If I could put time in a bottle~

I've always been intrigued by Albert Einstein's theories of relativity. Time is relative, he says, in many, many more words.

I won't be so bold, or foolish, as to interpret, but I'll explain what the theory means to me-- rightly or wrongly. Probably more of the latter

Time is not a fixed rate. It varies relative to speed and mass. In other words, the faster we go the slower time moves. If we could speed up to light's velocity as it cuts through the universe at 186,000 miles per second, time would stop. Would that be called eternity?

I don't get it, but I like thinking about it.

E = MC2

Energy is equal to the mass of an object times the speed of light squared. Eventually if mass were speeded up enough, it would cease to be matter. It would become energy. Think "beam me up, Scotty."

We are energy . . . just moving too slowly to manifest that way. We're mired in matter, time, and gravity.

Time goes more slowly in lower gravitation. Clocks that move tick slower than stationary clocks.

I don't get it, but wow!

So.

Time.

I've never mastered time. I don't sense time moving, or rather I do, but then I lose track of it. It moves slowly, and then surprise, it passes on by.

My theory is time speeds up the closer it gets to an important date, a date you've been waiting for. When that day arrives, time is going too fast to stop. It races past, and damn! I missed it. I feel the breeze as time flies.

Twice this month, and we're only on the 12th; I've missed important birthdays of people I care for. Birthdays I saw coming for months, but missed on the very day I'd been waiting for.

The slowest time ever passed for me was the last months of my teaching career. The preceding 34 years were gone in a blink, and then the . . . last . . . year . . . crawled.

This disproves my theory, I see now, because I was waiting for the last day, and it took its sweet time coming. At least I didn't miss it.

So no excuses, no blaming time. This is the way I am, and if I hadn't been this way all my life, I'd be worried, but this is how I've always been.

The fault lies within me . . . or maybe Einstein left out some important part of his theory that I am just now discovering. I'll have to work out why time doesn't affect others the way it affects me.

A friend of mine kindly paints my time issue in a favorable light. "You live in the moment," she says. "You live in the now." And she adds, "I wish I could be like that."

Sigh. No, you really don't.

So, happy birthday, Marilee. Happy birthday, Carter. "Belated birthday" cards were made for the likes of me, and others, who for one reason or another experience time differently.

Cheers!

I (don't) love a parade~

I didn't bring my camera to the Fourth of July parade. It felt strange not having it hang like a pendant around my neck, but it had rained throughout the night, as only an insomniac would know, and was cool and sprinkley with more rain pending.

I'm not a lover of parades. The wait for them to begin is often longer than the parade itself. I'm not sure there is a point to a parade, really. Without my camera to capture odd bits passing buy, I just watched, snapping mental pictures that would have been awesome photos-- the fish that got away mentality.

Four towns drove fire equipment down the street, lights flashing, sirens screaming. As a kid I'd have loved it, I suppose, the sensory overload and all, but today I just thought, "God help us, and the surrounding towns, if there's a fire!"

Next, old cars. I guess a parade's a place to showcase vintage cars, and some must be beauties, if you appreciate cars. Which I don't. A skinny old man driving a sleek aqua something -- a Pontiac? -- came to a stop and revved the engine. It roared and people laughed. It didn't strike me the least bit funny, just kind of juvenile.

I leaned over to the lady next to me, and said, "And I'll bet as a teen he 'laid rubber.' Peeled out, squealed his tires, and all that."

She laughed. "That type drove me crazy," she said.

Then came an assortment of marchers: one band, a dance troupe, an art club, two town Selectmen, a state rep, horses, dogs in colorful scarves leashed to their owners-- the animals I like-- and a scraggly pack of Cub Scouts riding on a flatbed.

"Why aren't the marching?" whispers my husband, somewhat indignantly.

And I ask in return, "Where are they all?" A dying breed it appears--Boy Scouts.

Finally, floats from competing banks and local businesses-- thinly disguised advertising, of course. One display by "Patriotic Solutions," a plumbing company, which, according to the blurb on the truck, can flush away all your clogs and grease, featured a man sitting on a toilet reading a newspaper.

So, no, I'm not especially fond of parades. I don't see the point at all.

Afterward, I chatted with friends, acquaintances, and strangers, about the weather, art, politics, gas prices, pets, and more politics. I met a woman with a longhaired Chihuahua-- a four-pound handful wearing a tiny hooded sweatshirt. He could sit and shake hands just like a real dog. I patted 4H goats, and watched kids feed them straw. I talked to a man who whittled walking sticks, and another who made pottery, and watched people in the long line to buy fried dough.


It was much later in the rainy afternoon that I understood that parades bring people together for something besides Town Meeting. They provide a place for all ages to share a common event. They make us stop, and wait, and look around, and stand still long enough to smile and shake hands with others who share in our community.


What does that better than a parade?

I still don't love a parade. But I like what they do.

~~~~~
And when it rains on your parade, look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow.~G. K. Chesterton quotes

A sudden, swift move~

I was young-- maybe 8 or 9-- when, while taking a bath, I allowed a spider to build a web from the wall to my arm. The spider was intent, single-minded, and even as a child I knew this spider was determined to build a web to capture food. I wanted to be part of its success. Its survival depended upon it . . . and on me, I'd thought. I remember wondering why it chose such a barren landscape as our tub, and such an insubstantial anchor as me. Didn't it know? Couldn't it see?

I was fascinated, and somewhat horrified, to realize that I was allowing a spider to use my body as a connecting point for its web. That was a responsibility I couldn't live up to, and when my father knocked on the door and said, "Time for bed. Let the water out," I yanked my arm hard and the spider scurried away. I tried not to think about it as I crawled into bed.

Decades later, I hesitated for a few seconds before ruining a web a spider had built from the lamp post beside the driveway to my truck's door. I had to get to work. But it bothered me to ruin the hard work of this arachnid with a sudden, swift move it hadn't bargained for. By now I knew the strength of gossamer was five times stronger than a steel fiber of the same size. The web had strength, but I had greater force on my side. The next morning, the spider had rebuilt. And again I applied my force. Didn't it know? Couldn't it see?

Lately the news is full of the devastation of peoples' homes-- tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, fire . . . sudden, swift moves. Like spiders, people build homes trusting they'll endure, trusting in their strength. But they don't endure, not always. And I think of the spider, its determination, its desire to survive.

The fragility of humans is on a par with the spider, I think. There are forces larger than our strengths. We feel in charge; we use our brains. We and plan, and consider, but yet, all it takes is a sudden, swift move. We think it won't happen, but it does. Not always, but enough to show our vulnerability. Don't we know? Can't we see?

We see, but somethings are bigger than us. So it becomes a matter of determination, a desire to survive. And that we humans have. Like all of nature.
~~~~~~
“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”~Winston Churchill

Who me, crazy?

Thirty five years will do this to you.

I'm done!!!!

~~~~~
Life begins at retirement. ~Author Unknown

Call me~

I've misplaced my cell phone. I had it Saturday morning; Sunday I couldn't find it.

I suspect it fell from my pocket while on a bike ride. Retracing my route and finding it in working order after two days of rain would be more luck than my usual, so today I go to the phone store-- just to get some info.

The young salesman shows me-- at my request-- the basic phone; it only makes and receives calls . . . but so what? I have a camera for pictures, a TV for videos, a computer for email . . . who needs bells and whistles?

He points out a more expensive phone-- $250 something-- and before I can shake my head, he tells me my price, since I'm upgrading, is $135, and there's a $100 rebate as well. This phone has ten things-- at least--that I don't need, but the phone is only $35.

I'm sold. Before I can nod my head, he tells me that the phone's speaker is loud.

"Very loud, " he says. " One of our loudest." I try to look impressed, but I have exquisite hearing. Just ask my husband who doesn't. I don't need a loud phone.

A young sales woman wanders over. "Oh, good choice," she says to me. She points out another feature-- large display and buttons. "Not implying anything," she adds. Have I been been profiled-- hard of hearing with failing vision?

Apparently the phone has some other really cool capability called SSB or SLM . . . or something.

"That phone also has SSB," she tells me. "Although you probably don't care; you won't use it." She sort of laughs.

"Oh, don't be too sure," I tell her breezily, although I don't have a clue what she's referring to. Of course I won't use it, whatever it is. I only want to make a damn phone call now and then.


So here I am, glad she can't see me flipping through the 190-page user manual, past "video share," "using the camcorder," and "listening to music" looking for the page that says "making a call/answering a call."

Call me. I'll be able to hear you now.
~~~~~
“Watching something on your cell phone seems like crazy talk to me.”~Matt Thompson quotes

Missing Dad~

It's been more than five years since my father died. He had Parkinson's disease and yes, he was "old," but it was a moment of negligence in the hospital that took his life. Grief loses its sharp edge, but it has a way of tapping you on the shoulder when you least expect it.

How do you stop missing your father?

You don't.

These were words I planned to read at his funeral. The minister did it for me.

~~~~~

Good-bye to the man I've known longest in my life:

Anybody who knows me knows that I spend a great deal of time “in my head,” thinking, wondering, analyzing . . . and especially so lately as I’ve watched my father age over the past year or so.

There are so many lessons I’ve learned from my father, so many attitudes and values and philosophies that I’ve absorbed through the years. And it shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did, to find that even after his death there is more to learn from him.

Just going through his files and books has revealed a depth that I was unaware of. After all, he was my Dad. I lived with him for so many years and cast him in the role of parent. I sometimes overlooked the man, a person unique to himself, apart from his role as my Dad.

I found myself standing in his den, looking at the many books he had accumulated over the years, books that I remember once telling him were boring. His love for his Scottish heritage and his interest in all things military are evident. So many of the books that I pulled out to peek in, (and still found boring), held a special memento set aside there by him; a bible verse in one, a clipping from a church bulletin in another, a Scottish quote, a poem, father’s day cards . . . And in others, little drawings Rob and I had made for him, saved and dated with loving care. Because, not only did he collect things for his many hobbies, he collected bits and pieces of love from his family.

Watching him decline in heath was difficult. He was self reliant and stubborn and independent to the end. And watching him adjust to giving up the independence was not easy on any of us. But he did maintain his dignity, and even in the most dependent of situations, such as being helped up from a fall by Hanover’s wonderful EMT’s, he always managed a wry joke or humorous comment. Those who knew him are familiar with his dry wit. It saw him through to the end.

I saw his dignity in the most undignified moment, his humor in tough times, his acceptance of circumstances he didn't like, his concern for others when all our concern was for him, and his never-wavering love for my mother, Rob and me.

~~~~~
How do you stop missing your father?

You don't.
~~~~~
Dad's Carrot Bread (published in the Christian Science Monitor)
Last year's memorial post~

~~~~~
There's something like a line of gold thread running through a man's words when he talks to his daughter, and gradually over the years it gets to be long enough for you to pick up in your hands and weave into a cloth that feels like love itself. ~John Gregory Brown

Countdown! 10, 9, 8 . . .

Retirement is no big deal statistically speaking. Multitudes step out of the working world every year. I remember when my father retired at 63, two years earlier than typical in those days; I remember my mother's retirement party a few years later. But I don't remember either of them obsessing about ending their careers.

They just retired--with a big smile and a sigh, I might add-- then went about the rest of their lives.

So most likely I'm over thinking my imminent early-retirement at the ripe young age of 57. My husband tells me I think too much, but then for him the reverse is true.

In the car he once answered my question, "What are you thinking?" with, "Nothing. I'm driving."

Nothing? Is that even possible? He says it is.

Friday my good friends gave me a retirement party that they said was so "me." It was perfect. I enjoyed it to the fullest-- laughs, hugs, warm wishes, tears, and so much more-- and breathed a sigh of relief when I got home. It's all over but for the last ten days of school.

This morning I opened a cabinet to get out a box of cereal and there on the inside of the door hung the calendar-- my son gives me a new cat calendar every Christmas. I saw that I'd written "The End" on June 20. I don't know when or what I was feeling when I wrote it. There's no punctuation. No exclamation point, or even a question mark. There's no smiley face or sad face. Just the ambiguous "The End."

I think of the past 35 years-- longer really, because I knew I wanted to teach in first grade and moved single-mindedly toward that goal since I was six. And now in a blink . . . finis!

But the calendar doesn't end on the 20th, nor do I, and I know this as well as anybody. I picked up a red pen-- a teacher pen-- and wrote "The beginning" on June 21st!!!!! :>)

At the party I heard over and over again, "You're lucky. You have so many interests. You write. You take pictures. You'll be so busy you won't even miss this."

I want to believe them. But I know better.


~~~~~
~Teaching is not a lost art, but the regard for it is a lost tradition.~Jacques Martin Barzun

A few irises~

I complimented a fellow teacher, a young, slim beautiful girl, on her blouse.

She gave me one of those "oh this old thing" comments and said she'd worn it because all her other tops were . . . and here she made some hand gestures around her belly.

I didn't understand at first. I thought maybe she was pregnant, or else feeling nauseous. But no.

She told me she was getting so fat. Told me! Not that I'm FAT fat, but compared to her I'm a mature tree and she's a sapling. I've got some rings on my trunk.

She left and Dave, another colleague, walked by. "She thinks she's fat!" I said shaking my head, although many of my friends felt that way when we were her age. We see pictures of our younger selves and ask, "Why did I think I was fat then? I looked good."

Dave and I got talking about our perceptions of ourselves and how much energy we waste obsessing over minor issues, energy that could be better spent in more productive ways.

"We should just be happy we're healthy," he said.

"Yeah, and not in Burma," I added. Extra padding around the middle pales in comparison to the hardships faced there.

Then he said, "Monday, I was out in the yard when the wind whipped up. My irises were bending and about to snap, so I hustled to stake 'em up tight. And then I thought of all the people in the Midwest whose homes were devastated by the tornadoes. I thought, here I am worrying about a few irises when they've lost everything."

"Iris syndrome," I said. "I'll remember your story next time I start worrying about nothing."

So much of what I worry about amounts to "a few irises."
~~~~~
Stop worrying about the potholes in the road and celebrate the journey!~Barbara Hoffman

When will they ever learn?

Memorial Day, a federal holiday in the United States, is observed on the last Monday in May. It commemorates U.S. men and women who died in military service. First enacted to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War and known as Decoration Day, after World War I it was expanded to include casualties of any war or military action.

My words get caught in my throat. There is nothing I can say that will return the dead, and sadly, nothing that will prevent more from dying. If I could give comfort to mothers and fathers, wives and husbands, brothers and sisters who've lost someone to war, I would, but is that possible? I would not be comforted. Or would I take heart in knowing that my loved one would be remembered? That would not be enough for me, I know. My loved ones have been spared, but I feel the collective sorrow. When will it ever end?







~~~~~
“True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.” ~Arthur Ashe

Reunion~

When women run out of conversation before their husbands do, and the men wipe tears from the corners of their eyes, something powerful is happening.

Bruce and I attended the reunion of former Marines who graduated from The Basic School at Quantico in 1967 before shipping off to the steamy jungles of Viet Nam. It provided a catharsis for long buried feelings.

It had been forty-one years since the newly commissioned officers were sent to face the stench, the sights, and sounds that the best of training couldn't fully prepare them for. Stateside fear was only a shadow compared to the terror of what lay camouflaged ready to spring.

But they'd been trained well, these Marines. Fear would get them killed, so they ignored it, stuffed it deep inside where it hardened like a concrete plug keeping so many other feelings trapped inside as well. Survival trumped emotion. Decisions were made by the mind, not the heart.

It had been forty-one years since most of these men had seen one another. Hair has grayed, gaits have slowed, and bellies hang over belts. But the same indomitable spirit-- albeit tempered by experiences no human should face-- remains. The same laugh, the same twinkle in the eye, the same firm handshake erased forty-one years in an instant.


As the men shared memories most had not stirred up for decades, the concrete plug began to soften, and emotions found a way up and out with the tears that flowed along with their laughter.

And the wives? We shared laughs . . . and tears, too, for no one was left untouched by that war, even if it was only experienced through letters and the TV in a living room so long ago.
~~~~~
When our memories outweigh our dreams, we have grown old. ~Bill Clinton
~~~~~