20th Blog: What I thought I knew about Christmas Letters

What I thought I knew: My parents wrote extensive Christmas Letters and enclosed them in suitable Christmas cards. They were a report on the year of the family, what each of us has accomplished and where we spent our vacation. They sent out multiple cards, and it was a chore to get them all addressed and stamped. We in turn received many Christmas cards, which my mother would display in various ways, depending on the year. They would be set out on the piano, or attached to ribbons and strung in banner form from the ceiling and sometimes, set upon a ribbon or piece of yard, balanced by resting on the interior fold of the card. At least, that's how I remember the cards. We also made Advent Calendars from prior year's cards - pasted like doorways over the appropriate bible verse.

When I was married (late 1970's,) I began the tradition again. I can recall when my list of recipients was around 100 people. Having to do this chore by myself made me appreciate my mother's impatience with my father. Or maybe, she was just impatient anyway.... I searched every December for cards that were not too religious, unless I liked the picture. I looked for cards with humor and whose interior message was not too pointed. Eventually, I began looking for politically correct messages about "the holidays" instead of Christmas. Because I'm Lutheran, I occasionally feel nostalgic and send a card that mentions the birth of Christ and the miracle of forgiveness. Besides, my father was great at celebrations, so it sometimes feels good to mention Christmas.

Over the years, I have enjoyed letters enclosed in holiday cards (yea, even Christmas cards...) from friends and families. I really like the year by year photos of friends, detailing how their children have changed and grown. I look forward to reading how everyone has spent their year, and what they did on vacation. I too include those details. Sometimes, my letters struggle to remain only one page and sometimes I get them printed to I can cut the paper in half and still have both sides printed. Computers have helped immensely. I can print up my own letter, review it over and over and still have a chance to fix a sentence or a word. It's all about the nuance. Sometimes I've been so busy with holiday events and career, I've sent letters after Christmas is over. This allows me to include thank you notes:  two cards with one stamp!

What I have learned about Christmas Letters:  I still enjoy receiving and sending this journal of my life and the lives of people I know and love. I have come to view my letters as personal missives, to be forwarded to everyone who I care about. I try not to make them too long, and I try to mention everyone who is immediately important to me. Like myself when my father managed to mention his children during a sermon, I manage to mention my children, even when they don't spend much time at home or have moved away and gotten married. As if they couldn't report themselves!!! I try not to overstep my boundaries. I don't report anything awful, although, sometimes I do embarrass them.

I love having the opportunity to use the computer for this. Hey! I could email my letter to everyone with photos attached! (*wait: is that Facebook?) My sister Kathy sends silly letters every year. They detail what her animals have done and she sometimes fibs about events and people. Since I already know what happened, I really enjoy reading her tales. My college roommate Beth sends photos of her daughters every year. They have grown into beautiful college graduates. My friend Mark has already sent his Christmas letter for 2011 (I got it yesterday) and it sounds like his life is truly wonderful at this time. (*wait: maybe Christmas letters are my version of Facebook updates, only one per year!)

Since it is December, I must think about a letter for this year. It must include the things I'm proud to have completed or attended or visited or shared this year. It must include a shout-out to my children and significant others. It might talk about my career, my yard or my choice of cereal, (no longer Cheerios). I have to shop through my cupboards for past Christmas cards that were leftover. I will use them, as I have a mixed collection. Besides, none of you will remember what card I sent last year.... I still have a box of all the Christmas cards I've gotten for the past 20 or so years, maybe 30 years? Some get packed every year with the Christmas ornaments. Perhaps next year, I'll have an Advent Calendar making party. Bring cookies!

Nineteenth Blog - What I thought I knew about lawn care

What I thought I knew - My dad used to mow the lawn. I'm not sure about the first house I remember living in, but in the San Fernando Valley, my dad mowed the lawn. This house had a type of grass called dichondra, which looked very much like small lily pads, with leaves from a half to one inch in diameter. It sometimes got to about 3 inches high, at which point, my dad would mow it. He spent more time weeding this lawn. I can remember him in the summer, outside sitting on the lawn with a transistor radio and a Busch beer, pulling weeds. He was especially vigilant about the dreaded spotted spurge. This weed resembles the equally dreaded and sharp 'goathead' weed  found in Idaho, spreading it's thin vegetation over the flat ground. Sometimes, I joined my dad pulling weeds, and sometimes I had to work on the lawn. Mostly, I recall that the lawn was a haven for snails in the evening; I learned to never go walking in the dichondra without shoes after dark.

After we moved to Salt Lake City, I started mowing the lawn. It was a large grass lawn, and I don't recall much weeding. I was assigned most of the lawn mowing after I was in my junior year of high school. This was eased by the presence of an electric mower. I also trimmed the pyracantha bushes with a power clipper with sliding blades. Only my mom was allowed to trim the roses. The lawn in front of the house occasionally played court to our volleyball games in the summer. Once, someone who was angry at my dad ran his car across the lawn, leaving two long gouged tire trails that lasted for a year and longer. Sometimes, my parents hired out the mowing to a member of the church youth group. I volunteered to bring these boys iced tea; after all, it was hot in the summer and they surely required refreshment.

The next time I worked on a lawn was after moving to Seattle. There I learned that lawns can be persnickety and temperamental. This lawn required fertilizer, almost no water, and the removal of quantities of moss. Fortunately, there was not much of the lawn and we had a power mower. My neighbor next door used a push mower, but he and his family were sort of hippies. I have never succumbed to the romance of having a push mower; but I did learn how to sharpen the blade of mine. Seattle has lots of greenery, but the wide expanses of lawn are often wet and not as friendly to picnicking as you might think. The high point of our Seattle lawn was returning after a Sunday brunch to find 100's of plastic forks stuck in our grass. Eventually, this trick was recycled in Boise on the perpetrator.

What I know now - I really enjoy mowing my lawn. It's small and takes only about 30 minutes total mowing time. Removing the leaves and pine cones requires more of my effort and time. This lawn lives in Boise, and has been mine since I moved into this place when it was new. Over time, a small ditch has formed in the front yard, delineating the water line from my house to the outside shut off valve. The side yard facing mostly north has become mossy and the lawn has started to die off under the two enormous pine trees and the maple in the back yard. Clearly, I am not good at picturing the future of large plants. I have two Ponderosa Pines planted from seedlings on the side yard. I realize they are forest giants, but I never meant for that to happen in my yard; these are not even the two largest pine trees.

Back to the lawn. Pine needles kill everything and make a big mess on the lawn. The Ponderosa's have 7-10 inch needles, and the other two pines have 2-3 inch needles. Neither needle is easy to rake away, particularly if you wait for them to gather all fall. Because the front lawn has suffered under that pine tree, I have removed the dead grass, forming a flower garden of mostly Columbines, Hollyhocks, some Lupine and transplanted Hostas. Those last need to be moved to the side lawn where they can again enjoy the mossy shade. The side yard shade results from the house and the second large pine tree, a feeding station for squirrels and a constant reminder not to plant things too close to the house. I am planning to find some type of perennial plants to grow, spreading their leaves and hopefully some flowers under that second pine tree. Eventually, there may not be much lawn back there, reducing mowing and watering time.

The maple tree in the back yard does it's job, making a southwestern facing deck off the dining room tolerable even in very hot weather. The past few years have been apparently been enriching for this tree, as it has formed and dropped an enormous amount of seeds, clusters that are larger than it's leaves. The seeds gather in pockets they seem to form in the lawn, creating uneven lawn and bare dirt. Every year I cut and re-cut the maple seedlings that I have lazily allowed to grow around the house. Along with the leaves, the seeds tumble into my rain gutters, forming a rich mulch in just one year! For the first 10-15 years in this house, there was never a need to clean out the gutters; now they require hosing and trowel work twice a year.

The maple tree, naturally, drops it's leaves in the fall. Fortunately or unfortunately as is your preference, they don't all fall on the same day. They linger, floating down as green castaways in the wind during the summer and as golden ground cover during the fall. The leaves, the sun piercing through their multiple bright yellow forms always surprises me with their beauty in the fall. I have taken to raking several times rather than once in an attempt to make the task seem easier when divided into smaller parts. Yet the sum total of each autumn's leaf clean-up grows larger every October. One year, when I was in graduate school, I left the leaves alone, causing the death of any grass beneath my maple tree. When raked, the ground was mostly bare - an invitation for Boise's two weeds of choice, the dandelion and what is known as ground ivy. Eventually, with some hand pulling and more shoveling and trowel work, the weeds were banished to other parts of the yard where my mowing fails to reach them.

The weeds stubbornly grow next to my fence. The Boise Park Service has eradicated some of them along the park line (I have a city park behind me) and I mow the ones along the sidewalk leading to the park. Come August, the Boise Park Service sprays the weeds along the sidewalk too. I have plans for that portion of property along my side fence, but the need for a new fence keeps me from planting something I would kill during a fence build. I recently removed all the junk from the other side yard, the western facing yard that has all the volunteer maples advancing. Here, I planted some donated roses, captured by black plastic and bark for ground cover. Naturally, my lawn, although laced with unexplainable holes here and there, grows best in my flower beds and the junky western side yard.

My lawn has seen the advance of bugs and worms, the march of crabgrass and the invasion of dandelions. I have killed the bugs with a spreadable application over two years, pulled the dandelions every spring and throughout the summer and have yet to tackle the crabgrass. This is not my fault. The crabgrass is coming from my neighbor's yard; we have lawn in common. They have sprinklers; I have hoses and various watering devices. I water once each week after I mow. I move the hose around and set the timer for about 45 minutes. During the summer heat waves during July and August, I will take pity on my front lawn and water more often. My neighbor has his lawn mowed by a team of workers every Tuesday, and like a girls dorm, we all mow on the same day. The Boise Park Service also mows on Tuesday in the park behind me. I used to mow on Fridays or weekends, but as our lawns share space, I feel compelled to have my lawn looking as good as or as short as the neighbor's grass.

This year, I aerated my lawn. It has to be done every once in a while. I fought the machine all over the lawn, re-starting it when it died as I turned left or right. The rental store people only asked if I had tipped the machine when I complained. (How else could I have turned it? Am I supposed to only drive it in a straight line?) My lawn has many obstacles for so small a patch. The back has the maple tree, the weeping cherry, the swing set I played on when I was growing up and the aspens and rhubarb patch. The front is pretty straightforward; I can mow around the edges and then fill in the space easily. The side yard has the two said Ponderosa pines, but the lawn no longer grows near the other pine or close to the house inside the fence on the side yard. Mowing the weeds produces spitting leaves and dirt. Very nice.

Why do I love mowing the yard? Because there is visible proof of my efforts. There is greenery, sunshine, sometimes rain showers and being outdoors. It's the only way I have to show off to my neighborhood, and it contributes to my well-being, especially when I can sit in the shade on my deck, sipping a beverage and surveying all the freshly mowed grass.

Eighteenth Blog - What I learned about the death of people I love

What I thought I knew - I don't remember anyone I love dying when I was very young. My great-grandmother on my mother's side must have died at some time, but I just remember her completely white hair in a ponytail on her small head. When I moved to Salt Lake City from the San Fernando Valley, my grandmother on my father's side died. It was 1971 and she was diabetic and had some strokes. It still feels maddening that she is gone; she taught me so much, paid close attention to me and I always thought of her as the most sophisticated and worldly of my relatives. Her name was Martha, and I am not sure I knew of her chronic afflictions, nor would I have been able to describe what diabetes meant in 1971. I do know that she made sure I had new dresses for Easter; she gave me my first bikini (how modern!) and she gave me a piece of family jewelry, a gold cross on a necklace which I wore for years, even in the shower. We called her grandmother, never grandma (the name that I identified with my mother's mom).

My neighborhood friend, Ruth, lost a close friend while we were attending Patrick Henry Junior High School. I did not know her friend and was lost as to what feeling would be appropriate for me. Ruth herself died in 2009 of ovarian cancer, and I regret now that I did not try to email or call or re-kindle the ashes of friendship. The last time I saw Ruth, she was on a layover in Salt Lake City, spending the night with my family when we were 16 and in high school. She seemed confident and in focus, beautiful and having fun. I learned a few years ago that she studied at Julliard, but became famous not for classical music but for her connection to Memphis and various styles of country music. She found an answer to "what should I do with my musical degree?"

In the early 1980's, my grandfather (father's side) died. He had lived for a while near us in Utah, occasionally serving as the substitute pastor at my father's church. He is responsible for giving me my first glass of wine and introducing me to Perry Mason and radio baseball announcers in Southern California, ("all right, OK...). I have his dog tag on a chain, which I used to wear with the gold cross his wife, my grandmother gave me.

In the early years of my marriage, I had an asthma attack that took me to the Kaiser in Redwood City, California. While waiting for my oxygen levels to increase and my breathing to ease, I listened to several nurses and paramedics discuss the arrival of a dead man who had been shot by his girlfriend. Apparently after shooting him, she called for an ambulance. There was a long argument about where he should have been taken, to Kaiser or to Stanford - which was closer, and whether or not the paramedics should just have declared him dead at the scene. Without the knowledge of this man and his life, his death and its exterior discussion seemed like a scene from a sit-com. With all my training in domestic violence treatment for men who batter (yes, it's usually men), I wonder now what extreme mental stress enabled the girlfriend to shoot her man? I wonder if she was arrested?

What I know now - Starting in 1992, I lost my mother-in-law, then my father-in-law. I got divorced, and then my mother became sick and died in 1998, my father in 2000. It's too much, and subject to another blog. They all should have been here for Krista's wedding. I'm still angry - still tensely sad and annoyed. It just does not seem fair that my children don't have both my parents or my ex-husband's parents to spoil them and educate them about the world from an older perspective. Two years ago, my boyfriend lost his father after a lingering illness that must have been very difficult for his father. We cooked for him once a week, John working out a recipe for whatever meat his dad had purchased because as John said, "I get to eat dinner with my dad." I wish my parents were here to eat dinner with me one more time; I wish we could talk about what I know now.

My grandma (mother's side) died a few years ago, about a month after we (myself, sister, brother and sister-in-law) visited her for the last time. She was 97 and lived in Fremont, Nebraska. She outlived two of her daughters and her husband. We took a hymnal to the nursing home where she lived and sang songs with her. She looked the same as I had always remembered her, except that she was in a wheel chair, not mowing the lawn. Grandma was tough, but showed her acceptance of age and life's changes: "What are ya gonna do?" she let slip during our conversations. During one visit, Grandma looked up at my brother and asked, "Bill, you're retired now aren't you?" - a pleasant surprise to Kristoph, who will probably never retire from making and recording music.

In February 1998, a few weeks before my mother died, my Uncle Lyle died. He was married to my "old" Aunt Sue and because of my mother's illness, my sister and I did not attend Uncle Lyle's funeral. We should probably visit her and have a memorial to celebrate his silliness and love for Sue. He was a smart man who apparently could not resist Sue; his leaving her at the same time as my parents left took her best friends. What's to become of us when our best friends die? The older I become, the more important are the relationships I have with family and friends. This means that when people I know die, I will be even more devastated than when I was younger. Rats! You can't have joy without also knowing despair. Enjoy your friends and relatives. Tell and show them you love them. Be fierce about it; be persistent about letting them know you care so that you don't have any regrets when someone is gone. That's what I know now.

Seventeenth Blog - What I thought I knew about Fairy Tales

What I thought I knew - Maybe you've all heard the Fairy Tales. A young girl somehow loses her way, is eaten by the big bad wolf and is rescued by a strong man. A young girl pricks her finger and falls into a deep sleep and is rescued by a prince, who upon kissing her beautiful lips, frees her from the spell and they marry to live happily every after. It seems like these young women needed to be strong enough to rescue themselves, but were too naive or helpless. Oh, and they were beautiful. A girl's destinations were planned; her future ensured by marriage to the right man and choosing to make herself as domestically perfect as possible. Oh, and she was supposed to be beautiful. Whose Fairy Tale is that? Even Hef can't sustain this myth.

Today's Fairy Tale includes a two income household and the ideal of putting off having children for a while. Biology suggest that we have kids at young ages anyway, without planning and without marriage. We divorce, separate ourselves from the biological other parent and even a college education does not ensure the formerly inevitable supportive career.

What I know now - I would like to propose my own Fairy Tale. Each of us has lived, tried out, rejected, made up and struggled with our own Fairy Tales. Thanks to modern technology, anyone can rewrite, update, reject or completely ignore their own word processed version. Sometimes we need help from our friends, our counselors, our lovers and from events over which we think we have no control.

Chris's Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, there was a young woman of 34. She did not yet know what to do with her life, and listening to the music that emerged from radio stations suggesting destinations and all the emotions of wrecked or completed love did not help her. She searched her internal library, old tests and questioned the minds of counselors and friends. Settling on one thing for the rest of her life seemed impossible and she could not do it. She knew that choices narrowed her life's course and she resisted following only one path.

She finally settled on creativity, a life that allows and encourages the inevitable changes that insist on forcing us all to adapt to an ambiguous unplanned passage of time. She had spent her life choosing to behave appropriately, closely monitoring herself; ensuring she did what she believed was right and trying not to hurt anyone's feelings or interrupt their lives. Finally, at 52, she realized that just because you play nice does not mean as she believed, that you will get the life you expect, organized your life towards and intended.

At 53 she began to see that through taking care not to intentionally hurt or interfere with humanity she was a drag on the only event that matters or will become despite your planned destination. Ironically, her gradual philosophical twist was a radio hit, and one that she loved. She notices that change is the only constant; that she is not the only one to notice. In her rush to the intended life, she is able to correctly wriggle away from a path that requires no creativity and discovers her best strength so far.

Suddenly, the night is full of stars and she has always had the means to get to any of them, changing direction by just turning towards a new light.

And she lived happily, unless she was sad, ever after. The end. 

Partial bibliography:

“Leads you here, despite your destination...under the milky way tonight” from the album Starfish, a song called “Under the Milky Way” by The Church.

Thanks also to Arthur C. Clark from 2001: A Space Odyssey; “...it goes on forever – and – oh my God! - it's full of stars!”

Thanks to the Big Dipper, that collection of stars in the sky that tells me from my driveway the seasons of the year.

Sixteenth Blog: What I thought I knew about reading

What I thought I knew: When I was a child, my mother read to me every night. She read to me, I think through early junior high. We went to the library every two weeks and got to check out our own books. I have some of the books my mom read to me, and most of them are books of poetry. Robert Louis Stevenson is a favorite of mine: "How do you like to go up in a swing, up in the air so high?" or "In winter I get up at night and go to bed by candlelight; in summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day." My mother read AA Milne's "Winnie the Pooh" and CS Lewis' "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe" and Dicken's "David Copperfield" and all three of "The Lord of the Ring." She also read me my first mystery, "The Moonstone." We read Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" prior to seeing the play when we still lived in the San Fernando Valley and were going to the Old Globe Theatre in San Diego.

I loved to read. I read constantly. I read novels aimed at teenagers including all of the Narnia books several times over. I read Jessamyn West's "Cress Delehanty," all of the Laura Ingalls Wilder novels that started with "Little House in the Big Woods" and "On the Banks of Plum Creek." As an adult, I hated the TV version of her books: "Little House on the Prairie." I read my father's Playboy magazines and "Fannie Hill." He hid those unsuccessfully under the couch. I've read all of the Agatha Christie mysteries over and over. I read all of the Mad Magazine books I could borrow and every "BC" and "The Wizard of Id" comic I could find. I have purchased many of those from used bookstores as an adult. I will stop here as there is a thunder storm.

Continuing later in the month, I remind myself that I love to read by checking my bag of library books. Whew! I still have a few more books. I also read many James Thurber stories and his weird sense of humor makes me feel less a freak. During my late high school years, I soaked up Ernest Hemingway, Saul Bellow and I despised F. Scott Fitzgerald. Symbolism be dammed. I like a story that is about what people do and think. I also read essays by Montaigne, which I find impossible to read now, but thoroughly enjoyed then. I hated Faulkner - a long days journey into ennui, but wrote a paper for my AP English class about "The Simple Hemingway Style." Damn, I'm good. 

Sometime in high school, I started reading the Nero Wolfe books by Rex Stout. My husband joined me in my enjoyment of Nero Wolfe, and we gathered any used books we could find at the Seattle Goodwill. I still have most of the Nero Wolfe collection by the Viking Press and some paperbacks. I read the Anne McCaffrey "dragons of Pern" series but quit when she acquired a co-author. Then my father introduced me to Tony Hillerman - mysteries at Four Corners taking place mostly on the Navajo reservation. I'll have a devil of a time without his books now that he has died. During the 1980s, I enjoyed the humor of "The Far Side", "Herman", "Doonesbury" and "Calvin & Hobbes" and I have collected many of those comics. I read some of the Dune books, all of the Ray Bradbury science fiction and I loved the Foundation Trilogy by Issac Asimov.

After my divorce, I found Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum series that start with "One For the Money," and so on to her recent 17th book. Stephanie Plum has a dangerous job as a bounty hunter that she is ill prepared for and the romance of a homicide detective. Plus, she likes to shop for shoes at Macy's. Speaking of shopping, I really enjoyed the "shopaholic" stories by Sophie Kinsella, and I can finish one in a night (but they are like candy: you can overdo it and feel sick to your stomach). In graduate school, I of course read all the assigned reading. What a nerd! I got very good a reading journal articles and skimming right by the insistent and repeated lists of authors who were quoted.  If the article was about research, I would read the beginning statement about what the author(s) expected to accomplish and then skip to the "results" section.

Meanwhile, I enjoyed the Nevada Barr mysteries, featuring Anna Pigeon as she works for the Forest Service in different National Parks. I think she should set one of her books in the black vastness of Idaho's Craters of the Moon, but it might be too small to hire Anna Pigeon. I read Robert Parker mysteries: you may have seen the Jesse Stone series on television starring Tom Selleck. I have whipped through the Temperance Brennan books by Kathy Reichs and other series by other mystery authors. I have read crap and waded through it because I was bored and read great stuff that kept me reading till I was done with the book. I have read things that after two pages were obscure or in a setting that is not modern (I like modern) and dumped them back in my library bag; I have a great shopping bag from Trader Joe's.

What I have learned: My tolerance for heavy reading has diminished. I need relief, not something to think about. When necessary, I peruse through work related texts and workbooks for counseling tools. The only magazines I've read in the last ten years are about motocross or Oprah's magazine. I don't take the newspaper and I turned off my cable TV. So, I read every night before I go to sleep as I have my whole lifetime. I have plans to read the Bible; you'd think a preacher's daughter would already have finished that book. I sometimes re-read books by Irvin Yalom, an existential therapist of some note who writes in an engaging and interesting manner about counseling. I re-read the "Lord of the Ring" books sometime after the movies started to appear and when I've read everything in the library bag, I re-read Rex Stout, or any other paperback from my collection. Shelf room being finite, I only keep a few authors around, along with books about painters or photographers. I've tossed most of my under-graduate text books.

My family also reads like me, so when visiting any one of them, I know there will be good reading material. I take books on trips and camping, and I include guides to the stars, birds, trees, flowers and wildlife. Am I not my father's daughter or what? Thanks for reading to me mom!

Fifthteenth Blog - What I thought I knew about conversations

What I thought I knew: I remember being shy when I was growing up. I still feel that way, fearing that no one wants to hear what I have to say. There are some people to whom that will sound like something ridiculous, and you know who you are. You are also the people with whom I hold the best conversations. In grade school, the conversations I had were with my sister, with my neighbors and sometimes with kids I met at school. I had lots of fun with my friend Elise in first grade, but I don't remember her being in class after that. I must have talked to the girls who lived close by on my street. We made plans for our clubhouse that was in my backyard, made up plays we forced whatever mother was around to view and we decided what we would do together, such as riding bikes, playing tag, handball or making up secret codes that our parents would not know. Those conversations were immediate and did not reflect anything very dramatic until junior high school.

In junior high, we started to talk about clothes. We talked about our classes and how the health teachers all smoked - irony that I recognized. We talked about our bodies moving from girls to women and the size of our boobs. We talked about books we read and what kind of pantyhose to buy. In truth, I don't remember those conversations. They were still somewhat simple, but I remember them seeming more important. Maybe that was the point of having secret codes as a child - to make our lives seem as important as was a grown-up's life. As for my sister, actually, I wasn't friends with my sister until much later. She was a year and a half behind me in age, which seemed like decades when I was a child. And I didn't talk to boys: what I remember was listening to boys talk - they had some mysterious status and I hoped to be noticed by them.

After moving to Utah in the 9th grade, I probably talked more to my mother and my sister. Conversations with my parents were mostly task oriented and I have carried this unfortunate trait into my parenting. In the 10th grade, I had a boyfriend from my school, and we had long conversations on the phone - including the one after he broke up with me that involved a lot of swearing on my part.  Some time in high school, I started to have girlfriends (a locker mate and a friend from a church youth group) and we had conversations about sex, boys, cars, going to college, where to get milkshakes, sewing, church youth group outings, and people we knew at school. I have no idea what I talked about with my boyfriend when I was in the 12th grade, but I know that some of those conversations were like soppy love letters. We may have talked about what to do on Friday night - leading to soppy stuff.

In college, I talked to my roommate, my friend from high school, and my eventual husband. I had conversations with orchestra members and fellow music students. After getting married, I talked to my husband and to our friends. We talked about what to do on Friday night, what to eat and where to eat. I talked to my co-workers about my life, sometimes more honestly than with my husband. After all, the person you are significantly attached to has the most influence and you hear their opinions more than anyone's. Sometime while married, I began to feel like any opinion I had or thing I wanted to do was not good enough, that I was not worth taking seriously and I never insisted that my thoughts were just as good as whatever anyone else had to say. After getting divorced, I could see that I had lost any assertive quality's I had and I felt bad about myself. Oddly enough, I had no trouble talking to men at the Dutch Goose. Well, liquor is such a miracle!

What I know now:  My children are in their 20's, my age is 53 and I still feel isolated with nothing to say sometimes. Although many of my conversations with my children remain task oriented, we also have fun together and talk about relationships (boy - those are task oriented too!) what we want out of life, clothing, cooking and lifestyle philosophies. I talk to my boyfriend about what we are watching, the kids, recreation, our experience with spirituality, shopping, skiing, enjoying food and the state of the world (well, actually I try to participate in that one - but it's difficult for me.) I can talk to my relatives, especially my sister, and I would talk to my brother, but he lives far away and sleeps in. I should call him more often. I have enjoyed conversations with old friends recently and with old friends of my parents. We have history together, which makes two-sided conversations more fun. I recall in my 20s wanting to do more with my friends so we would have more experiences to talk about. I sometimes feel impatient when talking becomes about the same thing we did 10 years ago.

Maybe all conversations are task oriented. We communicate because we need or want something, even if it is just the companionship of another person. I just want to be able to shoot the shit with my friends and not just be the one who listens. I have observed people talking to me for a living and observed my significant others and girlfriends talking at and to me for years. Because I try to help people with relationships, I have taken the next step in my personal conversations to include myself. This does not mean I have to be interested in the topic someone presents, just that I need to find out where or why they are interested in a topic, and as Woody Allen would say, "may I just interject something here," speak of my experiences. After all, if other people have significant lives, important enough to share with me, why aren't my insights and thoughts also important enough to share?

I just want someone to listen to me and be interested. I'm here too. This blog is a safe place for me to explore my views; I'd like to hear your comments. Talking to someone gives me perspective on my life and my choices. I need that help.

Fourteenth Blog - What I thought I knew about feeling sad

What I thought I knew - My first memory of being sad probably dates back to when I was age 4 and Pam pushed me off her bunk bed. There was a big to-do about this and we were mad at each other for a while. Maybe sad is part of being mad? I don't have lots of memories of being sad when I was little; I was pretty happy growing up. I did begin to notice that my mother did not enforce the rules with my sister as much as she did when I transgressed. This really burned me up. Why shouldn't she get into trouble too? A really sad event, one that seemed unfair at the time and just ridiculous now: I left my oversize red/white teddy bear on the garage floor overnight. My mother threw it out, telling me that it now probably had fly eggs in it and was no longer decent to play with or bring inside. What did she have against that bear? My grandmother bought me a new bear, pink and yellow - it was somewhat satisfying, but I was still unhappy about what my mother had done. OK, so feeling sad was about loss and feeling betrayed.

I went to grade school at Darby Avenue, just down the street from our house. Being picked next to last for the team sport was sad. Getting in trouble for talking to Elise in the first grade was somehow fun. Having to stay in at recess to finish an assignment was sad. Not being allowed to stay out late during the summer was sad. Actually, life was fairly simple, and I never thought that I was missing anything. Getting punched in the stomach by a boy in the 5th grade was puzzling and sad, but I didn't tell anyone. Mostly, I remember being sad because I was not the prettiest or the most popular. Actually, I think being sad about those things prepared me to live with the idea that I was not going to profit from my looks, but I still had to do my best. Putting that in writing makes me want to tell that little girl that she's great. That leftover sadness reminds me of why I now believe everyone has their own talent and skills - we each choose a medium that is unique and special to ourselves alone.

Moving to Salt Lake City when I was in the 9th grade was especially sad for me. Just after we moved there, during Christmas, my grandmother died. I missed out on her advice as a teen. She once convinced me that mixing prints would be OK, and zoweee.... I learned something from her about style. I noticed that my grandfather was sad after her death, and I would write letters to him because I wanted to make him feel better. Sadness when I was a teen came from not knowing anyone in Salt Lake City and having to re-adjust to the social norms, much different from the San Fernando Valley in California. My boyfriend my senior year of high school lived so far away that I was often disappointed by the minimal amount of time we were able to spend together. What was really sad: he did not make it to the airport to see me off the morning I left for college. I guess disappointment does not always have to be sad; it's part of any normal life.

Leaving home was a shock. I was homesick for at least a month and very sad. I probably cried. Then I got married, finished school, and started working. Skipping past the ordinary sadness that comes with every marriage, was the alternate joy of friendships and eventually three daughters. Mostly, the sadness in my marriage came from my lack of assertiveness and inability to stand up for myself or my boundaries and my lack of any sound communication skills. OK, so far sadness is from being mad, not being picked first or being pretty enough to be noticed, losing someone, adjusting to a new place, disappointment in relationships due to my lack of communication skills and, lets face it, wimpy self-worth. (I decided I didn't want to be a nag or a bitch, but I had no alternative plan B when it came to asking for what I wanted.)

What I know about feeling sad:  The saddest I've ever felt was when my mother and then my father died. That still catches me occasionally, and it's been 10 years or more. Watching my in-laws die was also upsetting. My ex-husband moving out was a relief, but I felt sad for years after that, I think because I was alone. Grieving is now part of my experiences. For about 10 years, I worked for an agency where one of my duties was to complete Domestic Violence Evaluations. I interviewed perpetrators and victims, and over the years, accumulated a lot of sorrow and depression talking, thinking and writing about how awful people can be to each other. Since becoming a counselor, I have had clients with stories that make me cry on the drive home from my office. When I was laid off from the 10-year job, I was depressed for about a year, and am still experiencing the the stunned back-lash of what felt like betrayal. I looked for work, but was too depressed to give a good interview. 

I think after writing this, that for me, sadness comes from anger, disappointment, loss and betrayal. It doesn't matter if it happens to me or if I hear about it happening to someone else. I used to watch "ER" on television every Thursday night after my dad died, and I would inevitably cry at some point during the episode. I like to cry in my car. I'm alone, the music is loud, and no one in the other cars knows me. Lately, as I continue to try to build my business and live off my savings, I experience sadness as anxiety over making enough money and fear that I won't. When my daughters are having disappointing experiences, I feel sad, often because I can't fix it for them and also because I didn't give them all the tools necessary to avoid disappointment. That would be a pretty big tool box, and I don't have all the tools necessary myself. Boy, THAT's sad.

Sometimes the daily routine becomes overwhelming. The trick is to realize that I usually feel better after even a bad night's sleep. If I dwell on things till late at night, I find that writing them down as a list of things to do helps me to sleep. (Never put anything on your list that you know you are not going to do....it will never give you the satisfaction you get from crossing off the items...) I know when I've become anxious and sad by the ache in my shoulders and neck and the dreams that involve driving a bad car (the Pinto or the 1967 VW bus I used to have) and being unable to find my exit or get off the freeway. If I want to feel better immediately, I call my best friend and just the sound of his voice talking about his day soothes me - and he knows when I need a shot of tequila to ease the pain. I'm sure there is more to being sad, so I'll reserve the opportunity to write about this more in the later blogs. After all, I've got a few more years to live and I still have the chance to run out of money and be sad about working the weekend shift at - (no offense kids), Chicago Connection.

Thirteenth Blog - What I learned about menopause

What I thought I knew - Well, really, I didn't know anything. It's not something I talked about with my mother. I don't remember her going through the big change, because, by then, I was married. I guess I could ask my sister about her experience or maybe my youngest sibling, my brother. As Bill Cosby would say, "Right!" In fact, I missed the big puberty movie in the 6th grade as I was out with the mumps. I learned more about sex from reading my Dad's Playboy magazines and guessing or asking my friends. All I can say is, thank goodness tampons were invented. (Just a warning, if you don't talk about this stuff, you will either be disgusted or fascinated...)

As I reached 50, my doctor, whom I saw once a year, indicated that I needed to stop using birth control and apparently I needed to arrange my thoughts around the possibility of menopause. I won't bore you with the scientific facts or proper names for the stages that signify the end to a monthly irritation, although I'm more  irritated on an unscheduled basis than ever a mere period could instigate.  Over the years and with the discovery (by me and for me) of birth control with low dosages of hormones, my experience was pretty mild, not even requiring pain pills. I know some women have not had the same "nice" monthly vacation from dry underwear, but I had some moments when I was younger.

For example: I didn't "start" until my doctor insisted it was time when I was 16 years old. He gave me some pills to get puberty rolling, unfortunately not increasing my cup size any. Until I was in my 30's I never had a regular cycle. This often created some anxiety and several tense months here and there. Perhaps having children was the beginning of a cycle that was actually monthly. I recall having my heaviest periods when I was unprepared. Or maybe, when one is unprepared, toilet paper is just not enough. I've been unprepared in the Amazon jungle in Ecuador, but thankfully, there was the equivalent of a 7-11 at the bus station when we were heading back to Quito.

What I have learned - My doctor was right, although my body did not change immediately after my 50th birthday. I continued to cycle for about a year, being forced to worry about pregnancy from a condom's point of view. Then I was unaffected by a period for about 9 months, then for about 4 months, then 6 months. One Thursday when I was probably 51 and attending a morning meeting, I complained about being hot. My friend Wendy accurately pointed out that I was "having a hot flash." I began to think that she was right. RATS! This is noticeable at night; I layer the blankets, pulling them up and kicking them off later. I did some gentle research on-line, but was annoyed by an overabundance of remedies for menopause. I wondered about the question over taking estrogen or battling it out all by myself. Because I tend to allow my body to be in charge (I'm still in charge of taking care of my body), I still have gray hair and I have not asked my doctor about taking estrogen.

Not sleeping. This is not a symptom that is commonly advertised as a part of menopause. What you do hear about is the mood swings. I say, well of course!!! I'm not getting any quality sleep and I can't seem to finish my dreams. This comes and goes as your hormones no longer do their job of regulating your body's habits and, your emotional moods. There are times when I'm in an extremely good mood, ready to tackle anything and very productive. For instance, recently, it only took me 1-1/2 weeks to make and finish a quilt (measuring 95 x 95 inches). I wonder if that is what a manic phase is like? Then, because I don't sleep well for days at a time, I feel like I can't get anything productive accomplished. I don't have the energy to think about things that require thought, such as writing this blog or doing anything to market my counseling business.

Sometime, I feel things very strongly. Maybe that was my first symptom, in my late 40's. Sadness strikes me during movies, in the car when songs that are reminders play on the radio and when I'm watching an emotional TV show - this can last for a few days. It always gets better, which is great. Feeling sad is not the same as when I've been depressed after losing a job or my parents. But thinking about those things makes me sad. I wonder if there is a cycle to this roller coaster of heat, sleeplessness, sadness and great energy. I'll let you know later as I learn more, because I've got to try to take a nap this afternoon. Or, I will just lay there and get up after a while.

Twelth Blog - What I thought I knew about friendship

What I thought I knew - What follows is somewhat historical in nature. I supposed when I was growing up that everyone had the kind of family relationship I experienced. I had two parents, and although both of them worked, my mother was home in the afternoons and throughout the summer. She was a teacher, and at one point, I got a ride with her to my junior high school. My father was a Lutheran Pastor, and he was home almost every night. We all went to church every Sunday, my father leaving early for the first service and the rest of us arriving at church in time for Sunday school. I had friends from school, friends from church and the friends in my neighborhood. Until I reached the 7th grade, these friendships seemed mostly effortless, even though I was never an early pick for a team sport, like kickball or dodge-ball at grade school.

My best friends in grade school were the neighbors. There were originally two girls my age, Penny and Betsy, later Ruth, and Nathan. Penny, Betsy, Ruth, Nathan and I were all the oldest children in our families. When all of us were outside, there were about 20 kids to play Kick the Can, Capture the Flag, Three Flys Up and Red Rover. We spent the summer days outside and the school evenings outside. I don't remember feeling awkward about being friends with any of them. When I entered Junior high, Ruth was my best friend, but that did not last in the chaos of so many new people to meet. At this point, my social life began to center around the church youth group, where there were several somewhat older boys who were handsome and funny and I longed to be noticed by them.

Junior high was where what you wore and who you knew became more important. In those days, we were not allowed to wear tank tops or see-through clothing, although the skirts were pretty short and hot-pants were, for a short time, wildly acceptable. I got my first pair of Levis; girls were finally allowed to wear pants to school when I was in the 7th grade. Although I was feeling confidant about my position with several friends, I was not one of the popular people. I don't recall making any great friends from junior high, but I looked forward to attending church and seeing all my friends there. When I was in the 9th grade, my parents moved from the San Fernando Valley in California to Salt Lake City, Utah. I was stunned by the move; I did not have the right clothing and I knew nobody. I attended Wasatch Junior High ("Hey you Wasatch Warriors..."), the school where my mother taught 8th grade English.

Salt Lake City was different. I had to get a jacket and warmer clothing. I had to take a Sewing Home Economics class because of the difference in semesters and school credits even though I already knew how to sew! I had gotten used to wearing Levi 501 shrink-to-fit pants in California, but no one in Salt Lake City wore those; I think the jeans worn there were Sailor pants. A girl from my church, Kim, made friends with me and invited me to her house. She was in my confirmation class at church. She is responsible for my first alcoholic beverage, a beer while hanging out at a park with friends. She also took me to the "stomp" dance at Skyline High when I was in the 10th grade, introducing me to her friends, "The Who," and smoking pot all in the same night. I wonder where she is and where her life took her.

In Salt Lake, I also had friends at church from confirmation class and the youth group. My dad always took the graduating confirmation class camping, and that was fun. The youth group also mingled with other church youth groups for events in town, camping and socializing. I met Becky at those events, and she is still a close friend, although living in Tacoma now. I dated a guy I met at one of those events named Rex, but he blew me off one day after school, breaking up with me in the parking lot by not letting me get into the car for the usual ride home. In the 11th grade, I began dating a guy from my church. We would make out in his car (he had a hot Duster that he later traded for a Charger or something like that...), go skiing and go to movies. He was fun, but not long term for me. In high school, I became close friends with Jill, my locker mate. We once went fabric shopping and both got the same shirt fabric, which we inevitably wore on the same day to school. I never knew what happened to Jill, as she moved to Washington to follow her boyfriend towards the end of high school. I also remember Chris, who dropped out and disappeared to have a baby. Actually, I hated high school.

After my junior year, I started dating a recent graduate, Jeff. Unfortunately for me, he lived a long ways away from me and could not always count on his car, (a '60s Comet). I began hanging out more with Becky, who was headed to the same college as I, Pacific Lutheran University. I thought we could be roommates, but dorms assign people differently. I was very homesick when I left for college; back when there were no cell phones, you had to write letters to keep in contact with boyfriends and parents. My roommate Beth brought me a matching bedspread, hailed from central California, and was soon a great friend. She is a free spirit living a responsible life and still lives in central California with her husband Doug, whom she met at PLU. I also met my husband, Neal, at PLU, and we took vacations with Beth and Doug, even cooking our first Thanksgiving turkey dinner together. 

Our best friends after we were married and living in San Bruno were Jim and Kathy. We played Hearts with them every week, Jim and I cheating outrageously. I have no idea what they are doing now, but I miss those games. Eventually, Neal and I moved to Seattle, living with our renter, Karl (also from PLU). That was weird, and I don't recommend living with friends like that. Be sure you have good boundaries if you want to remain friends. Our friends in Seattle were mostly from work. Neal began working for Hewlett Packard and I worked for a time at Leasametric, then at Seattle University for their Computer Systems department. Mostly, I remember visiting with Theresa and Rob, Geir, and other friends from PLU. There were many great dinners consumed during that time. Geir was always getting tickets for the hottest band in town and bringing berries and ice cream to our home. After we put in a hot tub, this was more frequent. He used the hot tub even when we didn't want to, bringing his current girlfriend with him.

When Neal worked for HP in Lake Stevens, we met Bill; he later followed us to Boise. He taught me how to troll in a slow boat in Lake Stevens, where I got the largest fish I've ever caught, some kind of trout/salmon? I have pictures. He lived in a house with almost no heat, and I hated visiting him there. Bachelors don't clean their bathrooms. Once, when he was showing slides of his trip to Ireland, Neal and I schemed to find a way to annoy him and I sewed all his shirts together at the buttons. Later, he retaliated by "forking" (putting hundreds of plastic forks) into our lawn. We also spent time with Becky in Tacoma and went swimming and ate lots of nachos with Pat and Jill. Good times when we were all thin.

Weddings of friends I have attended:  Jim and Kathy, Beth and Doug, Pat and Jill, Geir and Kari, Becky and Gary, Kathy (my sister) and Bo, then later Kathy (my sister) and Jim, Tof (my brother) and Margaret. I regret that I did not even know about the weddings of Mark and David (not to each other)...I would like to have attended! 

In 1987, we moved to Boise, to pursue a job with Hewlett Packard and hang out with my sister Kathy and her then husband, Bo. We started the camping in Featherville and learned to love the high desert. Initially, we hung out mostly with Kathy and Bo, but the neighborhood where we purchased a house on a cul-de-sac was full of people our age. Summer daiquiris from home canned peaches, camping together at Ponderosa, barbecues in the front yards, giving Popsicles to all the kids and having the occasional kegger party was the design of the neighborhood. Unfortunately, most of us got divorced and I don't see any of them anymore, just sometimes their grown children. It's too bad, because Jayne used to make me toffee on my birthday. Actually, I get chocolates for special occasions now from my best friend!

What I know now - I am still friends with most of the people dating back to late high school, and by this, I  mean Becky and Beth. We exchange Christmas cards at the least and visits between here and there every once in a while. After my divorce, I began attending Graduate School and hanging out at the Dutch Goose, where I met John while dancing there. John introduced me to rafting rivers, dirt biking and eating well. He is a tremendous cook and we understand each others jokes. He supports me and insists that I be my own person. While in school, I met about 14 people whom I got to know pretty well. I share an office and lunch every other week with Lib, a fellow student and now a colleague. She got me my first full time counseling related job and offered her house for my oldest daughter's dressing room when she got married last year. She keeps me sane about counseling issues and has more condiments in her refrigerator than most specialty food stores. 

My other best friend is my sister Kathy. She thankfully lives in Boise now (not Mountain Home) and is always available to go shopping or sewing with me. Kathy is the most generous person I know, volunteering her time to complete taxes for free and watching my children while I was in school. Her two children have grown up with my children and they are now good friends. I find that my children are also my friends too, some of the time. A few years ago, I joined a woman's networking group that meets every Thursday for breakfast. The food is not so good, but the women are tremendous and have helped me start my business and kept me company at coffee shops. I needed some friends and support, and these women are all people I can talk to about whatever; they share their lives with me.

Friendship is a lot easier to start than I thought when I was a child. There are no restrictions like I believed. I can talk to anyone, and find something we have in common. I learned to greet anyone by watching John talk to everyone he meets anywhere. When we visited Arkansas a few years ago, I realized that John's friendly socializing is part of a southern tradition. Everyone in Arkansas started up conversations with us as though it were the most natural thing to do, which it can be if you practice being friendly and are interested. The most interesting thing I have learned in the past few years is that friendships and relationships and potential relationships are more important than anything else in my life. I know this, because people are more interesting than anything else in my life. Even quilting, my favorite hobby, can be done in a group setting with my sister and my daughter and her friends. If you are a friend to me and reading this blog, make a comment or send me a letter. I still need you.

Eleventh Blog: What I learned about taking photos

What I thought I knew: In my family, photos keep us connected. My mother kept the photos. She put them in scrapbooks that were rectangular, with black pages. The photos were kept on the pages by being inserted into four corner holders. This must have been time consuming and tedious, but I loved looking through the family history. We had an uncle who took family portraits in black and white. I can remember my parents and siblings posing on his couch, me with my head gently leaning aside, trying to look romantic. I have several of his family photos framed at my house, dark, casual and full of meaning and memories.

My mother and father had a 35mm camera with a separate light meter. The light meter was forever being dropped, replaced, misplaced and studied for the magic numbers that must be translated to the camera for a proper light setting. The first prints of our family were in black and white, with white borders and small sizes. By the time I was in grade school, they were taking color slides. My parents took photos of the first day of school (we had new outfits), Christmas (we had new outfits) and Easter Sunday (we had, well, you know.) They took photos of our vacations and the friends with whom we camped and hiked and traveled. They took photos of parties that took place at their home and of church functions. My dad liked to take photos of nature, his most infamous, looking upward from the bottom of various trees.

After vacations, we would have slide shows, setting up the projector, finding a wall space and eventually, fighting with the roll-away screen. My parents accumulated about 20 boxes of slides throughout their lifetime, and I always enjoyed looking through them. My mother printed up many of the slides, compiling a wall of cheaply framed photos for all of us to enjoy. I have some of those framed prints in my hallway, along with the photos of my children that I framed. When I got married in 1979, my husband and I purchased a Pentax K1000 for $100.00 dollars. This camera was fantastic and modern, with a built in mechanical light meter, although the flash was still an attachment and very manual. I still have it, along with a spare (my parents bought the same camera) leftover from my parent's estate and some extra lenses. My husband and I also took slides and I believe I am storing 14 boxes, all in trays and waiting in the darkness of my closet for the projector. Sometime after our children were born, we started taking prints, and now I have almost as many books of photos.

In my family, I have taken most of the photos over the past 30 years or so. One of my intentions was to capture the rich scenery of the Western states. However, photos of people that I know and love are much more interesting. Yes, it's nice to capture the first spring flower, but it's better to capture my children hunting for Easter eggs, or friends and family sitting around a campfire or Thanksgiving dinner. I love to photograph my children without their knowledge. This was possible when they were small, but now that they are in their 20's, they insist on posing and combing their hair and looking away or making faces. A family tradition, started I believe by my sister or aunt, is to give the person next to you rabbit ears with two fingers in a peace sign. It's even better if they don't know it's happening. This pose appears in every family event, a ridiculous but persistent continuity in our lives.

What I have learned: Actually, I'm still learning. I purchased a digital camera last year and read through the booklet that came with it. I'll never use the many whistles and bells that are part of it's program, but I like to be assured that they are part of the camera. I have over 1200 photos from the past year that I have yet to print! I'm behind, and I don't like that. Digital gives you the potential to fiddle with every photo, print only what you like, upload the photos to a photo center anywhere for printing and view them online or on your new flat screen TV. It's almost harder than prints, because I can compose a shot AFTER I record it. I have been instructed to store my photos by 1) actually printing them, 2) storing them on my computer hard drive and 3) storing them on archival CDs. I can send my photo files to friends and family who appear or might be interested in my photos. Sharing digitally is lazy and wonderful, but I still prefer prints. Whenever my oldest daughter visits, she flips through all of the photo books, just like I did when I was young.


One of the benefits of being the photographer for me is that I can hide. If I'm tired, or not feeling like conversing, I just move around and take photos, which I later use for blackmail ......er.... publish on Facebook ......er.... well, I don't even get around to doing that. Even with the Pentax K1000, it was fun to just be the observer and record people and places. My photos can be divided into people, nature and records of events, (a boring category and not necessarily as interesting.) It's exciting to be able to "publish" my favorites online. My digital camera is great at taking close-ups, but my Pentax K1000 was (is!) much better at action shots. I took the Pentax on a rafting trip, using up 10 rolls of film on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in 2000. The Pentax is probably more durable than the digital, but I love that I can take zillions of photos digitally. Of course, I carry an extra battery and memory card. If you are lucky, I carry the cord that plugs into the TV for viewing. Also, I have lots of slides to show you.....

Tenth Blog: What I learned about exercise

What I thought I knew: Remember when you were told there would be a test of your physical ability? In the late 1960's, this included counting how many sit-ups and push-ups you could do in a specified time. Since that was the only time we did these two exercises, naturally, I was not very good. Actually, I wasn't very good a kickball, playing on the "rings," dodge ball or running. I was good at kick-the-can, a version of hide-and-seek, handball on the garage door, riding my bike everywhere (a Raleigh 3-speed), three-flys-up (actually, I sucked at that), Red Rover, climbing trees, hiking and swimming in the backyard pool. This was before organized sports were so popular and available for girls. Yes, the boy across the street played football in grade school, but I was only a cheerleader with his sister for one game.

When I was in Junior High, for some reason, every year, we played volleyball. This was not the organized sport my daughter's played. There were no after school sports for the girls and I don't even know if the boys had any opportunities. I wasn't paying attention. I enjoyed volleyball at summer camp and in my parent's yard after they got a sturdy net. I hated phys ed, especially when I had to purchase a uniform before 7th grade (shorts and top) and was forced to talk my mother into letting me buy a bra so I would not be totally embarrassed in the girls gym. I was embarrassed anyway. Whoever thought that taking kids who dressed in private at home, showered alone and decided to put them in an awkward social situation like a locker room must have been fully developed, had a perfect body, perfect hair, and been raised in a communal situation.

Enough about adolescence. We did not run for exercise or ride our bikes for exercise or work out. Working out was for Olympic athletes who lifted weights. We played, we camped and hiked, we skied, we \WALKED TO SCHOOL, we walked to our friend's homes and we went outside until dinner and then stayed outside playing after dinner until it got dark and then begged our parents for more time. When I was in high school, I actually used my asthma to get out of some of the P.E. classes. By then, I had noticed that the boys had much cooler stuff to do in gym, including playing baseball and football. I had a one-piece uniform, royal blue, shorts attached to a top, and we were required to "take a shower" twice a semester to pass the class. I don't remember any extra-curricular sports available for girls, except for swimming. My locker mate swam, giving her excellent shoulders and a chance to see more of her boyfriend.

As a young adult, I did not exercise at all. I went to college, got caught cheating on the written exam in the required P.E. course, took it again with the same grade and never did the required running. I will probably never run. About this time, the late 1970's or early 1980's Jim Fixx began the running revolution and a market for exercise clothing and running shoes was born. I wore Keds (cloth sneakers) growing up. (I also wore orthopedic saddle shoes in white until the 7th grade because I had high arches. Still do. Have high arches that is.) It wasn't until the mid to late 1970's that you could purchase an athletic shoe. Gradually, working out became popular, thanks in part probably to Arnold the Govenator, I mean the Terminator Schwarzenegger. It became reasonable to spend time in the gym, and people found a new use for steroids.

I did not watch the Olympics until the early 1980's. Sure, I went to baseball games (go Giants) and I think I went to a Ram's game with my dad when Joe Namath was playing, but that is sports, not exercise. Meanwhile, gym memberships became popular and sprung up like coffee shops did in Seattle. I moved to Boise with my then husband and resumed the camping thing, with only gardening for exercise. We brought our first daughter with us (nice, huh?) and she was followed by two more daughters. Nobody can keep up with the all day movement of toddlers. Just try to do everything they do and then you will probably need a nap and a blankie. We went to the parks and the kids ran all over the place and up and down and climbed and played. It was exhausting for me, watching them and worrying about potential injury. 

When my daughters got into grade school, they all, in turn, played in the semester games and ran in the races.  Where was this when I was a child? My middle daughter in particular could really run fast. Also, they attended summer basketball camp at the grade school, and at the final game, the parents were totally creamed by the soon-to-be 6th graders.My daughters all played volleyball and basketball in junior high, and the middle daughter ran track, taking the Boise City title in her event, the 800 meter run. I miss attending their games, sitting on uncomfortable bleachers and waiting forever for the girls to get in the car. In the mid 1990's, after my husband moved out, I still weighed close to my high school weight and I would go dancing on weekends when the kids were with him. I was in pretty good shape, and had not yet begun to realize middle age.

What I know now: In the fall of 2008, after I had reached my 50's I decided to try exercise. I knew that I had no stamina for skiing and for any other recreation. I was overweight, had high blood pressure and high cholesterol, although that was inherited. I was referred to a personal trainer, now a good friend, who put me through the routines three times a week. By the following spring, when I traveled to Ecuador to visit a daughter attending school abroad in Quito, I was quite able to keep up with the guides when we hiked around in the jungle. (Your mother, she is very strong......) I have continued to meet with the trainer three times a week and have added some cardio (riding my stationary bike). I have learned to say "cardio" and "resistance work" and "triceps, biceps, gluts, abs, obliques, etc." I can do 400 bicycles at a time and 56 push-ups in a row. I can do sit-ups without someone standing on my toes (thanks for the tip from a friend) up to 50 at at time when pushed, and I don't get out of breath when I am skiing. My recovery time is quicker after a grueling run downhill through the powder and I drink a lot of water. I have learned to stretch to avoid future pain and I believe that working out three times a week and cardio three times a week is the insurance policy that will enable me to attend the marriages of any grandchildren. If I get any.

HEY! Now I have a waist-line, something that had gradually disappeared in my 40's. I have shapely legs and arms-and except for being sore, I plan to keep exercising. Yes, it's a pain in the neck. The older you get, the more you have to move to keep fit, but I'd like to be here for the next day and the next season and the next adventure.

Ninth Blog - What I thought I knew about my hairstyle

What I thought I knew - Growing up in the 1960's and 1970's, hair went from long and straight (Cher and hippies) to shaggy and layered (Farah). In the beginning, I had almost no hair. Also, I was blond for a time. My mom always cut my hair when I was little. The first haircut I remember getting at a salon was when I was about 5 or 6. We were in Nebraska visiting my mother's parents on the farm outside of Fremont. My grandma took my sister and I into town for pixie haircuts. We appear in old photos with short hair and bangs, wearing the shorts and shirt outfits my mother had made for us. The shampoo I remember being popular was Breck, and conditioner was not yet a necessity; mom only washed our hair once a week when we were young. 

During junior high and high school, I always had my hair tapered to a V in the back. It was thin and limp, with waves in inconvenient places, accentuating a high forehead. I did not use hair spray, and the most volume I got from my style was flipping it over upside down. (Stand with your head at your knees, your hair hanging in front of you, then flip it over your head as you straighten up.) This technique produced about five minutes of volume. My hair would grow out to resting below my shoulders, then it would fray and get split ends. I pretty much hated my hair, especially when the layered shag look was introduced by Farah Fawcett in the TV show, "Charlies Angels." The best I could do: after washing my hair, I would put it in about 12 braids to dry. The resulting look was wild, frizzy and somewhat freakish.

Getting a real haircut was not a budget item when I was growing up. However, I recall my mom gradually getting away from curling her hair a la the 1950's and changing to the short, teased and sprayed late 1960's look. She would often have her hair done at the end of the week, and Aqua Net became a grocery list staple. She looks hip and cool in photos from house parties in the 1970's. My mom also began coloring her hair early in the 1960's. I later learned that she, like my sister, went gray and then white early in life. My sister had thick wavy brunette hair and my great grandmother (mom's side) had pure white hair. My dad maintained mostly brown hair until he died. When I was in my 20's my mom stopped dying her hair and began experimenting with new styles and perms. I got my first perm during my 20's and it improved my hair immensely after the first week of frizz wore off. 

I can't remember when I started wearing bangs, but I believe it improved my look. Probably during college. I had a terrible haircut in 1978 that was free from someone's friend who was getting their beautician's license. It shows up in my wedding photos. I tried a few times to grow out my bangs, but have been unable to get past the in-between stage where your hair hangs in your face. This seductive look is fine for my daughters, but annoys me. After I got married, I cut my husband's hair for about 10 years. I began spending money on my hair when I lived in Seattle, going to the local beauty college, where, you get what you pay for. After moving to Boise, I began going to an inexpensive national chain. This was especially affordable because I had three daughters. We would walk-in during their haircut sales and thumb through the ridiculous hairstyles that beauticians invent for contests. Actually, that's half the fun of getting your hair cut.

What I know know - It is always worth the money to get your hair cut at a real salon. I found someone on the recommendation of my sister, and she worked wonders with my limp and thin hair. She cut it shorter, and taught me to use a blow dryer. I had a style for the first time in my life when I was in my 40's. I spent more money, made an appointment every eight weeks and loved how I looked. Or is it that I cared about how I looked? Maybe it was having a better job and the budget for a good cut. Somewhere along the line, a friend recommended that I use a leave-in conditioner, and that did wonders for my look and my ego. I still use the same conditioner 20 years later.

After turning 50, I had a hair surprise. No one tells you this will happen - but for me it was great! My hair became curly and full of body waves. It had gradually gotten darker and darker, looking more like my sister's hair when she was in her 20's. Her hair now has gone from salt and pepper gray to a beautiful white color, thick and generous and long. At this point, my hair has become highlighted by silver here and there, just like my dad's and will probably never be totally gray. My three daughters all have different hair. The oldest has that thick long dark hair you envy in shampoo commercials; the middle daughter has curly and thick and long light colored locks and the youngest has my straight, sort of flat hair, but much darker. My youngest spends the most time on her hair, occasionally adding extensions, getting highlights or fiddling with it in front of the mirror. They all stopped curling their bangs after high school, and look much better for it. We all got our hair styled in an up-do for the oldest daughter's wedding, we looked elegant and formal for the event, even though the appointment with the beautician started at 9:00 AM.

Now, hair can be any length and cut in any way. Men went from long hair in the 1970's to short hair. The weirdest look at my high school was the guy who shaved his head. Now, shaving your head can be a style (for men). I still see men with long hair, and that's the style I prefer. Today's styles on young men somehow make them all look alike to me. I even heard someone's dad telling their son to get their hair cut! (Deja vu from the 1970's.) Women, or at least myself, spend more time on haircuts and styling than ever. You can use hairspray, straighteners, blow dry your hair or just get a cut that allows you to just let your hair dry naturally. Take that Farah! If you don't like your hair style, change it. The best thing about a hair style is that it will grow out eventually, allowing you to be re-created at the hands of your beautician. Get a good one and trust her or him.

Eighth blog - What I thought I knew about communicating properly

What I thought I knew: In the beginning, I spoke like a child. Not really my line of text, but then, that is the difference, no? Sometime as a child, I learned to keep what was bothering me to myself. I was not allowed to yell or disagree with my mother or other authorities. I really thought she knew it all, and, for sure (granted), she was a genius. (I moved away from the San Fernando Valley before being a "valley girl," with it's dangerously cute speech patterns, was something to be made fun of by TV and movies.) I did not expect to write about my long history of hedging honesty in order to be safe. After all, I speak English and am an American woman; I have the right to ROAR! The roaring was gradually removed from my emotions; I was not allowed to be angry or taught to respond to anger appropriately except to feel fear and the need to escape. Somehow, by never learning how to deal with conflict, not allowing anger or uncomfortable feelings permission, I lost out on some of my self-worth or self-esteem. Maybe, if a part of me was "unworthy", (the anger) or "not good enough" (the fear) then because I could not cope with conflict, taking risks and making bold decisions was and is much harder for me.

Self communication is like a road map with major highways that lead us to things we seem to know such as what we enjoy eating, how we speak, who we communicate with and where we spend time. The side roads, the dirt roads, the untested paths gradually get set aside resulting in better marked main roads. Speaking to other people who know us well continues marking the main roads. Taking risks, talking to new people, trying on new forms of communication is the challenge and a learning process, a process that I deny myself sometimes because I am afraid.

What I have learned: Communicating with myself is the hardest lesson - I mentally cringe when I ask myself to try something new. Creating an attitude with positive intention in my thoughts and then speaking out (roaring) about who I am and what I want to do and how I like things to be is the most important part of my adult life. I will not be who I really am externally unless I speak honestly and also make the effort hear other people speaking. I can't stop listening to people or music because it seems too annoying or deny some art form or event because it seems strange; annoying and strange are risky and learning more about something I start out disliking gives me more information about myself. Listening to what other people speak provides me with valuable information about their perceptions. I am constantly amazed at how other people make decisions in ways that are different (not like mine): this may explain why I became a counselor.

As an adult, I have learned that my communication skills are lacking and at the same time, holding me back from being great. I can do mediocre, but this year, I want to try to be better. Letting someone know that I appreciate them is just as important as letting them know that I am uncomfortable with something. I need to speak up for what I value, against what I find reprehensible. Conflict is inevitable, but it's OK for me to believe in my values and speak them honestly. Actually, I hate learning this; however, those people I know who are honest make the best friends and companions. They don't lie to you; they don't keep the difficult truth from you - they don't hide. I'm tired of hiding and being afraid to speak. Maybe it's the out of whack hormones from menopause, but way to go biology!

I'm a counselor and part of my chosen profession is to help people increase their communication skills. Building skills takes practice, and at first is uncomfortable. I guess that's how I learned to play piano, cello, sew expertly, mow the lawn, bake an apple pie and lower my cholesterol with a lot of fiber intake. Learning something new, even if annoying and strange can take you off the main road and give you options in your life, add to your interior resume and increase your self-esteem. Becoming better at communicating has the rewarding and reinforcing side effect of bringing people closer to each other, even if the message is uncomfortable. Honest communication also gives you the power to step away from the bad decisions you might have made or improve the situation and rise above mediocrity.

I thought I would be writing about cell phones and email. Send me a note or comment and keep the communication between all of us strong.

Seventh Blog: What I thought I knew about vacations

What I thought I knew: My childhood vacations were family adventures. My parents would plan when and where to go long in advance with their friends, so that we all went together. We met up with various people throughout our summers, but the stable factor was camping with "Mark and David" and their parents. Even if we were traveling somewhere else, we would spend a day with them at their house or they at our house. We would go hiking, the parents would nap, the kids would play make-believe and then the parents would play pinochle until late at night. Come to think of it, this might explain the afternoon naps. Together with "Mark and David," we explored Placerita Canyon several times; a quick hiking trail just northeast of the San Fernando Valley. We went camping at Joshua Tree, the Oregon Coast, the Redwoods, the beach and once, when I was 14, from Salt Lake City we camped our way across America to Washington DC and New York.

My parents were able to take us on month-long vacations. We traveled to Yellowstone, where I remember only having pink-eye and my brother swallowing a bottle of aspirin. We went on several trips to Yosemite, back when you could drive everywhere in the Yosemite Valley. We camped all over California. We visited Aunt Sue and my cousins Dave and Eric. We visited relatives in Illinois, my mother's parents at their farm in Nebraska and my father's relatives in Kansas by car from California. My memories include driving through the dark, my sister, brother and I looking up at the sky from the back of a VW bug with all the camping gear on the roof rack. Later, we traveled in a VW bus with an ice cooled air conditioner, looking out through all of the windows at the landscape of America. We camped in a terrible cloth army tent, then in the early 1970's my parents purchased a large walk-in tent from Spring-Bar in Salt Lake City. I still have the tent, though the poles (heavy steel) need some welding before this season. I have replaced the tent pole and tent stake bags. My parent's collection of camping equipment included a wicker basket that miraculously held all the kitchen tools, an old white gas Coleman stove and lots of matches for the fire. They got better stoves over the years and graduated from the old canvas air mattresses to cots. Sleeping bags were cotton and we were often cold, sleeping in socks and jammies.

After my father's parents bought a house in Carlsbad, California, we would spend part of the summer at the old house that was attached to an Avocado grove. We spent every day at the beach, touring the local Carlsbad beach, La Jolla Cove, Kellogg beach in San Diego and occasional trips to Tijuana. My parents would attend Shakespeare plays at the Old Globe Theater in San Diego's park. Eventually, they brought us to see the plays; my first was "A Midsummer Night's Dream,"  a play that my father directed the church youth group in performing as a fund raiser several years in a row. I have played Hermia and Titania; ("What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?") After moving to Salt Lake City, I was introduced to backpacking in and around Escalante in southern Utah. My mother toughed it out with the youth group as a chaperone on these trips, complaining about "being 40," a concept no longer alien to me.

As I got older, I began to help my parents pack the bus. One year, my parent's exhausted, I volunteered to pack the bus. That previous year in high school driver's education, I had completed a report about taking a car trip. I knew what I was doing! When I got married, my husband and I continued the camping, including the VW bus. I learned to hate that vehicle, a 1967 camper van with the inherent problems of a small air cooled engine that is good for short trips in perfect weather.  He still has that bus, as it is a "classic," and by "classic" I mean, park it. Our trips involved visiting Seattle from California and vice versa after moving to Seattle, especially after our first daughter was born. Because my husband worked for United Airlines in California, we also flew to Hawaii, a trip that never goes out of style. In Hawaii, your only issue after a day of snorkeling or shopping is, "what should we barbecue?" or "where is the blender?" At some point, we began visiting Idaho, where my sister lived. We camped outside of Featherville, just up from Anderson Ranch Dam on the South Fork of the Boise River. My parents would come, my sister and her husband would come and the kids grew older there every summer. It's become a tradition that surpassed both my sister's and my divorce.

What I know about vacations now: Several years ago, I was depressed because my parents were somehow able to take those long vacations and I could not seem to duplicate those trips. With some help from a counselor, I realized that what I had given my children was the stability to feel like they could always return to a place in the summer; going camping in Featherville. We stay at the same campgrounds, with the same tent but new cooking equipment and newer generations of sleeping bags, coolers and lawn chairs. My sister and her husband join us along with the cousins and lately it's been tough to get there before it's so dry that camp fires are forbidden. A couple of years ago, I bought cots. I'm feeling my parent's tiredness when I say I just can't get off the ground anymore. I have taken my daughters to California a few times and enjoyed the Redwoods and the beaches and Aunt Sue. I still visit relatives in Missouri, Texas and Nebraska, but I fly. I used to be able to drive for 12 hours, but this no longer appeals to me. Also, I don't have the Suburban anymore, and my husband got the VW bus in the divorce. I insisted. About 15 years ago, my best friend John introduced me to rafting the rivers in Idaho. I have been ferried down the Bruneau River and the Middle Fork of the Salmon on camping trips. John has taken myself and my daughters, my father and even old friends on day trips. He and a friend built a frame for my raft, a purchase my father made for the family the year before he passed away.

Lately, it's been difficult for me to plan a trip or schedule time off. My daughter's are grown and the family vacation expectation has hidden itself somewhere in the garage next to the Christmas ornaments. However my kids and my sister's kids are planning a camping trip to Featherville, as they all live in town this year. My job is to coordinate the welding of the tent poles, the car shuttle, find some more lawn chairs and plan a menu with my sister; this assuming we agree on a date. The first thing we will do when we get there is take the lawn chairs and sit in the river with a drink in hand. Cell phones don't work up there; that's a vacation! Everyone needs time off to relax, eat snacks and crappy cereal, play cards, swim at Baumgartner's and be distracted from work and routines. I need some more photos to find inspiration and new memories to review, so I'll take the camera. I love it when a plan comes together.

Sixth blog: What I thought I knew about night life

What I thought I knew: In the 1960's,when I lived in the Valley, my notion of going out included picturing the "jet set" having cocktails in fashionable clothes in downtown somewhere, perhaps an exotic locale such as France. In those days, going to Hawaii was considered exotic. My parents occasionally, and by this, I mean, maybe once a year, took themselves out to dinner with another couple to a fancy restaurant in downtown Los Angeles. There was talk of chocolate mousse and of having drinks. Night life during the 1960's was a house party or a pool party. Our family never went out for dinner, unless it was a very special occasion paid for by my grandfather or a Christmas bonus. We never ate fast food, instead packing a lunch all over the country on vacations or weekend excursions to go hiking. When I was in junior high, still in the San Fernando Valley, I realized that my father sometimes went out for a beer to a local bar that happened to be on my way home from school. Years later, he later admitted to going out with the church treasurer to decide over beer what church bills to pay this month, a fine budget solving location.

When I was of high school age and living in Salt Lake City, going out meant being invited to parties where beer was somehow available along with a potential boyfriend and a chance to feel uncomfortable in a new situation. Night life for high school kids included going to "keggers" up Mill Creek Canyon, smoking between classes, driving around looking for a place to drink beer, sneaking beer into the theater while watching "Monty Python's The Search For the Holy Grail" and driving up behind the Capital in the "avenues" in order to enjoy the view and of course, drink beer. I had a strict curfew and was home by 11:00 pm, 9:00 pm on a school night. I can still remember the first time I tried smoking something, crammed into an old pick-up truck in the parking lot of my high school during a "Stomp" (a casual dance) and listening to The Who singing "Baba O-Reilly," a song that explained, "it's only teenage wasteland." My next encounter with something new was accompanied by Pink Floyd from "Dark Side of the Moon." So this was my teenage night life - drinking something we were not yet old enough to purchase ourselves and listening to (what is now) classic rock music.

Going out in high school also meant finding a place to be alone with your boyfriend or girlfriend. Mom and Dad used to take turns staying up till 11:00 pm waiting for my return, both reporting that "Your mom worries about you," or "Your dad worries about you." Sometimes my friend Becky and I would drive up and down State Street. Oh boy. Family night life included the pre-planned "game night" and my parents took us out to dinner at Christmas. Gatherings at the house during holidays or vacations were what we looked forward to as entertainment. Consider Salt Lake City; there were very few bars, and only private clubs could serve liquor. Apparently I was waiting on the exciting notion of dressing up and going out for cocktails, enjoying stimulating conversations with interesting people and wearing high heels; I couldn't wait to be 21 years old.

College meant cheap beer and really bad wine - in a jug just for variety. It's not that I partied a lot (actually, partied was not really a verb yet); I usually quit after two drinks. There was not much night life glamor in college, but my last two years were spent in the company of a lot of musicians, which was full of performance and parties and perhaps a bottle of brandy shared to some funky music at someones house. When I got married, night life was playing cards with two of our friends and sharing dinner. I miss playing hearts and hearing Jim announce, "and they're off" whenever Kathy would try to run the cards. We did not go to bars, and in fact, we stayed home, made nachos and tried different beers and local wines with friends. We did not spend our evenings watching TV for entertainment, yet we were still entertained. OK, we also went to Grateful Dead concerts; don't assume anything about that, it's a normal bay area activity to be a deadhead.


What I know now: I'm never going to be the model-iscious, perfumed, well dressed, perfectly made up, high heel wearing, cocktail sipping girl out on the town at expensive upscale bars. I am in fact, more than comfortable at local establishments that sell hamburgers and cheap PBR. Until money became tight, I probably shared a meal with my boyfriend twice a month at Chapala's and a few times more for burgers. Going out has meant having season tickets to the symphony with my sister and brother-in-law. It has meant joining a local quilting group for a monthly meeting. My so-called night life is going to local concerts when someone you want to see actually makes it here on a Tuesday night, renting movies from Netflix, watching TV and naturally, family gatherings. I used to go out dancing when I first became single (16 years ago) at a local bar and grill called The Dutch Goose; the place became my living room, my place to study and where I met some close friends. The Goose progressed from a singles dance spot where I met my boyfriend, (they stopped having live music) to the location of choice for family birthday parties and welcome home celebrations.

As for my aspirations for a night life, I have gotten used to being tired at 10:00 PM. Having a night life would severely cut into not only my budget, but also my energy. I want to go out dancing, but at 9:00 when the bands start playing, I'm heading for bed. Also, I no longer know what local musical group might be fun since "The Tourists" disbanded. If I plan it right and get in a nap, I could go out dancing, have a few drinks and take a taxi home. Maybe for my birthday?

Fifth Blog: What I learned about watching television

What I thought I knew: As a child, I did not have access to a television until I was about 7 or 8. I recall watching Felix the Cat on a small black and white TV. Then my parents purchased a small Zenith black and white TV, our first new television. We had about 4 channels, some of them UHF, requiring a separate antennae. Within two or three days, it conked out and started smoking, smelling of burnt electronics. Anyway, we replaced it. On Sunday or Saturday night, my family would make popcorn and watch "The Honeymooners" with Jackie Gleason and the June Taylor Dancers. Mom allowed us an hour of television watching a day and we were not allowed to watch the mysterious "Dark Shadows," a vampire infested soap opera. On Saturdays, our hour was cartoons early in the morning, before the housecleaning routine began (see last week's blog). I just had to watch "The Monkeys," because Davey was so dreamy and later, "The Partridge Family" because David Cassidy was so dreamy. "Laugh-In" began showing in the late '60s, and was on after my bedtime, although I recall watching some of the shows. In 1969, the whole neighborhood watched as men walked on the moon for the first time. Star Trek was introduced and then quickly taken from us. I only saw the show in re-runs.

Television was not really a habit or necessary. Somewhere in the '70s, the networks began showing full length movies.It was so unusual, we viewed this as a treat. A standout event from those days was the resignation of Richard Nixon on live TV. He unfortunately did not look good on TV, and I recall many comedians making jokes at his expense (Rich Little walking on the beach, murmuring about politics.) During college, I began watching "Monty Python's Flying Circus, a show I can hardly stand now. Sometime after I got married, I began watching Johnny Carson. I have a VHS tape of his last show and nobody has ever gotten close to entertaining me the way Johnny could. Television became more important after I was married, as my husband insisted on purchasing a large TV for us to watch. His parents watched Jeopardy every night. Scheduling an evening around television viewing was a strange and weird idea for me. Sometime in the '80s, I watched the Olympics for the first time on TV; now I can watch the opening ceremonies on a 44 inch HD TV.

What I have learned:  After I moved into my home in Boise, we got cable TV, without which, we receive no programs. I had cable until last year and then I turned it off. I still get almost no programs because I can't see Bogus Basin from my house behind the foothills. Cable TV and remote controls have given us the ability to waste all day watching TV. There is so much information and entertainment available that I feel overwhelmed. Choosing a channel seemed much easier when a) there were only 4 channels and b) mom only let us watch for an hour. I suspect that my standards are higher for actual entertainment then (sorry kids) what the younger generation counts as entertainment. There are lots of vampire shows, often sexual content and no cigarettes. People SMOKED in the '60s. Commercials are often more interesting than the show that is on, but there are 20 minutes of selling for every hour of show. Remember when we thought having cable TV, a service we paid for meant there would be no commercials?

What I know now: OK, I have my favorite shows, including "The Big Bang Theory" and "My Name is Earl". I long for entertainment, not unscripted reality shows that spotlight the bickering that Americans, competitors always, profess to enjoy. Star Trek, (not one of my favorites) has lasted until the Next Generation of re-runs. Movies are made of television shows. Mash continues in re-runs somewhere. Myself, I go to the library at least twice a month and I subscribe to a movie service. My reality is unscripted, except for the conversations in my head. Don't you understand? This blog is what's in my head!