For some reason, today I sort of meandered down the road of recalling people who have most inspired me. The first two names that popped into my head were Erma Bombeck and Mary Richards.

My self-image as a kind of literary type would love to have those first two names be Germaine Greer and Lucy Maud Montgomery, who were also authors I loved. [I would be willing to bet this is the first time those two ladies names have appeared in the same sentence and I bet they'd both love it!]

But, my heart remembered Erma Bombeck and Mary Richards, first.

Upon reflection, I have to admit that my heart did a bang-up job of dredging up the two people who I most wanted to be when I was a young woman.

First, I (and most other girls I knew) wanted to be Mary Richards. She was pretty. She had a totally awesomely cool apartment. She was a single, career woman living alone in a big city. She was a writer. She was everything I wanted to be. I don't think I missed one episode of the Mary Tyler Moore Show during its entire run, and I probably watched most of the reruns. A lot of my friends were similarly inspired by that show. She was a free-spirited woman who was not a bra-burning radical. She offered a sort of middle way for women who did not necessarily want to pursue a life of marriage and motherhood, but who also were not particularly radical.

My adulation for Erma Bombeck is a little more difficult to explain. I never had any intention of getting married or having a family (I ultimately did both, but it was not part of the plan). I was going to be Mary Richards, remember? I didn't want to be a mom living in Dayton, Ohio, writing about laundry and cleaning products. The things about Erma Bombeck that lit me up and inspired me were that she was honest and she was funny ... and she was from suburban Dayton, Ohio, which I took to mean you didn't have to be an anorexic, Bryn Mawr educated woman living in New York to be a literary success. (That was important because I was a fat, small town kid from rural Ohio.)

Women in the Midwest in the 1960's were not encouraged to be honest or funny. Bombeck managed to be both a nice lady and honest as well as funny as hell. Not to mention a fabulous writer.

I wanted to be a humor writer, documenting the life of a single career-woman.

I ended up a married, career-woman, who writes stories. I'm still working on the "funny" part.

Update: My First Month

This past week marked the end of my first month of working out at Curves For Women.  I have never in my life been so rapidly sold on something -- except maybe Ghirardelli chocolate or Mrs. Fields cookies (but, that is another story entirely). 

After working out three times a week for a month, this week was the dreaded "weigh-in".  Only I didn't really dread it because I could feel that my body was different, and better. I felt taller, stronger and more energized. I was surprised to learn that I only lost one pound on the scale.  

They broke it down however, and showed me that I had actually lost 3 pounds of fat.  What is more, I lost 6 inches.  I am not happy with what the scale says I weigh, but I am thrilled with the way my body looks and feels.  I can continue to lose one pound a month, or less, provided I continue to feel so energized when I leave the workout room and so comfortable in my clothes!  

When I first read about Curves, I thought it was another of those ripoff franchises that preys on women's insecurities about their bodies.  I was predisposed to be suspicious about the whole concept.  I was totally wrong!  It is all about empowering women and helping us to be the best we can be.  Very few of us will ever look like Catherine Zeta-Jones or Angelina Jolie (they are my idea of the two Most Beautiful Women in the World), but we can at least do the most we can with the bodies we have.  

For me it is not about looks (although looking good is a nice side effect).  It is about health (managing my weight and diet are important with a body that tends to manufacture a lot of cholesterol) and mental well being (my stress levels are off the charts some days and exercise is the best way for me to manage stress). 

I have never been one to pamper myself or to take the time to do all the personal self-care stuff that our contemporary culture tells us is important.  I resorted to therapeutic massage a few times at one point when I was in so much pain, but I hated the experience of getting naked in front of a stranger and spending money to have someone "pamper" me.  I quit as soon as the pain became bearable.  I have never had a manicure or pedicure.  I quit going to the hair salon almost a year ago: I cut my own hair. My attitude has always been that I have too much to do to spend time and money on girlie frivolities.

For the past 20+ years in one way or another, however, I made time in my life for exercise, mostly walking.  That was good.  It helped me manage my weight and was great for my mental health as well.  But, it wasn't enough for my post-menopausal body.  I would have given anything to find another alternative that did not require me to pay money and/or make some kind of commitment to add to all the other commitments in my life.  I couldn't find it.  So, I bit the bullet and signed up.

Working out at Curves requires me to leave the office earlier than I would ordinarily do.  That is annoying when I'm in the middle of something. It is a good thing because I need to not work as much as I do on my job (gives me more time for my writing, for one thing). It is a good thing, too, because it gives me an opportunity to practice self-discipline.  The combination of flexing my actual muscles and exercising dicipline over my rambunctious Will makes me feel good. It's all about that "control what you can" thing. I can't control anything in the world but myself.  I take full advantage of that little zone of disciplinary control.

In any case, I was motivated to work really, really hard on my susequent workouts this week, and came out feeling great. [Image: Rocky Balboa pumping air at the top of the stairs. Background sound: James Brown singing "I Feel Good"]

Now, it's time to get back to work.

 

Blog Surfing Sunday

While procrastinating in order to avoid doing any actual creative writing of my own today, I wasted a couple of hours link hopping around the blogosphere. I found some potential kindred spirits (and a bunch of folks that left me scratching my head and wondering WTF?) ....

I just stumbled across this blog by Honey Pie Horse.  I might quibble a tad with her take on the Bible, but I totally agree with her take on religion in general.  I also agree with her take on The Devil Wears Prada (perhaps the only book/movie combo where I have liked the movie (much) better than the book. Of course how can you go wrong with Streep? [Leaving aside, The Bridges of Madison County, anyway. What was she thinking?])

The folks at BlogHer were a little lathered up about a recent episode of Oprah. Evidently a bunch of mommybloggers were on the show and the topic was mommy-angst. Here's an interesting post on that subject.  I should not comment because: (a) I did not see the show  [I think I may be the only person in America who has never watched an entire episode of Oprah.  Five minutes is probably the longest I have been able to stay tuned to her show.] and (b) I would not have continued watching it once the whining and sniveling started (see above on giving up on Oprah in less than five minutes). 

However, I am qualified to speak on the subject of motherhood from a blogger's perspective. I have been an at-home mom and I have been a working mom.  I am not exactly an Earth Mother, but I do the best I can.  

No doubt about it: Being a mom is not a Sunday picnic: Sleep deprivation during infancy; Establishing authority and consistency in toddler-hood;  The ups and downs of Elementary School; the horrors of Middle School, etc.  Being an at-home mom can be isolating, but it can also be seen as a blessed gift of alone-time to think and ponder and experience creativity from the inside out -- at least that was my experience.  Being a working mom can be exhausting, but it has its compensations as well; I like to think that it is good for my daughter to see me as a competent professional apart from being a mom.  

Motherhood. Marriage. Career. Life. It all involves juggling, making choices. Some days are better than others. Some days totally suck, in fact, but there are other days filled with love and wonder and glory.  Tell me that it is not worth everything when you kid or your husband gives you an unexpected hug and says, "I love you"!!

Writing about the bad experiences is fun and cathartic for those of us who express ourselves with words.  We exaggerate and turn into humor what may have been initially a painful experience.  What we write often originates with a kernel of a true experience, but storytelling and writing techniques take over, and the end result is a "story", not necessarily a factually accurate account of what really happened, but it may [we hope] be entertaining as hell, perhaps because it's just a bit scandalous.

Were those women really just sitting around pissing and moaning about how excruciatingly difficult it is to be a mom and confessing to egregious behavior .... or were they a bunch of writer/storytellers sitting around trying to out-do each other with their tales.  I betcha half of those stories could have started with, "Oh, yeah?  Well, listen to this...."  I'm guessing those women were engaging in intentional hyperbole and outrageous storytelling: perhaps even satire.  It was probably all supposed to be funny.  The problem is those daytime talk shows don't understand satire. They are all about people crying and spilling their deepest, darkest secrets for the entertainment of the masses. 

These women go on TV and tell outrageous stories that are supposed to be funny in order to plug their blogs, and people take them seriously?  Sad.  So. Very. Sad. 

Erma Bombeck is probably spinning in her grave ... or maybe she's knocking back a few at St. Peter's Pub with Molly Ivins and talking about what a bunch of twits women can be.

And besides, don't people have anything better to do than sit around and watch Oprah?  Um... or read blogs, for that matter.  [NIW puts head in a paper bag....]

 

Very Personal Stuff

I never thought I would write about this here, but suddenly I want to share something about my personal "battle of the bulge."

The new trend in companies is "wellness" programs for workers. The idea is that workers who exercise and take care of themselves will be healthier, happier and cost less to employ and to insure. The theory is that when employers promote health and wellness for their employees, everybody wins. I think there is truth in that. Employers would do well to promote healthy lifestyles among their employees.

My company recently started such a program. It began with a pilot program emphasizing walking. I am a passionate walker, so I signed up immediately. In recent months, I have found myself at a plateau in my walking program. I am walking about as far as I can for someone who works as many hours as I do every day and then writes for several more in the evenings. I thought I was doing as much as I could possibly do in the way of walking. When the company started the "wellness" program, I signed up mainly in order to get the pedometer and find out how far I really walk every day.

The goal for the group is to build up to 10,000 steps a day over a period of several months. That sounds like a lot. It is. Ten thousand steps is approximately five miles. The very first day, I walked more than 13,000 steps, and I only wore the pedometer for a few hours. I realized almost immediately that my "normal" walk is about 10,000 steps. My "long" walks on the weekend are considerably more. I put in approximately 30,000 steps over the weekend and did not wear the pedometer all day either day.

We officially started the program yesterday. I'm at 29,000+ steps for the two days.

On the one hand, to someone who is really in great shape, my piddly ass walking program is probably not a big deal. I am not one of those hard bodied women you see in the gym. I have way too much skin for the size of me, which is gross. I don't feel like I'm in great shape and I don't look like I'm in great shape. That means that I don't think I should get any prizes for exceeding the goal at the very outset of the program. To me that only means that in order for me to really follow the program and increase my activity will be difficult. I may or may not be able to achieve that goal. Maybe the best I can do is to keep up at my current pace. Part of me believes that should be good enough.

By way of background, I should say that when I was in elementary school, I wore "chubby" girls sizes. When I graduated from high school, I wore a size 18 dress. When I was 22, I wore a size 20+ and had difficulty walking up one flight of stairs to the bathroom in my apartment. When I was 24, I lost more than 100 pounds. In the intervening years, my weight fluctuated some, but I never went above a size 14.

After I reached menopause, I got serious about trying to get my weight down as far as I could because I had developed high cholesterol. This year I will be 54. I wear a size 10. I walked nearly 8 miles today and barely broke a sweat (other than what you would expect due to the 90-degree heat). I realize that in some circles a size 10 qualifies me for fat cow status, but given my personal history of obesity, a size 10 is damned near incredible. When I was in high school, I could not have walked eight miles on a bet; now as a middle-aged lady, I can do it on a weekday evening after working all day and without any difficulty at all. Is that cool, or what?

I am exceedingly proud of that accomplishment!!! I encourage anyone who is overweight and wants to do something about it to simply walk up the street, and then around the block, and then around the neighborhood....... It seems so simple. It is. A simple thing that can change, enhance (and lengthen) your life.

Whether or not I can increase my daily activity remains to be seen. I would like to get down to a size 8. I don't know if I can do that. I intend to give it my best shot.

What I do know is that I am literally half the person I used to be. I have twice the energy and exponentially more stamina. I am 54 and I do not take any kind of medication on a regular basis. I am no America's Top Model, but I look pretty good by my own past standards.

Who knows whether or not I will live any longer because of it. I can say that I believe with all my heart that I live better because I lost weight and exercise regularly.

Epiphany in the Pool

When I was younger, it seemed most of my friends were older women. I was blessed with a collection of wonderful mentors and "other mothers" who helped me navigate many of the perilous portions of my early Journey. While I always had a couple of friends my own age, it seems that most of my best friends were women and a few men who were much older than I was. I always thought that was because I was "older than my age."

Today I find myself surrounded by people who are younger than I am. Even though I live in Florida, which is sort of like America's retirement home, the people I am closest to are younger than me. My closest friend right now is nearly 20 years my junior. That has been frustrating to me. I like being around people who are older than me. Hanging out with younger people makes me feel as though I am trying to be young again or something. I sucked at being a young person when I was one. I sure as heck don't want to be one of those pathetic old women who try to act young.

This afternoon, while drifting in the pool, I had the kind of epiphany that always surprises the socks off me, but would probably cause other people who know me to say, "Well, duh!"

I realized that I am now playing the role of "older friend" for the young women I spend so much time with. I am the "older lady" who has been married forever and who has been around the block a few times. I don't feel very wise or privy to any special insights about life. I'm not a mentor or "other mother," but I am a friend they know will tell them the truth without competing with them or stabbing them in the back like young women tend to do to one another.

Damn! I've turned into an "Old Broad" and didn't even notice. How cool is that???!!! I'm not a candidate for the Red Hat Ladies, but I am ready to crock back and enjoy being a cranky old bat.

Tears

I am not a whiner. I am a crier, though. I am a big-time, world class, cry-baby. I am what you might call an "all purpose crier." I cry for joy, sadness, surprise, pain, anger, fear, frustration, love, passion, ... and most other emotions, too. (Are there others?)

People have various reactions to my tears. Some people get irritated and end the conversation; I guess they think I'm just an emotionally unstable, hysterical female. Some people try to make me feel better and tell me to stop crying; they don't get it. Some people get uncomfortable and try to rationalize the situation; they try to tell me what to do that will "fix" it. Those people are like Job's friends. They mean well, but their focus is on their own reactions, and they are not helpful.

I love people who ignore my tears and continue the conversation. I especially appreciate it when people cry with me on occasion. Those are the people with whom a person can learn and grow and change. I love to find myself in the company of people who are comfortable with tears, mine and theirs.

Tears are, for me, sort of like the steam valve on a pressure cooker. They provide an outlet for the excess energy that allows the cooking to take place inside without blowing up, melting down, starting a fire or otherwise causing havoc. The steam escapes, the food cooks unseen inside the pot so the results can be enjoyed in due course. That is exactly the way I process life's hurdles. I cry a lot, but while I'm crying, I'm also thinking and talking (or writing) and dealing with whatever is happening in my life. The really good stuff happens late in the process after most of the excess tears have been shed and the internal bubbling settles down to a gentle simmer. In the cooking process, that's when the food gets really, really tender and tasty. In my experience, that is when the real growth happens for me emotionally. People who try to stop me before I get to that point annoy me because they prevent me from completing the work I need to do in order to deal with whatever challenge I may be facing. When I get past the tears, I can look at whatever is going on clearly, objectively, rationally -- and then I can learn from it, make whatever decisions need to be made, and grow and change.

Granted, the revelations that occur at that point or the fear of the next steps I need to take following the decision-making process often kick off a whole new round of tears, but that is just part of the process for me. I have learned that is the way it works for me. My own personal dialectic works kind of like this: Challenge (tears/fears); Processing; Growth (tears/fears) -» New Challenge (repeat process).

The reason I am thinking about this today is because I was privileged to have had a conversation recently with a lady whom I do not know well but with whom I found myself discussing something rather personal. [Isn't it wonderful how women can do that?] She shared something that prompted me to respond with a really candid, nakedly revealing remark about my own similar experience. When I heard what I said, I started to cry. She didn't bat an eye and went right on talking. I went through three or four tissues as we finished our conversation. She shared enough of her story to make me feel less alone and to remind me that this too shall pass. She also provided me with some valuable information. It was one of those brief, blessed moments when two people happen to connect and very quickly reach a place of deep understanding, compassion and caring.

I am so very grateful for that..... and for all my friends who put up with my weepy ways.

Another View of Nuns

In addition to the enormous influence of my friend/mentor/"other-mother", Liz, about whom I wrote recently, when I was a kid, there were a number of women (individuals and groups) whose lives and work inspired me. The women who were the most significant non-family influence on me were nuns. I did not go to Catholic school, but I did go to CCD classes every Saturday and my family had a long-standing, close relationship with the nuns who ran the orphanage my sister and I came from.

The nuns I knew were all well-educated professional women: they were teachers, nurses and administrators. Not all of the nuns I knew wore habits, and the ones who did tended to wear the "modern" habits which looked more like uniforms than medieval garb. The nuns in my world gave the Catholic Church a feminine face but they also were smart, competent, tough professionals.

I am sure they would have been horrified to know that is how they came across. They sought to be Brides of Christ and humble servants of God's People. The Church would have that mean they were subservient and obedient. Every nun I ever met, including the most tyrannical ones, could behave like simpering ninnies in the presence of a priest, but we all learned very early about the act we were expected to put on when priests were around.

The rest of the time, in my experience, nuns were women who were efficient, determined and persistent in their pursuit of what was best for the children whose education and care were their responsibility. Some of them were intimidating as hell and a few were just bitches, but the majority of nuns I met were tough, sincere, hard-working, committed women who were dedicated educators, nurses and administrative professionals. They were excellent role models in ways I feel sure they never imagined.

They had learned to put on a different face in front of Male Authority and they tried to teach us to do that as well. That act may have fooled the priests. It never fooled the kids ... or at least not the girl-children. We knew that the male priests may have ruled in the hierarchy but the real power of Holy Mother Church was in the hands of the religious women who indoctrinated, educated, loved and prayed for Her children.

That lesson resonated for me in many ways. It still holds a lot of power for me.

Change=Metamorphosis

Menopause is still one of the few semi-verboten subjects left in our culture. We may joke about hot flashes and memory lapses, but we don't talk very much in polite society about the actual impact of menopause. I think that's too bad, because for me “The Change of Life” has been not only just exactly that, but it has been for the most part an unexpectedly positive experience.

First of all, I have to say that I have had no serious physical issues, which probably skews my view of the whole experience differently from those women who suffer with debilitating physical symptoms. Unlike for many women, in my experience the physical symptoms of menopause have been more positive than negative.

Surprisingly, the emotional and psychological impact has been wonderful. I feel more confident, more creative, more competent than ever before. I was never overly concerned with what others thought of me, but I am even less concerned about it now. I am what and who I am. To those who have a problem with that, my response is, “Oh, well.” I can't be bothered with letting others diminish my growing personal power. I am respectful and conscious of the effect of my actions on other people. (Sometimes I feel like the only person in my world who bothers with that bit of common courtesy.)

The biggest surprise has been the burst of creativity and sort of spiritual expansiveness that came with menopause. For me it is like the breaking away of a chrysalis, and the emergence of a butterfly. I don't think my butterfly has really taken off yet, but it is definitely emerging.

Writing used to be a hobby, now it is my animating passion.

Nature was always fascinating and engaging, now I find everything from tiny details like rain dripping off a leaf to global warming to be matters of deep import, worthy of contemplation and deep concern.


Religion was always very central to my life , now I find (organized) religion to be utterly irrelevant, while at the same time I find myself more spiritually aware than I have ever been.

Whether it is because of hormonal changes that allow my brain to operate differently or because of the decreased focus on family-building and child care, it is as though my very psyche has expanded. Beautiful things are more lovely. Food tastes better. Entertainment is more fun. I seem to savor things in a way I never did before.


A lot of Baby Boomers seem to be trying to fight aging for all they are worth. I find myself reveling in it. For years I've looked forward to advancing to the level of the Wise Old Woman – otherwise referred to in Jungian parlance as “The Crone”. I'm getting there and I'm liking it.

Hence the problem perhaps????!!!!!

I said the other day that the funk I find myself in has to do with me dealing with other peoples' issues which I thought had little to do with me. I think I may have been wrong about that, at least in part. Several people in my life are going through their own issues having to do with aging as well. Some are handling it better than others. (Translation: the women I know seem to be doing well. The men... not so hot. That should not come as a surprise.) For the most part their issues and problems belong to them. I am very careful to try not to get caught up in things that are not my problems to deal with.

There is one little thing I didn't think about the other day. My friends, colleagues and family are also having to deal with the changes in me. It appears that some of those changes have not been received very well. There may well be part of their behavior toward me which is truly a negative reaction to changes in my behavior. I should probably challenge that ... that is, if I could sort it out.

In any case, I find myself in the process of being transformed. That may be a good thing for me. I have to keep in mind that it may prove a challenge others who are accustomed to the Old Me.

I also have to be mindful that, while I am a person who loves and embraces and seeks Change, most people are not. Most people like things the way they are. Most people are afraid of change and try to avoid it. They are freaked out by someone who relishes Change (even when it is scary). I am charging off excitedly toward Old Age with the attitude that it will be a new adventure. Others are hanging back, afraid and depressed. I am very, very annoyed by that. I need to keep in mind that they are just as annoyed by my attitude.

Hell, in terms of most things in life, I am the most risk averse person I know. If this were a question of changing jobs, changing homes, changing something a person has any control over, I'd be fine with their reluctance. I'd be sympathetic with their depression. I'd be willing to sit tight and wait until they were ready. I would probably be hanging back as well, fearing to make the wrong decision.

But getting older isn't something we have any control over. It's happening whether we like it or not. We have to go down that path no matter how afraid we are. I believe that every day we waste sitting around being depressed and miserable about aging is one less day we have to do something meaningful, help someone, make a difference, do something creative, be joyful, be stupid, or act like a fool. That is where I lose patience. I can't stand people (of any age including children) who sit around and mope and whine and bitch and complain. I can't stand people who think their lives and issues are so important that other people should take up the slack while they sit around feeling sorry for themselves.

I am prepared to go on living my life, doing my duty and taking care of my responsibilities while at the same time dealing with my own issues. I expect others to be able to do the same thing.

Clearly, I am delusional.

My Mother's Friends

My dad, the family kidder, used to ask my mom why she didn't wear pearls and high heels to clean the house like June Cleaver did on TV. She would sputter and puff ... and then laugh. Actually, other than the fact that she didn't dress like a TV mom, Mom's life was a sort of stereotypical 1950's blue collar mother's life. Her world revolved around home and church and a couple of community organizations. The women she worked with on her committees were all homemakers just like her. They were efficient and effective community activists (who would have died of mortification at the very thought that some one may have seen them that way) who always managed to be home from their committee meetings in time to have supper on the table when their husbands came home from work. They might not have dressed in pearls to clean the house like June Cleaver, but they had an impact on their worlds that Mrs. Cleaver never dreamed of even attempting.

In addition to her wide circle of colleagues, Mom had an inner circle of close friends who were very interesting. I am not sure how they got acquainted. They seemed to have virtually nothing in common. Maybe that was why there was such magic between them.

One of the women went to our church; I think that is how my mom met her. After her children were grown, she became an EMT and volunteer ambulance driver. She smoked like a chimney and chewed gum constantly. She was a very funny person; she loved dirty jokes (really, really dirty jokes). I liked her a lot, but I liked her husband even better because he was quiet, had a very dry wit and was not nearly so intimidating.

A second friend was the wife of a mid-level executive for a large corporation. To my knowledge she had never worked for money. Her children, too, were grown and lived far away. She had a really nice house (by my standards) which she had decorated herself. She was rather flamboyant in her manner and dress which both attracted and repelled me. She, too, smoked like a fiend (and had a heart condition because of it). She was very rough around the edges and she swore like a sailor, but I liked her the best of all Mom's friends. She acted rough and gruff, but her kind heart showed through despite all her efforts to hide it.

The third woman in the group was much younger than the others. She was a practical nurse who worked in a long-term care facility that cared for incurably ill people. She was quiet, gentle and kind; simply being around her was soothing and comforting. I always thought she must have been a spectacular nurse. She made me feel better just sitting at the table drinking tea with her. I don't think she had children of her own, but I think her husband had grown children. She lived in a trailer with her husband who, I think, was a truck driver. She was a native American and she had the most beautiful long black hair I have ever seen. She smoked a lot, too. The thing I remember most about her was how freaked out she was when she turned 40. The other women were very kind to her. They had all passed that hurdle and they were determined to help her through it. [I am both amused and freaked out to think that all of those women were younger than I am now. Hmmmm. ... moving along now.....]

What my mother, the ultra-religious Southern gal with late-life small children, had in common with those other three, I have no earthly idea. I do know they loved each other and got together often for lunches that involved massive quantities of coffee and overflowing ashtrays. (My mom didn't smoke but she never complained about the cloud of smoke she lived in from the people around her who did.) A couple of times a year they would go out to a restaurant for dinner. They were not regular drinkers, but their evenings out tended to involve a few cocktails, so one or the other husband would take them to the restaurant and another husband would pick them up, pour them into the car and deliver each one safely (but often somewhat green around the gills) to their respective homes. I remember those times because the women had such fun, and because the husbands were such good sports about it.

Occasionally when I wasn't in school, Mom would take me with her to lunch with the girls. My main purpose in being there was to baby-sit my sister who was a toddler at the time. I typically managed to park her in front of the TV or make her take a nap so I could sneak into the kitchen and eavesdrop on the girl-talk.

One particular lunch conversation stands out in my mind. I had just read The Feminine Mystique which was the "it" book that year. Only one of the women had read it but they had all heard of it. The woman who had read it explained the concept to the others. Two of the other three nodded and agreed. They said they understood exactly what Friedan was talking about, and proceded to provide examples from their own lives. My mom said nothing through the entire lunch. After the conversation calmed down a bit, one of the women pushed her for her opinion. Mom shrugged and said, "I can understand what you are talking about, but I do not feel that I have given anything up. I always felt that I had a choice to be a wife and mother or not. I chose the life I have. I would not do anything differently. I love my life."

They pushed back, trying to get her to admit that sometimes she felt oppressed. She refused to budge. Knowing my mom, I am pretty sure she was being totally truthful. I know she believed there were always choices in life. The fact that she chose the most common path did not make it any less her freely chosen one. Mom had no regrets (then or now). What an amazing accomplishment that is!

That day stands out in my mind for many reasons. First, because I had a chance to hear from my mother's friends what I expected to hear: the "Feminine Mystique" was every bit as real and every bit as suffocating as Friedan described it. Secondly, it stands out in my mind because my mother's staunch refusal to be railroaded into saying that she felt something she didn't feel, no matter how "popular" the notion, made me understand that not everyone shares the "majority" opinion. Thirdly, and most importantly, it may have been the most intimate conversation I ever heard those women engage in. It was my first experience of "deep" girl-talk. I have been hooked ever since on that kind of relationship with other women.

What I took away from eavesdropping on my mother and her friends was that women (people) do not have to have a lot in common to love one another. They simply have to care about one another and be willing to listen without passing judgments.

Years later when I found myself briefly blessed to find myself in a circle of chain-smoking, coffee-drinking women who met frequently for lunch and conversations on deep subjects, I could sometimes close my eyes and feel our connection to the larger Sisterhood of women who had gone before and who would come after us. The feeling of empowerment was amazing.

A Father's Influence

They say that one of the most important influences on a girl's self-esteem is the role her father plays in her life. Intuitively, I think that is true, and I know for a fact I benefited from a real winner in that department.


My dad went to the South Pacific on a troop ship instead of going to college, but he loved to read. His favorite subject was history. Despite cultural bias in our Catholic blue-collar community against intellectual pursuits in general and, especially against educating girls, he encouraged me to be curious about my world and he never once gave me even the slightest hint that he would accept anything less from me than the relentless pursuit of knowledge, in school or out. The first fight we ever had was over homework. He found my homework papers unacceptable. I told him they were good enough. He said, "If it's worth doing, it's worth doing well." He made me redo my homework, and he left me with a mantra. I may have been just a girl to the rest of the world, but he expected more of me. I soon learned to expect even more of myself than he did.


When I was in high school my dad read The Female Eunuch. Why on earth he read it I have no idea. Personally, I think he thought it was a dirty book. To my knowledge it was the only "liberal" and/or "feminist" book he ever read. He never told me what he thought of it. When he finished reading it, however, he gave it to me. I read it but I have to confess it didn't make a huge impression. Geer's thought processes were too difficult for me at the time. It inspired me, however, to read The Feminine Mystique, which I did understand (because it described the lives my mother and her friends were living at the time and which I was determined to avoid at all costs). Dad never mentioned the book again and he never mentioned the Feminists in a positive light, but somehow I always knew that his opinions were more complex than they appeared. He may not have liked the Feminists, but he knew they were looking out for my best intersts. He may not have wanted me to turn out exactly like them, but he wanted me (for some reason) to know about what they were doing. I don't think he really understood it or accepted it, but at some visceral level he made an exception for me in his anti-Feminist attitudes. I have always appreciated that.


Perhaps most importantly of all, my dad showed me by example how to pursue dreams. When he retired he embarked upon the study of music. The man could not read a note of music until he was in his early sixties at which point he started taking music lessons. For years, he practiced for hours and hours every day. No girl ever had such an amazing confluence of inspiring witnesses as I did at that point. My mentor, Liz, was off in Arizona learning to paint and writing long passionate letters about the ecstacy of the process. My dad was learning to play the organ, with perhaps less flair but every bit the determination. He never tried to describe how he felt about that. He didn't need to. It was evident in his beatific visage every time he sat down to play.

I heard the message loud and clear: follow your bliss; it is never too late.


He never pushed me like some fathers do. He merely offered me alternatives that may not have occurred to me because they cut across the grain of the ambient culture in our community. He practiced his principles rather than preaching them. How many girls have ever been lucky enough to have a dad like that?

Liz

Written on the occasion of the passing of my mentor, my "other-mother," my friend, my role model and positively the coolest woman I have ever known.


In some respects Liz was a quite ordinary person. She was born and raised on a farm in the Midwest. Her harrowing tales of rural life being tormented by two older brothers were always entertaining, and maybe some of the stories bore a kernel of truth. They had been told, retold, and polished over the years by a master storyteller until the facts had been overtaken by the images and the meaning. The historical truth of the events of her early life may have been lost, but the significance of her memory of a childhood in a simpler time among hard but loving people was always absolutely clear in every story she told about the family she loved so much.

She was a young woman in love during WWII, and, like most people in her generation, she was forever marked by that experience. She was a flag-waving patriotic, jingoistic America-firster, and damned proud of it. She was a life long member of the Ladies Auxiliary of the VFW. She believed in the ideals of America with a fierceness that reflected her belief in the fragility of freedom, and the need to renew, in each generation, our commitment to the sacred trust of being the standard-bearers of freedom for the world. That America is the greatest nation ever in history was not a matter of opinion for her; it was an indesputable fact. If anyone was stupid enough to express a different point of view in her presence I never heard about it.

It would be a serious understatement to say she was “disillusioned” by organized religion. The fact is she loathed and despised organized religion. She believed absolutely in a God of Goodness and Love -- not because she'd read about it in Scripture or was told about it in preaching, but because she experienced in her daily life the Holiness that pervades all of God’s Creation. She did not need a church to experience God and she resented the Church's guilt-inducing influence on otherwise innocent children (including me).

She told stories of being a disappointment to her mother because she could never quite master the art of being “lady-like”. Even in her old age, having for years accepted that she was not then and never was likely to be a genteel lady, she could still express a deep sadness that she'd been such a disappointment to her mother. Those stories were laced heavily with sorrow for the impact her choices had on her mother. She never once expressed even the tiniest hint of regret over her choices, however.


Perhaps that clarity about herself was one of her most striking traits. She was very sensitive to others’ feelings and opinions, but she never let them deter her from being her own person, no matter how much her way of living flew in the face of the norm, and it did. In the 1950's and early 1960's, when most of the women I knew were homemakers with children who never left the house without their hair done and their “face on”, she was different. She was the first woman I knew who didn't wear makeup. She only wore a bra when she absolutely, positively had to (and she took it off the minute she had an opportunity). She never wore a girdle. She had no children and she worked at a full-time job -- both of which were unusual for a married woman in those years. She was not a feminist, however, at least not in any way she would have acknowledged. She rejected the very notion of "feminism" and God help you if you expressed an opinion that she had anything in common with “Women's Libbers” like Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, etc.

She saw herself as a Republican, and a conservative. When she moved to Arizona, I teased her about moving there to be closer to Barry Goldwater. Conscience of a Conservative was one of her all-time favorite books; she made me read it when I was just a kid and really didn't understand it. She did Republican party work her whole life, but I always saw her as more of an anarchist than anything. It always seemed to me that she only espoused the conservative “small government is better than big government” ideology because she understood that “no government at all” was not very practical. Nevertheless, deep in her soul, I always suspected she felt that “no government” would have been just fine.


I believe that is why she sought out-of-the-way places to live, where she could be left alone and where no one would try to tell her what to do. She had an affinity in literature, art and movies for the mountain men who so desperately tried to stay one step ahead of civilization if for no other reason than to stay away from the crowds. She felt herself to be their modern-day equivalent.

Liz was a person who knew what she wanted in life and she went after it, even when that may have caused her to go against the grain of social niceties. She told me many times that the first time she ever saw her husband in a store in her village, she told the friend she was with that she was going to marry him and she immediately embarked on a campaign to make that happen. She never told me how she managed to get from that encounter in the pharmacy to matrimony, but Liz was nothing if not determined. Her husband's painful shyness was no match, I suppose, for her determination. They were an odd couple in many ways, but that they cherished one another was obvious to anyone who saw them together (if you could manage to look past their constant arguing and bickering).

They built their first home with their own hands, and then filled it with the books and music that they loved. There was peace and love and contentment there, even during the otherwise tumultuous 1960's. Marty Robbins was always queued up on the record player and there were floor to ceiling shelves filled with books in the den. There were rocks to polish and photos to develop in the basement. Liz and I spent many an afternoon making jewelry from the rocks she'd collected and cut and polished. I longed to visit that house for many, many years after they moved away. I guess I still do.

I cannot think of Liz without thinking of books! My very first paying job was cleaning their house when I was in junior high. The room that always took the longest for me to clean was the smallest room in the house, the den. It took extra time because I had to investigate the new books on the shelves -- and there were new titles every week. I had blanket permission to borrow whatever I wanted, and usually came home from my cleaning job with a sack full of novels. Liz may not have had much of a formal education (I think she made it most of the way through the eighth grade), but she and her husband were both incredibly well read. Liz read widely in history and science, poetry and literature. She read books on accounting and economics, politics and geology. I can't think of a topic you could mention that she didn't know something about. But her tastes weren't only high-brow: she and her husband both loved paperback westerns, especially Louis L'Amour. I think she read every one of his many, many books.

Her other favorite western novelist was Zane Grey; I think it was from his work that she first fell in love with the American West. By the time I was a teenager she had read all of his books, most of them more than once, a few of them many times. I remember once she was trying to explain something to me about the colors of a sunset, and she pulled out a tattered old copy of Riders of the Purple Sage, turning to one of Grey's particularly rich descriptions of a sunset in the high desert. I could tell from the expression on her face and the reverence in her voice as she read the words she could actually see the sunset that Grey was describing. She taught me to read in that visual way as well. That was perhaps the most precious of all the gifts I received from her. She didn't just read books, she “watched” them like a movie – or, maybe, more accurately still, she “inhabited” them. I often felt that some of her paintings were her effort to capture on paper what she “saw” reading Zane Grey's novels.

As long as I can remember, she loved to draw and doodle. I remember many Friday evenings, sitting at our kitchen table listening to Mom and Liz talk, and watching Liz draw pictures and shapes and designs on the backs of napkins or scrap paper. It was no surprise to me when, after retiring and moving to Arizona, that she began to study painting.

For a number of years after her retirement, painting was her animating passion. She painted the landscapes she had carried around in her head her whole life. She painted sunrises and sunsets, barns and fallen-down prospector’s cabins, and any number of other scenes she had held in her memory or imagination for years until they finally had an outlet. Her pictures had a simplicity and sparseness that reflected the simplicity of her tastes, but they had a richness and depth that left no doubt there was lots going on beneath the surface as well.

I believe that her early years in the Southwest were among the happiest of her life. After a lifetime of loving to travel the Western states, she reveled in the opportunity to live there full-time, surrounded by the mountains and the forests and the spirits of the land which nurtured her and filled her with artistic inspiration, and personal contentment. All the creativity that she had stored up during a lifetime of wanting to create art, came flooding out on paper and canvas in a few short years. In those years she wrote many long letters letters to me. They were letters from a happy and fulfilled person.

The last time I saw her, both her eyesight and her memory were beginning to fail and she could neither paint nor read very much any more. She filled her time with clubs and Republican party political work, but she missed her books, and, most especially, her painting. When we visited that summer, she took down each painting in her studio, and asked me what I thought of it. Then she proceeded to tell me what she had been trying to accomplish when she painted it and where she felt she could have improved. The longing in her voice and the sadness she exhibited at the awareness that she would not paint again made those hours hard for me to bear. They must have been excruciating for her.

I believe Liz thoroughly enjoyed her life. She loved to travel. She loved music. She liked rum daiquiris and apricot brandy. She was no Julia Child, but she made the greatest fried chicken livers in the world. She was cantankerous and crotchety at times, particularly with people she felt were narrow-minded or unwilling to stand on their own feet, but she was kind and generous to everybody else. She loved her husband. She was a loyal and dear friend to more people than I can even imagine. She loved her country, its land and its people. She may not have had any children of her own, but she served as a “second mom” and “mentor” to a whole lot of us.

It might be said that, in her passing, a light has gone out in the world. But, I can't help but think of the lives she touched: the babies who were born because she advised friends to follow their hearts and marry the man nobody else liked; the educations or vocations pursued because she advised young people not to be afraid to take risks; the late-life careers or dreams pursued by those of us who followed her example of believing it is never too late to follow your dreams. Maybe Liz’s light has not gone out after all. Maybe it now continues to burn in the hearts and lives of those of us who were privileged to have her call us friends. Considering how many people are included in that number, that is quite an amazing legacy.

Old Broads Rule!

This is the first of a series of posts on the subject of women and aging. I have the sneaking suspicion that this series may be the reason for this blog's existence.... Time will tell.

From the first time I read it in the early 1990's, I loved the poem, When I am Old I Shall Wear Purple. I was aware that I was too young for the part then, but I decided that, when the time came, I would be an old lady like the one described in the poem.

It reminded me immediately of a lady who went to my church when I was little. I don't remember her name. In fact, I never knew anything about her. In the early 1960's, she was probably in her mid to late 60's. She was a little wiry lady who never walked, she marched. She marched into church and sat in the front row. She marched up to the Communion rail and marched back again. She marched out at the end of the service. She was always in a hurry. Other church-ladies moved quietly and slowly. Nuns seemed to glide [they must teach that in nun-school, sort like the runways exercises on America's Top Model]. This lady moved through her world like she owned the joint.

Other details I remember about her: She drove a Corvette. She wore mini-skirts (not really, really short ones but her skirts were above her knees, which was something of a scandal). She wore a big pink knit hat with giant sparkly sequins. She wore bright red lipstick and red fingernail polish. She had well manicured nails.

Needless to say, almost all the good Christians in our church trashed her something awful. The kids laughed at her because she was different. The mothers despised her because she was unfeminine, she didn't "act her age" and she didn't play the church-lady game. Three strikes, you're out, Toots. For most people being on the outs with the Church-ladies would have been a frightening thing. I don't think that lady noticed. And if she did notice, methinks she would not have cared.

I thought she was the second coolest lady in my world. (I'll write about the coolest one soon.) I would have loved to get to know her but she never slowed down long enough to talk to anyone, and she was apparently way too busy to participate in the church in any way other than regular Sunday attendance. Nevertheless she made a very strong impression on this good [ahem] little Catholic girl. I don't remember thinking that I wanted to grow up to be like her, but the idea must have seeped into my psyche somehow. At any rate, she made a lasting impression.

When I read the "Purple" poem the first time, I immediately thought of that lady. I made up my mind that when the time came I, too, would wear purple and revel in being old. I'll never be a Red Hat Lady (I'm not a joiner and I HATE the thought of dressing like other people), but I relish the thought that I finally have the opportunity to begin to grow into the sort of cool old broad I have always admired. It seems as though I have been waiting my whole life for this. I hope I can pull it off!!