work. I was disappointed to learn that kickboxing wasn’t offered, but I quickly found a new activity to fall in love with: yoga. I had packed on about 10 pounds during my gym hiatus, but yoga helped me lose it. I attended 90 minute classes almost daily, quickly learning the poses, their names and the yoga philosophy. I loved it all, especially when I met Erica. She was a funny, outgoing redhead who encouraged everyone to do whatever they could in class and to focus on themselves instead of competing with fellow students. Yoga became a way of life for me.

I even followed Erica two years later when she left the gym for a yoga studio. I had changed PR jobs and was unhappy, using food to self-medicate. My weight was creeping up again, but I still practiced. But then Erica left St. Louis to go to Albuquerque to study alternative medicine. And that was the end of my yoga days.

I quit exercising, but I kept overeating and eating junk. I would wake up every morning, vowing that today would be the day I would start taking better care of myself. I would then find myself in line at Starbucks on the way to work, ordering the usual sugar laden mocha drink topped with whipped cream. I would order fast food for lunch, snack on candy from the vending machine and then go home exhausted.

This went on for a year until I finally found a new job at the corporate office of our local YMCA. I got a free membership as a perk and was convinced that I’d finally get back into shape. I could work out during the day, which I did, but I was still chugging the Starbucks and eating the junk and not losing a single pound.

The YMCA laid me off 14 months later, citing budget cuts. With my free membership gone and no job prospects in sight at the holidays, I sank back into depression and self-medicating with food. I stopped weighing myself. I was out of work for four months when I was offered a job. I had to buy new suits in a bigger size because none of my clothes fit.

Tired of being tired and sick of being fat, I visited the Weight Watchers web site. My older brother had told me about some co-workers of his who had lost a lot of weight on the program, but I was skeptical. I wasn’t interested in going to a meeting (I already attended enough of those), but when I found out I could do the program online on my own, I signed up.

I announced to everyone I knew that I was on Weight Watchers. I became seeped in the WW discourse, always talking about points and weighing and measuring my food. After my first week on the plan, I was thrilled to find out I had lost four pounds. I kept it up, losing 23 pounds in a few months. And then I lost interest. Pizza delivery came calling again.

And now, three and a half years later, I’m almost right back where I started, asking myself how it happened. I’m 35 now, and I’ve been unhappy with my weight for 23 years. I’m tired of the struggle. I’m tired of feeling inadequate and ashamed of my size. I had two options: accept it or do something about it for good.

I thought about my father and Grandma Betty, both overweight. Both battled heart disease. My father almost died. Grandma Betty did. I thought about why I struggle with food, why I comfort myself with it. I looked at the treadmill in the corner of my office, thinking about the CSA share I had purchased for next year. Either I could change or accept it.

I chose change. Stay tuned.

The Christmas List, Revisited

2008-12-08T17:41:00.001-06:00

“There isn’t much on here,” my mother said, handing the paper back to me with a frown. “You need more stuff on here.”

I sighed, giving my mother a wary look. “But I don’t want anything else,” I said. “That’s it.”

Her frown got deeper. “Well, I need more to work with.”

I used to look forward to the Christmas list. I could write pages and pages of items I wanted Santa (aka Mom and Dad) to bring me. Now, I struggle to not only think of a handful of items to ask for, but I struggle to even get excited about the list.

It’s not that I don’t like the holidays. I love Christmas decorations, the music (even when a certain St. Louis radio station started playing it back in October), and the candy. I got a small thrill when I grabbed today’s mail and discovered not one, but two Christmas cards nestled in next to my Visa bill and some flyer for a local pizza joint. I look forward to the time spent with my family, catching up with relatives I don’t see often while feasting on my mother’s fabulous cooking.

But I don’t really look forward to presents anymore. I like to buy them for others, but I struggle to get excited over packages with my name on them. First of all, I’m not a fan of clutter. I grew up in the Palace of Clutter. My parents never seemed to throw anything out, claiming they “might need that someday.” I found myself looking forward to the times when they would both be out of the house, so I could throw stuff out. As a result, my brothers and I are all minimalists. Everything has a place and a use.

Second, if I need something during the year, I buy it. If I want something and can afford it, I’ll probably buy that, too. If I can’t afford it, then I don’t. Some people would argue that Christmas is the perfect time to ask for those items that I want but won’t buy, but they tend to be on the expensive side and guilt keeps me from asking my parents for them. My father is retired. There are better things he can do with his money.

What I would really like to have for Christmas is experiences. My parents live an hour away and rarely visit because driving to the “big city” is a nerve wracking experience for them. I wish they would visit me more. I love hearing their stories about growing up. I wish they would tell me more, so I could write them down so I don’t forget them, capturing them on paper while they are still with me.

I recently read an article in which the author stated she wasn’t buying gifts this year, but was taking her friends out for dinner instead. Good food, good conversation and quality time spent together. Sounds like heaven to me. I thought, maybe that would work.

I mentioned this to my mother on the phone the other day. I could hear the frown in her voice. “But I can’t wrap that,” she said. “You need something to open. How am I supposed to wrap that?”
I sighed, annoyed and frustrated, and let the matter drop. I promised to come up with more items for the list. After I got off the phone, I walked through my house with a notebook in hand, writing down items I needed. An ironing board, dish towels and pots and pans were added to the Christmas list.

That’s what Grandma Betty used to do. We would laugh at her for asking for things like a toilet seat and a clothes basket, thinking those were funny items for a Christmas list. Now I found myself doing the same thing. It no longer seemed silly. It seemed practical, something she learned growing up during the Depression. It seemed to fit during these times of economic uncertainty.

And it made me long for the one experience that Santa or no one else can bring me: time with her.

The Friday Four

2008-12-05T06:48:00.003-06:00

After a week off for the Thanksgiving holiday, The Friday Four is back. Here's what I've been reading this week:

A loss has Brunette on a Budget rethinking how she views money.

Participate in a group writing project over at Confident Writing.

On Simplicity says lower expectations can be a good thing.

Chris wants to know what motivates freelance writers.

Happy reading!

Community Post: How Do You Recharge?

2008-12-05T06:42:00.002-06:00

I've been feeling a little burned out and unmotivated lately. I'm looking for ways to get motivated again.

How do you recharge your batteries? How do you deal with burn out?

I'm No Fan of Black Friday

2008-11-29T09:48:00.000-06:00

When I was a full time journalist, one of the stories I could count on covering every year was Black Friday. I would still be bloated with Thanksgiving dinner and craving sleep when I’d have to go out in the scary retail jungle and pretend to be interested in local shoppers and such fascinating purchases as Baby Wets A Lot and the latest electronic gadgets.

One Black Friday is memorable for an incident at a local discount store. The crowds were lined up deep outside the store on a frosty Black Friday morning. When the doors were finally thrown open, it was like an announcer shouted “and they’re off!” People who most likely shunned exercise the rest of the year were sprinting through the store as if shopping were an Olympic event. In the middle of this excitement, one woman was knocked down by the crowd. When she got up, her wig was lopsided on her head, but she was grinning and gave a thumb’s up sign to let everyone know she was OK. Of course, the local television stations caught the entire incident on camera, and the woman’s experience was aired over and over for days.

We got a grim reminder of what could have happened to that woman yesterday, when the stories hit the air about a Wal-Mart worker in New York getting trampled to death by the shopping crowd.

Yesterday’s incident is one of the reasons I’m not a fan of Black Friday. I had to participate for years because it was my job, but I haven’t been to a store on Black Friday since leaving the news business full time. I don’t like crowds. They make me uncomfortable and nervous. My biggest fear used to be having my purse stolen, but the two trampling incidents (and one death) make me fear crowds even more.

Another reason I don’t like Black Friday is the whole idea of getting up early. I had to get up at 2:30 in the morning for years for work. When I left the news business eight years ago, I vowed I would never get up that early again if I didn’t have to. I also have the day after Thanksgiving off now, which I never did before, so why would I waste it by getting up in the middle of the night to go stand in line in the freezing cold outside some store? Did I mention I’m also not big on cold weather?

And not to sound like Charlie Brown, but watching people spending large sums of money they may or may not have turns me off. I feel the same way about shopping as I do about eating. I like it, but in small doses. Watching people overdo it makes me want to go home and check my bank account balance, if only to make sure their shopping frenzy didn’t somehow mysteriously suck the money out of my account.

Despite all of this, I don’t see Black Friday going away any time soon, and that’s fine. I don’t have to participate. Others can get up early and be sleep deprived and fight the crowds over some $50 DVD player. I am happy to stay home, sleep in and be grateful that Black Friday is part of my past. And if I do feel like shopping, there is always the internet.

Family Traditions

2008-11-25T10:44:00.002-06:00

I am fortunate to have a loving family to see on Thanksgiving. It’s an hour car trip one way, but it’s worth the time driving (and the cost of gas) for the chance to see my parents and brothers, pig out on Mom’s fabulous cooking and look through advertisements for Black Friday shopping.

We added another Thanksgiving tradition several years ago. I’m not sure when this happened, but we now watch “Planes, Trains and Automobiles” after Thanksgiving lunch. Someone gave my mother a copy of the movie on VHS years ago, and since it’s a Thanksgiving themed movie, she insisted we watch it at Thanksgiving. Always right after we finish lunch.

My mother has seen this movie so many times she can quote every bit of dialogue verbatim. It’s like she has a photographic memory when it comes to this movie. She delights in the scene at Lambert International Airport because it’s in St. Louis—and it’s “our” airport. She always says, “That’s St. Louis!” in a very fast, excited voice during that scene, as if she’s amazed at anyone would want to film a movie in the city her daughter calls home.

She also loves the scenes when Steve Martin and John Candy are driving to Chicago and are making their way through Springfield, Illinois, where my older brother lives. She alternates between reciting the dialogue with the actors and exclaiming, “That’s Springfield!” Again, she seems amazed that a movie was filmed in a city that’s visited so often.

The annual Thanksgiving tradition was almost interrupted two years ago when my mother called me at work the day before Thanksgiving. My mother never calls me at work unless it’s an emergency, so I was immediately concerned when I saw my parent’s phone number on the caller ID. I picked up the phone, only to discover that the VHS copy of “Planes and Trains” (as Mom calls it) was stuck in the VCR and ruined. I was ordered to find another copy. I left work early that day, praying I could find a copy of her beloved movie and save Thanksgiving. Fortunately, I found a DVD copy at Target. Thanksgiving could go on as planned.

What I really enjoy about this holiday tradition isn’t the movie, although it does make me laugh, even after all these years. It’s watching my mother delight in such a simple pleasure. It’s spending time with my family and putting aside the to-do lists and stresses of my life for a day. It’s little moments like these when I realize I am truly fortunate, and for that, I am thankful.

Community Post: What Are You Thankful For?

2008-11-25T09:50:00.001-06:00

Tis the season . . . tell us what you have to be thankful for as we get ready to kick off the Thanksgiving holiday.

The Friday Four

2008-11-21T14:34:00.001-06:00

Here's what caught my eye in the blogosphere this week:

Sara at On Simplicity encourages us to find a moment of peace.

Trent at The Simple Dollar wants to know what it's all about.

An editing triumph over at the Creative Writing Corner.

Chris tells us why freelance writing is fun over at Freelance Writing.

Happy reading!

Community Post: What Inspires You?

2008-11-18T11:56:00.002-06:00

OK, fellow writers, I really need your help today.

I am struggling through a project and this question keeps popping into my head:

What inspires you?

Can you join the writing community and help me out?

The Voice Box

2008-11-18T06:59:00.001-06:00

James Clayton Aldridge was my grandfather. He was born in 1905 in a covered wagon in Kentucky. He was one quarter Cherokee Indian and you could tell when you saw his coal black hair and dark complexion. He never had a single gray hair. He was tall and skinny, the Laurel to my Nana’s Hardy. He died when I was six years old.

Almost 30 years have passed, and I still remember his extraordinary patience, his kindness and generous nature. I remember the Barbie dolls and the cases of clothes he would buy for me at yard sales and the thrill I got from his thoughtful gifts.

But there is one thing I do not remember about my “Pa.” His voice.

Pa smoked his first cigarette at age eight, but he didn’t develop the throat cancer that would ultimately kill him until he was 70. The cancer forced the doctors to remove his larynx, but he wasn’t silent—thanks to the voice box.

The voice box was a tan, cylinder object that was several inches long but just a few inches wide. Pa pressed the voice box against his jaw and somehow he could talk. His voice was mechanical, like something out of a science fiction movie, but it never scared me. It was Pa’s voice. It was how he spoke to me. I never knew any different, and I never thought to ask why his voice sounded like a machine when Grandpa Johnson’s voice was that of a human.

I was fascinated with the voice box and was always getting scolded by my Nana for playing with it. Pa never minded, though. He encouraged my curious nature. I wonder if he were secretly thrilled that I liked the voice box, because it meant I wasn’t scared of the mechanical sound he made when he spoke.

I don’t know the proper name for the object that gave my grandfather his voice. I could do a Google search and find out, but I don’t want to know. Because it will always be the voice box to me. Knowing the device’s proper name will not change what the voice box symbolizes for me. I don’t need to know its name. The voice box is enough.

When Pa died, I asked Nana if I could have the voice box. She said no, that she was giving it to a man who needed it. I ran into their house after the funeral to search for the voice box so I could take it before Nana gave it away, but it was gone.

I was driving the other day when I turned on the radio. A commercial was playing. I don’t remember what message was being pushed out onto the air waves. All I remember is hearing a mechanical voice, similar to the one that was silenced so many years ago. I pulled the car over and stopped, sobbing for a voice I didn’t realize I missed.

Sending Me on My Way

2008-11-15T17:33:00.001-06:00

I was standing around the office one afternoon, chatting with a co-worker when I let it slip I was thinking about going back to school.

It had been six years since I last set foot in a college classroom. Burned out, broke and needing some time off, I left school six credits shy of my degree for a job in the news business. The plan at the time was to take a semester off and then go back. Plans change.

I worked hard those six years, moving from part time to full time news work, and then on to public relations work. I made good money, had a roof over my head, clothes on my back and food in the fridge, but the guilt was overwhelming.

He would visit when I least expected him. He would sneak up on me in a meeting, when someone would make a comment assuming that I had my degree. He would climb into my bed at night, demanding I make room for him inside the warm cocoon of blankets. He even squirmed his way into conversations with Grandma Betty.

We were sharing a pot of coffee at the old white kitchen table when she looked across at me, her eyes watery and ringed with shadows, the bags underneath them so large you could pack clothes in them. Her voice was weary, but audible. “I never went to college.”

A simple sentence heavy with meaning. A simple sentence that sent me on my way.

Much had changed in those six years. The internet was everywhere, and it was easy to figure out what I needed to do in order to go back. A click here and a click there and suddenly it was “Congratulations! You’ve been accepted!”

Four classes. Two semesters of two English classes and I would finally have the piece of paper that eluded me for so long. It seemed so easy.

It was May, almost a year after that conversation in my office when I got the official notice in the mail. My graduation application was approved. Twelve years after I first started college, I was finally graduating. I shoved the piece of paper into my purse and went to see Grandma Betty.

I walked into her house (no one ever knocked), pulled the paper out of my bag and handed it to her. She shoved her glasses up her nose, read it and handed it back to me without a word. She shuffled off into her bedroom and returned with a white envelope in her hand.

The card read “Congratulations, Graduate” on the front. A 20 dollar bill was inside, along with the words “I’m proud of you” scrawled in her messy script. I found out later she bought the card in 1996, when I was supposed to graduate and didn’t, and kept it in a drawer all those years.

Six years later, I was brushing Grandma Betty’s silver hair while she struggled to catch her breath in the white hospital bed. I noticed the flecks of black in the silver when her voice, still weary but audible, spoke to me. “I never went to college. I’m proud of you.”

She died that night, but once again, she sent me on my way.

Community Post: Why Do You Write?

2008-11-14T16:15:00.002-06:00

One of my goals with A Writer's Voice is to develop a community of writers by sharing experiences, advice and the work of others.

One way I would like to do this is by having a community post writing prompt. I've been reading a lot of blogs lately, and this question keeps running through my mind:

Why do you write?

I hope you take the time to post a response and help me achieve my goal of a writing community.

The Friday Four

2008-11-14T08:19:00.002-06:00

Here's a sample of some great writing found on the web this week:

Mark and Angel Hack Life wants you to tell your life story in a sentence: http://www.marcandangel.com/2008/11/14/your-lifes-story-told-in-one-sentence/

The Simple Dollar looks at good debt and bad debt: http://www.thesimpledollar.com/2008/11/12/on-good-debt-and-bad-debt/

On Simplicity has three essentials for a simple life: http://www.onsimplicity.net/2008/11/three-essential-life-skills-for-a-simple-life/

Creative Writing Corner has tips for getting inspired: http://www.blairhurley.com/2008/11/whats-your-insp.html

Happy reading!

Engaging Students By Using Technology

2008-11-12T16:25:00.001-06:00

My earliest memories involve pretending to teach school. I would use my stuffed animals and occasionally my younger brother as my “students.” I planned to be a teacher when I “grew up.”

While I found myself in a different career as an adult, the desire to teach never left me. That desire convinced me to return to school to earn a master’s degree in English, with an emphasis in teaching writing. The curriculum required me to spend a semester teaching first-year composition students. It was the opportunity I dreamed of as a child.

However, my dreams quickly became the nightmares of reality when I found myself face-to-face with a classroom full of bored freshman who would rather be anywhere but in class and who would rather be doing anything than writing. I was frustrated with their lack of interest and terrified that I would not be an effective teacher. But a stroll around the classroom one day changed that.

I taught in a computer equipped classroom, which means every student had a computer at her desk. I had a computer at the lectern in front of the classroom as well, and I often used it for showing PowerPoint presentations to my class. This bored them to tears, so one day I abandoned the PowerPoint and walked around the class and observed my students while discussing an assignment. They were using their computers, but not for coursework. Many of them were surfing the Internet, while others were writing e-mails or on personal blogs. Instead of getting angry at them, I was intrigued. What if I incorporated the technology that was distracting them from class into the class itself?

Why Engage Students: Let’s be honest: no teacher sits down to plan a course, regardless of the subject, with the intent of boring her students. Unfortunately, that often happens even in the most carefully thought out course. That’s why designing a student centered course with engagement as a teaching goal is a good idea. Engagement helps the teacher remain focused on student centered pedagogy.

I first became interested in student centered pedagogy after reading Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed. Freire describes the teacher-student relationship as narrative. “This relationship involves a narrating subject (the teachers) and patients, listening objects (the students). The contents . . . tend in the process of being narrated to become lifeless and petrified.” In this narrative process, the focus of education becomes memorizing facts, instead of listening and asking questions. Education then becomes about authority—the authority the teacher has over the student—and not about the student.

But what really intrigued me about Freire was what he calls the banking concept of education. According to Freire, “education thus becomes an act of depositing, in which the students are the depositories and the teacher is the depositor.” An image of a student as a trash can comes to mind when I think about this concept. The teacher simply lifts the lid and dumps whatever contents inside the student, who accepts the contents and doesn’t question.

While the traditional lecture course may be easy for teachers to design and comfortable for them to teach, the students are the most important reason why a teacher is in a classroom. Therefore, a course must be designed with students in mind. Engaging students and interesting them in the course content and giving them opportunities to ask questions and challenge the material are at the heart of a student centered pedagogy that is advocated by Freire.

According to Charles Moran, an expert on using technology in the classroom, “even though there is not a specific pedagogy associated with emerging technologies, writing teachers need to know about these technologies so that they may incorporate their use . . . into their classroom practice.” Moran goes on to say that incorporating technology into the writing classroom allows “the teacher [to become] a member of an interactive community of writers—distinguished from the student writers by degree of writing experience and training . . . but otherwise inhabiting the same world as the students.” In other words, technology allows the teacher to remove that aura of authority described by Freire and simply focus on what is best for her students. Technology in the writing classroom makes everyone in attendance, whether teacher or student, writers and members of the same community. The power struggle is removed and the focus shifts to improving the writing.

Computer Equipped Writing Classroom: An effective computer equipped writing classroom doesn’t require a bunch of expensive bells and whistles to be successful. My class was small for a first-year composition class, around 15 students, and that size and the computers in the classroom allowed me to read student writing as it was produced, which meant I could give immediate feedback. That feedback engaged the students in the writing process because they didn’t have to wait for a week to show me their work and get my feedback. By simply walking around and glancing at student writing as it was produced in class, I was able to ask questions and coach my students through the process as well. Not only were my students engaged in their writing, so was their teacher.

The computer equipped writing classroom allowed me to give my students flexibility as well. The course assignments were two argumentative papers and one longer research paper. I used the computer access to have them write in class. Sometimes they worked on their assignments, but other times they would free write, respond to a writing prompt I gave them or simply chat as a class using the classroom’s online chat program. Suddenly, writing was fun and not work—and they were engaged in the writing process and not bored.

Issues: While technology opens up a world of possibility for both teachers and students, it does not come without issues. In order to effectively and successfully incorporate technology into the writing class, a teacher must be aware of the issues and how to manage them in order to create an engaging learning environment. Access and training are among those issues.

When I first mention access, many teachers assume I am talking about students who have limited or no access to computers. That issue will be addressed, but first let me discuss the issue of too much access. We live in what is often referred to as a “24/7” society, and that means the technology that makes writing classes so engaging can overtake a teacher’s life without proper management. Let me use e-mail as an example. It is up to the teacher to set boundaries when communicating with students via e-mail. Teachers—especially writing teachers—need to use standard English and a formal tone in order to set an example for students and to define expectations, especially for first-year composition students who may not have much experience communicating with teachers outside the classroom. If a teacher feels uncomfortable with what messages need to be communicated, then she should not e-mail the student, especially if she does not want others to see her e-mail. Instead, she should have either a face-to-face or telephone conversation with the student in order to clearly communicate and make sure there are no misunderstandings or questions. Finally, teachers need to set the ultimate boundary and remind students that they are not available around the clock. Students may e-mail their teachers at midnight, but the teacher may not be accessing her e-mail at that hour. The easiest way to manage this potential problem is to develop an e-mail response policy to share with students. I told my students that I would respond to e-mails within 24 hours, and if they had an urgent need to communicate with me, the best way to do that was with a phone call. That simple policy prevented misunderstandings and helped me managed my inbox.

If a teacher is going to incorporate computers into the writing classroom, then she needs to make sure each student has access to a computer in order to complete the coursework in a timely manner and keep pace with their classmates. Using the previously mentioned computer equipped writing classroom can help with issues around access. I always made sure to set aside some time during class for writing, especially as paper deadlines approached. In the weeks leading up to the final research paper, most of the class time was devoted to working on that paper. Even students with computer access outside class took advantage of the available technology and the time. I also arranged to open the classroom during non-class times to provide access, as well as writing coaching and feedback. I also made sure I was pro-active in communicating to students that I would work with them on an individual basis if needed to provide access. That sometimes required me staying late to keep the classroom open so students could finish their work.

In addition, teachers need to be concerned about technology training, both for themselves and their students. Writing teachers who use technology are required to think about more than just writing. They must also think about technology and keeping their own skills up to date. Writing teachers also run the risk of becoming “technology teachers” instead of teaching with technology. This means the teacher spends classroom time helping students with computer issues and teaching how to use the computer instead of teaching writing. I resolved this issue by having a member of the university’s information technology staff on-call during class time in case computer issues arose. Having someone who can deal with technology issues either physically in the classroom or on stand-by helps the teacher focus on writing and not on technological issues.

No teacher wants to look out into a classroom and see a group of bored and uninterested students. The first-year composition teacher is especially challenged because many students are afraid of writing and often struggle with the process. By incorporating technology into the first-year composition course, a teacher has the opportunity to engage her students in the course content and help them overcome their fear of writing. However, the use of technology must be properly managed, requiring the teacher herself to be actively engaged in her classroom. But with careful planning and consideration, incorporating technology into the first-year composition course can result in a rewarding classroom experience for both the teacher and her students.

Burned Out, Exhausted and in Need of a Change

2008-11-11T07:16:00.000-06:00

One of the most painful moments of my life was when I realized I couldn’t continue working full time in news. I loved it, but I was burned out, exhausted and in desperate need of a change.

The burn out came after four years of working at two news stations. I wasn’t that big of a news junkie. I needed the two jobs to make ends meet. My primary, full time job was producing news at a radio station, and my second, part time job was writing news for a television station. Both were CBS affiliates and were located in the same building, so it made sense.

My days began at 2:30 in the morning when the alarm rudely jarred me from my deep sleep. I never hit snooze because I worried I would fall back asleep and miss the second alarm. I would rise from my warm bed, stagger into the bathroom and try to throw myself together. I always selected my clothes, right down to the underwear, and packed my lunch bag of snacks the night before to save time and to avoid frightening clothing mishaps like mismatched shoes and forgetting to wear underwear (yes, I really did that).

I was ready to hit the road by 3:15. I lived 15 minutes from the station, and with no traffic that early in the morning, my commute was a breeze. I didn’t have to be at work until 4, but I was by myself until 4:45, when the morning anchors would finally show up. I had to read the wires, review the copy and soundbites left for me, answer phone calls from late night listeners, make beat calls to see what happened overnight and record news feeds for stories. I had to do this alone, and I needed every second I could to stay on top of it.

I worked at this non-stop pace until the show ended at 9:00. I would then take a short break to buy a cup of coffee at the Starbucks down the block. Then it was reporting and writing news stories for next day’s show until it was time to go home at noon.

I jumped in the car for the drive home, my body craving the nap I knew was ahead of me. I was home by 12:15 and napping by 12:30. I didn’t even take time for lunch. I ate in the car or at my desk.

The show anchors also worked until noon, but they made significantly more money than I did, so they had the luxury of napping in the afternoon and having a life at night. My life was different. I would nap for an hour, sometimes 90 minutes if I were truly exhausted, then I would get up, freshen up and hit the road to go back to the station for Round Two.

I would rush back downtown, this time to the television station. I had to be there by 2:30 for my eight hour shift. I was a news writer, and I wrote copy for the 5, 6 and 10 p.m. newscasts. While this sounds like a lot of work, it was in some ways much easier than my radio job. I wasn’t by myself. All I had to do was write—there was no story selection, no producing, no big decisions to be made.

But it was hard. I worked an eight hour shift, after working an eight hour shift earlier in the day. I was exhausted before I even started. And there was the downtime. Lots and lots of it some nights if we had a big reporter staff and not much to write. I filled the time by reading and trying not to fall asleep. I worked until 10:30, drove home and crawled into bed by 11:00, the exhaustion deep in my bones. I then slept three and a half hours until it was time to get up and do it again. My weekends were spent trying to pay my ever growing sleep debt.

I knew it was time for a change one morning after our show at the radio station. The station web site was in its infancy, and updating the site was added to my list of duties. The webmaster came into the newsroom to train me, and when I went to sit next to him, I fell out of the chair because it was broken. Instead of brushing it off, I got angry and started having a tantrum.

My boss immediately called me into his office to let me know that was unacceptable. However, I took one look at him and just started crying. I was exhausted. I was 26 years old and felt like I was 66. I was suffering from years of sleep deprivation and frustrated because I felt life was passing me by. I was either working or sleeping. The career I loved and pursued so hard was betraying me, and I did not know how to handle that.

Instead of yelling at me, my boss asked what was wrong, and I told him. I confessed that I simply couldn’t do it anymore, and that I either needed a significant raise so I could give up the second job or I needed a new career. We both knew he couldn’t give me the raise. Radio news is a low paying business, and his budget was maxed. He didn’t want to lose me, but he looked beyond his needs and offered to help me in my search for a new career.

I had toyed with the idea of a career in public relations for about a year at that point, but his blessing gave me the courage I needed to pursue opportunities. I didn’t have to sneak around or pretend I wasn’t looking for a new job, and he provided excellent feedback and references for me. I was offered my first public relations job three months after my newsroom meltdown.

That was eight years ago, and while my public relations career has had ups and downs, I don’t regret leaving news full time. I miss it, but I don’t miss the sleep deprivation and waking up in the middle of the night for work. I have time to pursue other interests, like writing and my education. My life doesn’t revolve around work and sleep anymore. I still work with news as a media relations expert, but it’s on my terms.

My Leadership Philosophy

2008-11-08T15:18:00.002-06:00

I have been lucky so far in my career. I have had some amazing experiences and the opportunity to work with some fantastic people. Along the way, I’ve had the chance to study them and their leadership styles. While no two people are the same, they are alike in that they are all effective leaders who motivate and inspire others. Observing them has helped me to hone my own leadership style.

Leading By Example: when I was growing up, my mother always used to tell me, “Do as I say, not as I do.” I’ve found the opposite to be more effective, especially in the workplace. In the workplace, I’ve found the old cliché, “actions speak louder than words” to be more effective.

My first “real” job was as an intern in the marketing department of a local radio station. I did pretty much whatever was needed, but the main function of my job was to assist at station events. The big event during the semester I worked at this station was a car giveaway. It was planned for months, well attended and successful. It also required a lot of work to set up and clean up.

My internship supervisor was a woman who showed up late, left early, took credit for other people’s work and thought many tasks were beneath her. That included the clean up after the car giveaway. I quietly started picking up the mounds of trash and hauling it away when the station general manager, the woman who ran the entire station, noticed what I was doing and started helping me. She did it without saying a word or chastising my boss or anyone else for not helping. This impressed me very much. This woman made a six figure salary and was helping me pick up trash.

I started observing her behavior at the office whenever I had an opportunity, and I noticed several little things that made a difference. She greeted everyone warmly, regardless of their title and job duties, she got her own coffee and she worked an eight hour day. She was a marathon runner, so she made exercise a priority in her life. She encouraged the rest of her team to have a life outside the office.

As I look back on this experience, I remember her as an effective leader because she led by example. She wanted her staff to be hard working and do whatever was necessary to get the job done, even if that included trash pick up, yet she also wanted them to have interests outside of their jobs. I remember her example as I try to set an example for my younger co-workers. I do my share of the “grunt” work because it needs to be done, and I want my younger co-workers to see that you don’t just pass the trash on to someone else as you move up the corporate ladder.

Ask for Help: I am the first to admit: asking for help can be scary. However, if you want to be an effective leader, it’s a must. That’s because none of us can do everything or know everything or be everything. Effective leaders realize this, and they are the first to request help. By doing so, effective leaders show they are human and recognize the talents of their co-workers and team members. Working with another person on a project also offers the effective leader a coaching opportunity by sharing knowledge and discussing previous experiences.

Embracing Change: Sheryl Crow sings “a change will do you good,” but unfortunately, not everyone agrees with her. I’ve worked with dozens of people over the years who dislike change. For example, a former boss of mine refused to use the computer even though it would make her job more efficient, because she was terrified to learn how. Instead of doing the previously mentioned asking for help, she continued to use a pencil, notepad and typewriter. These methods made her happy, but they slowed down the rest of her team because we would have to take her documentation and create electronic copies ourselves. In fact, her refusal to embrace a change as simple as using a computer eventually cost her because she lost her job.

The most effective leaders realize change is a part of the workplace and embrace it, while encouraging others to do so. What worked even a year ago may not work now. Some ideas may not work at all. Effective leaders know when to cut their losses and try new tactics to get the job done. As the previously mentioned example shows, not embracing change slows down the rest of the team and keeps progress from happening.

Honesty with Tact: no one likes a liar, but many people have just as much trouble with honesty. No one likes to be told they did something wrong or they are doing a bad job. However, the key to being honest is also being tactful. Webster’s Dictionary defines tact as “a keen sense of what to say or do to avoid giving offense, or skilled in dealing with difficult or delicate situations.” That takes practice.

The approach that works for me is reminding the person of her strengths and talents. I developed this skill the semester I taught freshman composition. No matter how poorly a student wrote a paper, I always made sure to say at least one positive remark about it. I admit that was a struggle at times, but I always reminded myself of all the times I had cruel comments written on my papers and how that wasn’t being an effective teacher. I also made sure I met privately with each student to discuss her paper, and I always ended those meetings on a positive note—while being honest. I found my students appreciated the approach and made the effort to improve their work. No one in my class earned less than a B as her final grade, and this was after many of them started the semester failing the class. It also made me a more effective leader because it forced me to think about word choice and communication. This leads me to my final point.

Having a Life: finally, the last point of my leadership philosophy is the simplest, yet most complex: an effective leader has a life outside the office. What really impresses me most about First Lady Elect Michelle Obama is her insistence that she have a life. The Obamas have two small children, and Mrs. Obama has been quoted in several interviews as saying she only agreed to her husband entering the race after making sure she would have time for their daughters. She is hesitant to outline a First Lady agenda until she determines how the change will impact her daughters. She put her family’s well-being first, and she did it without apologizing.

However, a person doesn’t have to have a family in order to have a life outside work. I work hard at the office, but I don’t take work home. I don’t check voice or e-mail after leaving. Whatever is there can wait until tomorrow. If I do have to work late due to an emergency, I make sure to flex my schedule by either coming in late or leaving early the next day. I love my job, but it is not my life. While there are many books on effective leadership, there is no “one size fits all” formula for being a good leader. What works for one leader may not work for another, and there is nothing wrong with that. The previously mentioned points are what work for me. They drive me to be a better person, a better employee, a better manager—just better all around. However, I will continue to study effective leadership and be willing to embrace new ideas that will help me move forward as both a leader and as a person.

How A Job Saved My Life

2008-11-07T06:40:00.000-06:00

The summer of 1996 was not a good one. I made yet another disastrous attempt to return to school to finish my college degree. I had fallen back into old bad habits like skipping class, not doing homework and not giving a damn. I was still carrying the extra 50 pounds I gained after getting dumped the previous summer.

I lived alone in a dumpy one bedroom apartment in a rundown building less than 10 minutes from campus. I rented it because utilities were included in the rent. I rarely had friends over because I was ashamed. I was drowning fast and didn’t seem to care. I felt like I couldn’t stop the downward spiral.

Out of the blue, the boyfriend who dumped me last summer called. He was coming to St. Louis for a job interview and needed a place to stay. Could he crash with me? Of course, I said yes. I wanted to see him so badly that I was willing to set aside the shame I felt over the dump I now called home.

His leaving me the summer before started me on the journey into the darkness. He came home one afternoon, a week after he graduated and I didn’t, and said he was moving back home to Chicago. He had already given notice on our apartment without even asking, knowing I couldn’t afford it on my own because I could barely afford it with him. He left a few days later, taking his clothes and a few possessions. I was left to deal with the furniture, clean the place up and move on. I moved back in with my parents and spent the next year barely getting out of bed, barely functioning and packing on the pounds.

I moved out the next summer in an attempt to finish college. I was lonely and still missing the one who left me when he called. He came for his interview and spent the night, sleeping next to me on my futon while I prayed for him to touch me. In the morning, he was gone.

My parents were pressuring me to do something with my life. If I couldn’t get through school, then I needed to get a job. I was a mass communications major and dreamed of a career in media. I had completed the courses in my major; it was my minor that I needed to finish. I had worked at two radio stations and completed two internships. I decided to try my luck and see what happened.

KMOX was the station my parents had listened to all their lives, as their parents before them. It is one of the top radio stations in the country and is a broadcasting legend. The news director actually picked up the afternoon I cold called him. Send me a resume, he said, before barking out the address and hanging up.

The resume went in the mail that afternoon. He called three days later, asking me to interview for a part time assistant job in the newsroom. The pay was barely above minimum wage and the hours were horrible, 4 a.m. to 9 a.m. I didn’t care. I needed a fresh start and this could be it.

The interview went well. I wore my best suit and looked the part of a young professional. He asked me about my experience and then gave me a writing test. I left when finished with a promise that I would hear from him by the end of the week.

Being inside that newsroom lit a fire in me. I wanted this badly, and when he didn’t call me, I called him. And called him. And called him again. Finally, three weeks after my interview, he offered me the job. I started that Monday.

I found my calling, and it saved me. My life had purpose again. I was no longer just some girl who was dumped and couldn’t finish college. I was working in the newsroom of the most respected station in town, and one of the top stations in the country. I worked hard, too. I wasn’t going to screw up this opportunity.

Another opportunity came my way six weeks later. The morning news producer, a college classmate of mine, was leaving for a job in television. My boss, impressed with my work ethic and quick learning, promoted me into the job. I was going to produce the most important newscasts at the station, and I had only been there six weeks.

My boss didn’t throw me to the wolves, either. He came in every morning for weeks to mentor and coach me. He didn’t make me feel stupid or incapable, either. He was a good, patient teacher. I am forever grateful to him for that—and for giving me the opportunity that saved my life.

I spent four years at KMOX, working my way into a full time news producer job and learning everything I could about news, how the media works and telling stories. These are skills that have served me well in my career as a writer and communicator. My former boss remains a mentor.

I eventually finished the college degree that eluded me for so long, and I am now doing graduate work so I can move on to that next phase of life—teaching.

One of the reasons I want to become a teacher is to share my experiences with others, and to show them that a series of bad choices doesn’t have to ruin your life. You can overcome your past, but only if you accept the mistakes you made, learn from those mistakes and work hard. I let my past motivate me, but I don’t let it define me.

My New Role Model

2008-11-06T11:02:00.000-06:00

My first role model was my Grandma Betty. She was born in 1925 and was a child of the Great Depression. She was seven of eight children, and the family often went hungry during that time. Grandma Betty survived a rough and often violent childhood, married, raised five children and doted on her 10 grandchildren. She taught me how to read, tell time, tie my shoes and not to give up when times are tough.

I have been thinking a lot about role models in the past few months, after deciding that I want to teach full time after finishing my master’s degree in two years. While I have plenty of professional role models, I didn’t have a teaching role model until now.

Her name is Dr. Jill Biden.

I didn’t know much about the new Second Lady Elect, nor was I really interested, until I read a magazine profile of her while waiting at the doctor’s office. I was quickly impressed, and here is why:

She is a community college professor who enjoys working with women returning to school: when I taught a semester of freshman composition, I was drawn to the non-traditional students. I found they had amazing stories and overcame some pretty tough odds to come back to school. They worked hard, cared and made me a better teacher. I am interested in community college teaching because of that experience.

She earned three graduate degrees while working full time and raising a family: I am currently working on a Master of Arts degree while working full time and writing. It’s a struggle at times, but Dr. Biden’s success is inspiring.

She makes time for herself: despite her busy schedule, she makes time for her daily five mile run. If she can do that, then I can get back into a regular yoga practice.

She’s independent: she started working at 15, telling an interviewer last year, “I wanted my own money, my own identity, my own career.”

I still admire my Grandma Betty and all my professional mentors, but Dr. Biden is now on that list, too. I may not have been interested before, but I definitely am now.

Attitude Adjustment

2008-11-06T05:59:00.002-06:00

Three years ago, I hired a young college graduate to work as my summer intern. She was smart and a good writer. I looked forward to mentoring her. However, there was one area where she needed work, and that was her attitude.

She liked to socialize frequently with her friends. This led to late nights—and early morning, last minute phone calls to my office to tell me she was taking the day off. When it came time for me to evaluate her internship performance, I gave her a B due to the absences. She was expecting an A because of the quality of her work, and she became angry at me. She felt her work was good, which it was, but she also felt I was being unfair. She said she always called when she took off, and that she always got her work done on time. While this was true, I gave her a B because being a professional is about more than just getting your work done on time.

While her attitude was frustrating, I am not concerned about her long-term future. That’s because 14 years ago I was her. I was also smart and a good writer who liked to party. I thought work quality would carry me through. And like her, I got a B in my internship when I was expecting an A. I got my B for the same reason she got her's: frequent absences and not taking the responsibility seriously.

I haven’t seen her since that summer, so I don’t know for sure that she changed. But my experience changed me. I became serious about my career. I aggressively pursued journalism jobs, and when I was finally hired as a news producer at one of the top radio stations in the U.S., I took advantage of every opportunity thrown my way. I didn’t miss a day of work in the four years I worked at the station. I worked morning drive, which required me to be there at four in the morning. I was never late. My former boss is a mentor to this day, eight years after I left the station.

The attitudes of young people can be incredibly frustrating, but we shouldn’t be alarmed. That’s because young people get older, gain experience and wisdom and learn from their mistakes. Attitudes change all the time. The next time you cross paths with a young person with a bad attitude, remember back to when you were young, take advantage of your wisdom and offer them some advice. They just might actually listen.

It's Beginning to Look A Lot like the Christmas List

2008-11-05T11:57:00.000-06:00

The call came this past Sunday, earlier than usual.

“I need your Christmas list before Thanksgiving,” my mother stated in a matter-of-fact voice. “I want to do my shopping early this year.”

Well, this is new, I thought. Usually she wants them on Thanksgiving Day so she can hit the stores on Black Friday.

The Christmas List is a big deal in my family. Those who do not write one are doomed to the whims of my mother. I tested the theory one year and ended up with a gray sweatshirt with two orange tabby cats on it—representing Avery and Allie, my pets at the time. She even had their names ironed onto the shirt, one above each cat. My name was ironed onto the back.

When I was a kid, I would spend hours with the Montgomery Ward Christmas catalog, a sheet of loose leaf notebook paper and a pencil, dreaming of all the toys Santa could possibly bring me. A single sheet of paper usually wasn’t enough most years. I would pour through that 500+ page catalog like a lawyer pouring over a legal brief, writing down detailed descriptions of what I wanted. I was even thoughtful enough to include page and item numbers in case Santa needed help.

And every year I was disappointed. I would get one or two items from the list. The rest would be “practical” gifts like clothes and school supplies. I always envied my classmates who returned from Christmas vacation with stories of what seemed like tons of shiny new toys waiting for them under the tree on Christmas morning. My new sneakers paled in comparison.

My parents wrote Christmas Lists, too. Their lists were always so short, just a few items. They didn’t need a catalog to complete it.

As I got older, the Montgomery Ward catalogs stopped coming to the house, and I outgrew toys. My lists got shorter, too. It was a struggle thinking of gift suggestions. I often found myself listing that classic item: money. Later, gift cards joined the list, too.

But while my list got shorter, my mother’s got longer. And longer. I continue to struggle to think of what I would like to have, while she now writes the War and Peace of Christmas lists. In fact, her list is now a family joke.

It’s that time of year again. Time for the Christmas List. I still have no idea what I want, and I’m sure my mother already has two or three pages for her list. Plus, there’s the added pressure of the early deadline this year. Maybe I’ll just stick to those old standbys, money and gift cards. They’re always the right color, and they always fit no matter how much weight I gain or lose during the year.

I still have that cat sweatshirt. Avery and Allie are gone, but it still comes in handy for keeping warm on a cold night.

Interesting Article

2008-11-04T18:12:00.001-06:00

I read this today in the New York Times:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/04/books/04chut.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Bittersweet Election

2008-11-04T16:07:00.002-06:00

It was a beautiful, warm fall day in the Midwest. The sun was shining and leaves were gathered on the sidewalk, beautiful piles of warm rust, glittering gold and inviting orange. There wasn’t even a line. I walked into the precinct, voted and left.

It was a much different day than the last time I voted. That was a cold February morning. A chill was in the air. I snuggled down inside my coat as I waited to cast my ballot on that Super Tuesday.

Today was also different because I didn’t vote for the same candidate. I was, and still am, a Hillary supporter. So, today was bittersweet for me—as I’m sure it was for her.

As I walked up to the precinct, I thought back to that February morning. I was so excited to finally get to vote for a female candidate for president. I was so close to that glass ceiling I could almost touch it. Just a few more weeks, I thought, and that ceiling will be shattered. The hardest, highest glass ceiling of all.

But the ceiling was still intact as I voted today. Yes, there are 18 million cracks in it, but it’s still intact.

Then I thought about my beloved grandmother, who died over the summer before the Democratic candidate was decided. She, too, was a Hillary supporter. I wondered how she would have felt today if she were still alive.

And then I thought about this. Suddenly, today seemed a lot more sweet than bitter.

"Don't Get Pregnant"

2008-11-03T13:06:00.001-06:00

A news story about a new teen pregnancy study caught my eye today. According to the Associated Press, “groundbreaking research suggests that pregnancy rates are much higher among teens who watch a lot of TV with sexual dialogue and behavior than among those who have tamer viewing tastes.”

According to the article, teens who watched what was termed as “racy content” were twice as likely to get pregnant than teens who didn’t view the “racy content.”

One of the shows mentioned was Friends, which I watched religiously in college. Racy content and teen pregnancy were the last two topics I thought about whenever I watched the show.

I watched my share of television as a teen, but I don’t remember if “racy content” were part of my viewing habits. I did, however, read a lot of suggestive stories in my beloved tabloids and teen magazines. In other words, I had a lot of exposure to sexual content.

But I didn’t get pregnant as a teen, and I’ll give you two words why: my mother.

My mother was 18-years-old and a senior in high school when she got pregnant with my older brother. She was already engaged to my father, but they weren’t getting married until she graduated. The unplanned pregnancy changed that.

She was two months pregnant when they married in December 1965. She was forced to leave school before then, as word leaked out about her pregnancy. I will never forget the look of shame and how her voice still shook with anger all those years later when she told me how the principal pulled her aside and told her she had to leave school. Back then, pregnant girls had to leave school before they started to show because they would “disrupt class” and were considered a bad influence. Mom started night school after my brother was born and earned her GED.

Her humiliation at being kicked out of school drove what I called the mantra of my teenage years: Don’t Get Pregnant. I used to joke that was her response to everything I told her. I would come home from school excited about a good grade and she’d say “don’t get pregnant” when I told her about it. I wanted more mashed potatoes at dinner? Fine, but “don’t get pregnant.”

Her message got old at times, but when I was a junior in high school and four girls in my class got pregnant and had babies, I started to appreciate it. I wanted to go to college, to have a career and do the things she didn’t get to do. Getting pregnant in high school would have made that difficult, if not impossible.

I appreciated it again this morning when I read about that study. I wonder how many of the girls interviewed wished they had heard the same mantra.

In fact, I joke that her message was too effective, because I’m 35 now and still have never been pregnant.

A Chore of My Own

2008-11-03T05:15:00.000-06:00

I was in the fourth grade and in the middle of a massive crush on a Silver Spoons era Ricky Schroder when my father decided I needed my own personal chore.

“You will sweep out the basement every Saturday morning,” he announced one night at dinner. I gave him a fearful look over my mashed potatoes, which prompted him to continue. “You need to earn your allowance. When I was your age . . . . “

I tuned him out at this point, still focused on the word basement. We didn’t have a nice finished basement like my friends did. But we also didn’t live in nice split level homes in subdivisions, either. We lived in an old, rambling two-story farmhouse. And we had a cellar.

The entrance to the basement was two doors on the right side of what my parents called the “back” porch. Not to be confused with the “front” porch, although back really isn’t accurate because it’s on the side of the house and not in the back. The doors were literally in the porch, and you had to lift them up in order to open them to go into the basement. There wasn’t a handle on the doors when I was assigned the basement chore. That would come later. At this time, you literally pried the doors apart by slipping your fingers between them and forcing open the door on the right, pushing it to the right until it came to rest on the porch. The left door was pushed up until it rested against the house—just wide enough for me to sweep the basement steps.

I was terrified of the basement. It was a cold, dark, damp and mysterious place. At that time in my life, one of my biggest fears was getting stuck in the basement. I was a weak child. I couldn’t push the doors open if someone closed them. I would be stuck in the basement, with only the dampness and maybe some mice for company. I would be trapped there forever, unable to watch Silver Spoons and the love of my young life, Ricky Schroder.

But none of this mattered to my father. I needed a chore of my own, and it was going to involve the basement and a broom. I had to get over it, or give up my precious allowance.

Saturday arrived. I nervously got out of bed, got dressed and went downstairs to find my father at the table inhaling his breakfast. He turned his head when he saw me and said, “You need to get started on that basement.” He got up from the table and started for the back door, motioning for me to follow him.

We went outside and he handed me a broom that was probably the same age as him, and he opened the doors for me before returning to his bacon and eggs. I looked down the stairs at the thick coating of dust and dirt, sighed and got to work.

The stairs were pretty easy. I started at the top and simply swept the dirt onto the stairs below it, picking up the pace as I went along. This isn’t so bad, I thought. I quickly made my way into the basement itself and started sweeping the dirt into piles so I could sweep it into the dustpan to discard in the trash.

After awhile my nose started running, so I took a break and went into the house to blow my nose. I noticed that dirt was mixed in with my snot and almost gagged, which my father heard. “Finish that damn basement!” he shouted, prompting me to run outside and back into the den of dirt.

I forgot about the dirty snot as I got into the rhythm of sweeping. This wasn’t so bad, and I only had to do it once a week. I could handle it. I started to hum, happy that I was almost done with this once dreaded chore, when I heard a loud thud.

Oh, no. That wasn’t the doors, was it?

There are lights in the basement, which I had turned on in order to see the mountains of dirt that awaited me, so it wasn’t dark. I set the broom off to the side and walked over to the stairs. Yes, it was the doors. My nightmare was coming true. I was trapped.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my mother saw the doors open and not realizing I was in the basement, closed them. But that didn’t matter. I was going to spend the rest of my life in the basement if I didn’t do something. I couldn’t open the doors, so I went to Plan B. I started screaming. Loudly. At the top of my lungs.

After what seemed liked an eternity, I heard the back door open and someone walk onto the porch. My mother. The one who had trapped me was going to set me free.

But instead of apologizing for trapping me in the basement, she just gave me “that look” and said, “You need to learn how to open those doors.”

That did it. I burst into tears. My mother sighed and went into the house, where she told my father that if he wanted the basement cleaned, he could do it himself. Powerless against the force that is my mother, he agreed. I still collected my allowance.

I was visiting my parents over the summer when my father offered me some potatoes from their garden. I accepted, happily thinking about the mashed potatoes I would make when I got home. “The potatoes are in the basement,” he said.

I went out to the porch and pulled up the right door, except I used the handle that was added years ago. I gently placed the door onto the porch and started to make my way down the old, steep staircase, breathing in the damp, familiar scent. It was still a cold, dark place.

I saw the potato bins, neatly stacked on the floor. I walked over to them and filled my bucket, grateful that my days of sweeping were long gone. I turned to walk over to the stairs when I heard the loud thud of the door slamming shut. My mother didn’t realize I was in the basement and shut the door. I was trapped in the basement again, just like I was the first day of sweeping.

But I didn’t panic. I calmly walked over to the stairs, clutching my bucket of potatoes in one hand, and walked up the stairs until I was close to the doors. I set my bucket down, placed my hands underneath the right door and pushed, quickly forcing the door open. I walked out into the sunlight, happy to be an adult.

Simplicity

2008-11-02T06:52:00.002-06:00

I recently stumbled upon this blog, which the author says is about “creating a happier, easier, more enjoyable life for yourself.”

This got me to thinking about what simplicity means to me. I grew up in a cluttered house. I moved out a long time ago, but it still impacts how I choose to life my life.

First of all, simplicity to me is having a clutter free life. Those who know me well joke about my tendency toward minimalism and how I’m constantly throwing things out if they aren’t frequently used. For example, I love books and magazines. Last year, I was in danger of having some frequent flyer miles expire. I didn’t have enough for a trip, so I decide to cash those miles in and get some free magazine subscriptions.

And boy, did I get some subscriptions. Eighteen in all—on top of the several magazine subscriptions I already had. Since I had so many, I was forced to pick such publications as Architectural Digest and other magazines I am not really interested in reading. Because of my panic over losing a few frequent flyer miles, I now have a constantly cluttered mailbox, which isn't my idea of simplicity—although I’m happy to report that the subscriptions start expiring soon, and I will be back to just a few magazines. This leads me to my second point.

Simplicity is also about letting things go. Would losing those frequent flyer miles have ruined my life? No, but I let my emotions get the best of me. Instead of just shrugging and letting the miles expire, I cashed them in for something that hasn’t brought me much satisfaction. The next time I’m in that situation, I will think twice before cashing miles in. I will also work harder to keep my emotions from cluttering the decision making process.

But this also applies to other areas of life. Eight years ago, I ended my friendship with my best friend from junior high and high school. It wasn’t that she was a bad person or had done something to hurt me. I just realized that she was needy and selfish—an energy vampire. The truth is, she had always been that way, but I wasn’t confident enough to walk away from the friendship. I decided it was time to call it quits when I was working early mornings and overnights for a news station and she was keeping me from getting much needed sleep with constant phone calls about her latest self-created drama. She was complicated, and I wanted simplicity. I had outgrown the friendship and moved on. It was painful, but it was the right thing to do.

Choosing to live a simple life isn’t always easy. It means having to say no to friends who are taking trips and going shopping when you don’t have any extra cash—and you vowed not to use the plastic. It means saying no when you are asked to volunteer your time for a worthwhile charity—because you want more time for yourself.

But simplicity isn’t just about saying no. It’s also about saying yes . . . saying yes to happiness, good health, less stress. It’s about saying yes to what makes you happy.

Dysfunction, Oppression and the Bully Boss

2008-11-01T06:28:00.000-05:00

I’ve read Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed several times while studying effective ways to teach writing. The idea of students feeling oppressed fascinated me and made me determined not to be an oppressive teacher. However, I’ve only recently started thinking about Freire’s ideas in the context of leadership and how dysfunctional leaders are oppressive.

S was my supervisor at the non-profit where I worked. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the organization had an annual turnover rate of close to 50 percent because of her dysfunctional leadership. Oppressing her staff was how S was kept her leadership position.

Those experiencing oppression in the workplace are often confused. I was for several weeks after I started working for S. I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. My new co-workers were polite, but they were careful to talk to me, especially when S was within earshot. I noticed in staff meetings that S did most of the talking. The few times staff members did speak, their ideas were dismissed if S did not agree with them.

I had to meet weekly with her as well. She called these meetings “one-on-ones” after a term coined in Jim Collins’ book Good to Great. As part of these meetings, I had to fill out a form stating what I worked on the previous week, what I was working on during the current week and what I planned to work on in the future. The form had to be turned into S exactly 24 hours prior to the meeting. The first time I filled out the form, I took my time and was careful to be thorough and meet her deadline. However, she returned it to me and said it wasn’t complete and made me revise it. I literally wasted an entire afternoon filling out a form for an hour meeting. I didn’t know it at the time, but I just entered another feeling cited as being present in an oppressive work environment: perfectionism.

Throughout my career, I’ve prided myself on doing a good job and asking questions whenever I was unsure of myself. But working for S caused me to start doubting myself. I would sit in these weekly meetings with her while she questioned everything I did or said. Nothing seemed to be right. To cope, I simply put my feelings on auto pilot as soon as I walked into the office. I spent my days numbly following a routine of doing the minimum to get by while hoping not to be the target of her mood swings. I also felt spiritually bankrupt, like I had nothing left to give both personally and professionally.

What made me finally decide I could no longer tolerate her abusive behavior was an incident that happened the week before a large volunteer event I was planning. The week before the event, my father, who has a history of heart disease, went to the hospital for angioplasty to reopen some clogged arteries. There were complications and he almost died.

He spent that week in the intensive care unit. My family lives an hour away. My mother has liver disease, and her illness kept her from making the long drive and spending time at the hospital with my father. The logical thought would be that I would take time off to be with my father during this difficult time since I live a few minutes from where he was hospitalized.

S would not let me take time off because she said I had to plan the event. Instead of spending time with my father in the intensive care unit, I had to not only spend the week at work, I had to work overtime to plan the event. I actually wondered what would have happened had my father died. I wondered if S would have let me take time off for the funeral and to grieve. However, I somehow managed to plan the event and my father recovered.

The event went well, and I received several compliments, including one from the board president (her boss) right in front of S. The morning after the dinner I had a one-on-one meeting with her. I realize now that she used these meetings to practice her version of Freire’s banking concept. She would tell me what she wanted changed, and I was expected to comply—no questions asked. S even sometimes called these meetings “brain dumps,” and that’s what they were. She dumped her ideas into the brains of the staff and expected them to take.

She sat at a table across from me and told me how I did a bad job and shared with me her list of improvements. These improvements included suggestions like use different napkin colors—all suggestions seemed petty. Her outburst confused and stunned me. The board president complimented the event in front of her the evening before, and she knew the board and the volunteers were pleased. She was even very complimentary of me at the end of the evening. At first, I didn’t understand where S was coming from, but I quickly realized that her leadership style was to focus on the negative, and if she couldn’t find anything, then she would make something up.

However, this time, I wasn’t interested in being part of one of her “brain dumps.” I was fed up with the dishonesty, freezing my feelings and feeling spiritually bankrupt. In the past, I would sit quietly and take it while she berated me for no reason. This time was different. I was shaking with rage, but I somehow managed to stay calm when I told her how the evening had been a success, how I had worked so hard under such stressful conditions without any help from her or the rest of the staff and how she was not going to shame me into feeling badly when I had done nothing wrong. She sat there, stunned that I would talk back to her after months of oppression. She responded by dismissing me and spending the rest of her day in her office with the door closed and refusing to speak to anyone.

I quit my job a month later. I worked for S for nine months. That is the shortest amount of time I have ever spent in a job. I didn’t want to leave that early because I am not a quitter, but I just couldn’t deal with her abusive behavior and oppression. In the words of Freire, I was liberated.

Smart Cookies

2008-10-31T20:36:00.003-05:00

I just finished a great personal finance book called The Smart Cookies Guide to Making More Dough. The cookies are group of five young women from Vancouver who formed a money group to take control of their debt, pay it off and have a life.

I've been reading a lot about personal finance in the past year, and I've found that books, articles and blog postings that are simple and not full of complex jargon and nonsense are the ones that I like the best. The Smart Cookies Guide definitely fits that category.

The cookies also have a web site with all sorts of great information.

In this day of bailouts, foreclosures and wild stock market gyrations, I think we could all use a smart cookie or two in our lives.

Gossip Papers

2008-10-29T19:56:00.001-05:00

I’ve always loved to read. Some of my best childhood memories involve books like the Little House on the Prairie series. Other memories involve my parents or grandmother reading to me.

I loved to read anything I could get my hands on, but books could be scarce in my house growing up, so that usually meant newspapers and magazines. While my parents were news junkies and had the local newspaper and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch in the house, another kind of publication quickly found its way onto my reading list: tabloids, or as my mother called them, “gossip papers.”

My first experience with gossip papers was in the first grade. I remember coming home from school, starving as usual after an hour bus ride and another day of refusing to eat the school lunch, and getting scolded by my mother for hovering around her in the kitchen, begging her to hurry up and finish cooking so I could eat. “Go do something,” she would tell me as she gently pushed me out of the way. And off I would go to occupy my time until I could eat.

I don’t remember having much, if any, homework in first grade, so doing something often meant reading. We had an old wooden desk in our dining room where my mother stacked newspapers, magazines and whatever else she was reading. That’s where I found my first gossip paper.

It was an issue of that classic, The National Enquirer. Elizabeth Taylor, or “Liz” as the tabloids called her, was on the cover. Some enterprising reporter decided to rifle through her garbage and write a story on what he found. I was six years old and had no clue who this Liz person was, but I was instantly intrigued. This was during her fat years, so of course he made sure to point out every single scrap of food related trash in an effort to show the reader how she was eating herself into an early grave. People could eat themselves to death? I now had a strong argument for skipping the awful school lunch. I didn’t want to die young. My love affair with the gossips papers had begun.

The gossip papers not only entertained me, but they also educated me. I expanded my vocabulary by learning such words and phrases as “nudity,” “love child,” and “palimony.” I first learned what AIDS was by reading Star. I found out about the Tylenol tamperings during one of my after school sessions with the Enquirer. I was saddened by the story of some man named Scotty who had dozens of wives. He might have even been in the Guinness Book of World Records. He seemed to get married every year, claiming he found his one true love, only to be disappointed and giving yet another exclusive interview to the Enquirer a year or so later.

My mother never questioned why her grade school aged daughter was reading such adult content. It kept me quiet and out of the kitchen while she scrambled to get dinner on the table. Plus, I was reading. Wasn’t that a good thing?

My after school ritual with the gossip papers continued until I graduated from high school. The celebrities changed from Elizabeth Taylor and Jackie Onassis to Madonna and the cast of Friends, but the ritual stayed the same: I got off the school bus starving because I didn’t eat lunch, and I would fill the time until dinner with the Star and the National Enquirer.

My after school ritual is long gone, but my love affair with tabloids continues to this day. I still get a twinge of excitement whenever I see a new tabloid on the racks at the supermarket. My mother still faithfully purchases her Star and National Enquirer each week. And she still calls them “gossip papers.”

Crisis and Compassion

2008-10-28T05:29:00.002-05:00

I am currently working on a masters degree in communications and leadership at Gonzaga University. During a recently completed seminar in public relations and corporate communications, we studied how Johnson & Johnson responded to the 1982 Tylenol tamperings. The Tylenol case is considered by many to be the gold standard in crisis response.

What impressed me most about the response was how Johnson & Johnson put people first. The company pulled all Tylenol products from the shelf. When Tylenol was reintroduced a few months later, it was with new tamper resistant packing and heavy price promotions. Tylenol remains a best-selling brand today, 26 years after the crisis.

I've seen various crises in my work as a communications professional, and I'm disappointed to say compassion tends to be missing from the crisis response. Too often the focus is on "CYA" tactics and "let's make this go away" strategies. Little thought is giving to the suffering of the victims of a crisis.

Saying "we're sorry" and showing empathy does not mean an organization is admitting guilt or wrongdoing. Expressing regret gives an organization credibility in the court of public opinion, and that is much needed currency in our 24-hour news cycle environment.

"I'm sorry" are two simple words, but that simple phrase carries a lot of weight. Remember that the next time your organization finds itself in a crisis situation.

What Do You Like About Writing?

2008-10-27T19:41:00.002-05:00

My earliest memory of writing is in the third grade. My class had to write a poem about spring for some contest at the public library. Somehow, mine placed in the top three. I can't remember what I won, but I remember going to the library with my mother and older brother and reading the poem in front of an audience. I haven't had any public readings since, but I am still writing.

Until recently, that writing was for work or for school. What rekindled my interest in writing from a personal level was a family project. My grandmother died over the summer, and my family honored her by assembling a book of essays about her. Since then, I've been writing whatever comes to mind just to see where that takes me.

I like capturing thoughts and feelings and observations on the page. What do you like about writing?

Are We Poor?

2008-10-27T08:49:00.002-05:00

We never took family vacations when I was growing up. My parents always said we couldn't afford them. My mother stayed home with my brothers and me, while my father worked in a factory. Every July, he got a two week vacation. He called it "Shutdown," because the factory would literally close for two weeks for inventory.

During "Shutdown," we would take one day to go to a local amusement park. We would pile into the family car with a cooler full of Mom's fried chicken, generic soda and potato chips and drive the 90 minutes to the park. We always got there when the park opened and stayed until it closed. That was the extent of our family vacations.

I always envied my friends and classmates who would return to school after summer vacation with tales of trips all over the country. I would come home and ask, "Why don't we ever go anywhere?" The reply was always, "We don't have the money."

I didn't fly on an airplane until college when I went to Chicago for a student journalism convention. It was only a 50 minute flight, but it felt like magic. I was excited to finally be on an airplane, but I pretended to be bored and disinterested because I didn't want to seem unsophisticated.

I thought about the lack of family trips recently when I canceled a planned trip to Portland, Oregon. I was going for a long weekend in November, but the economy is making me nervous, so I decided to cancel and wait until next spring. Because I had insurance on the trip, I got my money back.

In my case, it wasn't "we don't have the money." It was more "we don't want to spend the money right now." I want to eventually change careers and teach full time while writing, and that means a more frugal lifestyle and smarter financial decisions for me so I can reach my goal.

Now that I'm older and can look back, I realize it wasn't "we don't have the money" for my parents, either. My father made good money. He just didn't know how to manage it. On paper, he could afford to buy a home, a decent car and take his family on vacation once in a while. But he farmed in addition to working at the factory, and he lost money. He's now in his 60s, retired from the factory and still farming. And probably still losing money.

Coffee

2008-10-27T08:13:00.000-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows how grumpy I am without my first cup of morning coffee. I used to tell people coffee became a part of my life when I started working morning drive at KMOX, but that’s not quite true. Grandma introduced me to coffee.
I don’t remember how old I was when I had my first cup of coffee, but I know where I was: at the white table in Grandma’s kitchen, sitting in the chair closest to the stove. Grandma didn’t use an automatic coffee maker like I do now. She used a percolator on top of the stove. She always used the same brand—Dana Brown Safari coffee. I loved staring at the coffee tin with its photos of wild animals, usually some kind of big cat.
Grandma kept plenty of sugar and coffee creamer on the white table, and she’d let me “dress up” (as she liked to say) my coffee however I wanted. It didn’t matter if I ended up with more sugar and creamer than coffee in my cup. Grandma encouraged me to use as much as I wanted, and if I made a mess, it was no big deal. She’d patiently clean it up, then ask me if I wanted another cup. I always said yes. You could never stop with just one cup of Grandma’s coffee. She would even let me drink it through a straw, even though now I realize how silly that looked. She didn’t mind because it made me happy.
I was often joined on these coffee adventures by a cousin or two or a sibling. We would sit together at the white table and play games. Our favorite was running Matchbox cars through piles of flour in Grandma’s baking pans. We got flour everywhere, including on us. Grandma never scolded us, although I’m sure she wanted to. She’d laugh at us and then clean it up without a cross word.
I eventually stopped drinking coffee at Grandma’s, and she eventually replaced the percolator with a Mr. Coffee automatic machine. But the memories of Grandma’s coffee remained front and center last Christmas, when I was sitting at the white kitchen table. My brother poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down next to me and pushed the cup toward me and said, “Make it like Grandma used to.” He didn’t have to explain what he meant. I started piling in the creamer and sugar.
It’s been over 30 years since those first cups of coffee, and I’ve had thousands of cups since then. Some I’ve made myself and some I’ve purchased when in a hurry. I no longer drink coffee through a straw. But none of those cups tasted as good as the ones I had in Grandma’s kitchen because they are missing a secret ingredient—love.