R.I.P.

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imageThose who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves…They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.

Alcoholics Anonymous, 4th ed., p. 58

An early morning phone call usually isn’t good. I had a hard time trying to make sense of the words my friend hysterically repeated. Something about a mutual friend seeing another friend’s obituary online…but hadn’t I told her yesterday that I’d seen him at the meeting that day, and had even talked with him? Like her, I wanted to deny the possibility that he was dead, but if it was true, I wouldn’t be surprised. He just couldn’t grasp our simple program.

Appearances are not always what they seem. A nice home, a successful business, more than enough toys and money to burn can mask a lot. But a person’s face, and particularly their eyes, can reveal an entirely different story. I noticed yesterday that my friend’s eyes were filled with pain and despair and emptiness, much like I noticed his wife’s were when we had coffee together only three days before. Each of them was desperately drowning in a sea of pure hell caused by alcohol. It was painful to watch.

Until this, I’d never had a friend commit suicide and my feelings are a jumbled lot, ranging from deep sorrow to anger to gratitude. That last one is absolutely not a natural reaction for me…I have to work at it. I’d rather know why something happened rather than be thankful for what the experience is teaching me. So it’s a matter of training my mind, and that isn’t always easy to do. But I’ve learned that it is essential if one is to have peace. My dear friend definitely was not peaceful.

His suicide is a blatant reminder of where alcoholism can lead. I have heard many people say that they’ve had loved ones die from this disease, but until now I’ve been spared of the ordeal. And it is an ordeal. An unexpected tragedy instantaneously throws many lives out of kilter and into a tizzy; I saw a bit of that yesterday when the attendance at the noon meeting was at least triple what it usually is. And this is just one scenario. There’s no telling how many lives are going to be affected by just one act.

My friend’s influence inside and outside the rooms of AA was apparent and his spirit was certainly in attendance at the meeting yesterday, particularly at the end when we gathered and said the Lord’s Prayer, holding hands. In the wake of this tragic loss, the connectedness of others with whom I share this path is what is enabling each of us, I think, to come to terms with my friend’s  decision. In the days to come, we will have the opportunity to share our feelings and gain strength from listening to others. There truly is strength in numbers, and the help I need–both with accepting my friend’s suicide as well as the disease we shared–is free and available to whomever wants it and is willing to do whatever it takes. Some will. Some won’t. 

I really do wish that R.I.P. meant “return if possible,” but it just doesn’t. Terry, you’ll be so missed. May your soul rest in peace, my friend.

Screw it.

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If ever there was a metaphor for my life right now, it came by way of an expandable metal drying rack. Our RV has washer/dryer combo unit in which the unit automatically begins drying when the laundering is finished. Because I’ve had limited, sporadic success with the dryer-part of it, I usually hang my laundry on the expandable drying rack.

It’s often said that God works in mysterious ways and that He has a sense of humor, too. He sure made me laugh out loud the other day when I attempted to open said drying rack (which had been wobbly for quite some time) and it practically fell apart in my hands. Heretofore I’d ignored it, thinking it was just getting worn out and would need replacement. It never dawned on me to check the screws that were holding it together–and don’t ask me why. Turns out every single one–18 in all, nine on each side–was loose! It was a wonder that it hadn’t come apart much earlier. To further the irony, the screw that needed tightening the most required twelve full turns of the screwdriver. There just happen to be twelve steps in my recovery program.

I would like to think that I didn’t ignore the situation intentionally, but the truth of the matter is that I did. The rack had been shaky for quite some time and I hadn’t done a thing about it. Seeing the truth about this rather insignificant thing prompted me to look at my personal situation as it truly was. It became clear that it isn’t going to get better on its own; I need to do something now or it is destined to collapse like the drying rack.

Twelve Step support groups place a lot of emphasis on belief in a Higher Power and even though I wasn’t 100% convinced of it myself, when my life took a 180-degree turn recently, I chose to follow clear directives I’d been receiving by way of readings, conversations, and AA meetings. The messages were to live in the present moment. Trust God. And have gratitude for everything, even circumstances that I perceive as “bad,” since growth is promised to result. I hate learning a lesson the hard way, but I must admit, it usually only takes once.

It’s only by the grace of God that I am capable of making a better-than-average attempt at living a sane, purposeful life these days. Thanks to the spiritual tools I’ve collected along the way, I’m discovering that living life on life’s terms can be lived calmly and with amazing poise instead of irrationally and reactionary. I’m honest when I say that all things considered, I’m doing very well.

Time spent with my Higher Power first thing in the morning centers me like nothing else can and prepares me for whatever the day has in store. Since there’s no point in worrying (so I’ve been told) I purposely live in 24-hour chunks, passing the time just doing the next right thing, whatever that happens to be. Somebody in a meeting once said that doing that equates to doing God’s will, and that makes perfect sense to me because when I do this, I’m amazed at my productivity and effectiveness. Well, not mine. That’s my HP revealing His glory.

If you’re having a really tough time and feel like you’re coming undone like my drying rack, you’re welcome to try all or any part of my regimen. You won’t believe how liberated you’ll feel when you accept your situation just the way it is (you don’t have to like it) and trust that your Higher Power has everything under control. Most importantly, be grateful for your situation and everything you’re learning in the process–force yourself, if necessary. After all, this, too, shall pass…it didn’t come to stay.

Penmanship Porn

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I can always count on my daughter to bring to light topics I would otherwise be oblivious to. Just the other night, while watching my grandson’s baseball game, she leaned back and murmured, “I was going to post this on your timeline (on Facebook), but I didn’t because I know how you are with links…half the time you say, ‘what the hell?’ and ask why I have time to look at stuff like that.” My daughter knows me well.

She knows me so well, she knew I’d take the bait. So yesterday morning she sent me the link to an article on something known in certain circles as ‘penmanship porn,’ a current online distraction, and I must say, I’m intrigued. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that handwriting, in and of itself, could land in a virtual centerfold of the worldwide web, but then again, most things found on the internet nowadays surprise me, so why should this be any different? I just might have to put the to-do list aside and allocate the day to writing. Both blogging AND for real because my penmanship is pretty darn good.

The article highlighted the entertainment and social news networking service, Reddit, and in particular a subreddit, Penmanship Porn, that features a seemingly unending train of images of handwriting samples, some so dazzling that they could be mistaken for computer fonts.

There are even video clips of various writing instruments–calligraphy pens, flairs, and the like– held skillfully and masterfully by some writer, who then guides the instrument along the paper, sometimes spelling words that might be associated with sex and sometimes simply making the same letter–typically letters with ‘tails’ such as lower case j’s and p’s–over and over again, as if either action would or could make the viewer hungry for more. To satisfy those voyeurs, there are those repetitive clips of a different fountain pen tips, some pointed, others blunt, being dipped over and over into an ink well…after-drips included, as well.

I know it sounds weird, and I really think it is, but it’s precisely subjects like these that have me wondering–with all she has on her plate: homeschooling the kids, taking care of the house, overseeing much of the work being done on the brewery, Girl Scouts, teaching yoga, and God only knows what else–how she manages to find the time to read about stuff like this! I’m glad she does, though; she introduces me to things that would elseways escape my notice.

In my family, good penmanship was especially valued, especially by my father. His was uniquely beautiful, and he occasionally practiced the art of calligraphy, fountain pen, black ink, the works. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of my older brother, who was probably around 9 or 10 at the time, being made to practice his penmanship most Sunday mornings, after Mass and before being allowed to go out to play with his friends. How he must have hated it! I can still envision the lined paper with line upon line of loops…long ones (lower case l’s) and big, voluptuous ones (upper case o’s.) Even at 67 years old, my brother’s handwriting is stellar, and I’ve always thought it better than my mine, probably because I wasn’t made to practice like him.

These days cursive isn’t even taught in most schools anymore, which is precisely why such a subject could be contrived into something that would entice someone (and apparently many, many people) to watching it being done. Over and over. Again and again. Which is probably where the association with porn comes from.

At any rate, I’m going to dig through the attic and try to find my dad’s scripts. And if I do, I’ll be sure to post them on that site….they would be a fabulous addition. My daughter was right ; she knew I wouldn’t be able to let this one go. After all, she knows I’ll try anything once (and sometimes twice!)

Satisfaction Guaranteed.

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I’ve got a peaceful, easy feeling, I know you won’t let me down. ‘Cause I’m already standing on the ground. – written by Jack Tempchin (and recorded by The Eagles)

They say you can never go home again, and maybe that’s true if one’s return is meant to be long-term. Home, now, is not the same place you left. Things–and people–are always changing, and we are, too. But it’s still possible to go back home for a visit and have a really good time just the same. I know; I just did.

We took our seven-year-old granddaughter to St. Louis for a few days. Rather than impose on my brother and sister-in-law and stay at their house (though they’d love for us to), we usually take our RV and have been doing so for the past ten years. St. Louis RV Park is only one of a handful of RV parks anywhere near a major metropolitan city, and it’s the only one I’m aware of that’s within walking distance of the downtown district. It’s been there for more than 30 years, and it’s hiding in plain sight. A lot of native St. Louisans don’t even know it’s there.

We visited relatives, did some touristy things, went to a Cardinals’ baseball game, shopped at the brand new Ikea, and ate out a lot. She loved it all and, as precocious as she is, she garnered a lot of attention from the relatives, especially the ones meeting her for the first time. And she got to be an ‘only child’ for awhile, since her older brother stayed home because of scheduled baseball games.

So when the trip was winding down and we were getting ready to head back home, I asked her what she liked most about the trip. Her answer blew my mind.

She said it was “hanging out with us in the mornings.”

Really??? Is it actually possible for a child to enjoy lazy mornings–cuddling and talking in bed, sipping Capri Suns, not being in a hurry to go out and do something? Apparently so.

I can’t stop thinking about her answer, and I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe “contentment” IS what the hokey pokey’s all about. After all, contentment is being satisfied with how things are. It’s being relaxed. It’s being grateful. It’s that peaceful, easy feeling.

Who wouldn’t love that?

It seems like a lot of people these days are searching for whatever it is they think will make them happy, and while I wouldn’t dare profess to know the ‘how’ of being content, after this trip I know one thing for certain: a big part of it is just being fully present and in the moment.

With so many distractions vying for our attention throughout the day like emails, texts, and social media, this isn’t easy. But I challenge you to unplug and try it. I think you’ll be quite pleased–and perhaps like me, downright amazed–at what happens when you do.

Writing My Way Out

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My good friend Carol mused recently that she saw a little bit of Alexander Hamilton in my writing after reading the latest installment of My Private Life (MPL), saying that I write my way out of situations like he did. And I do.

Even though I haven’t posted anything for nearly a month the truth is that I have been writing a lot…but what I’ve written is private and confidential. I’m just not one to live out loud on social media. I email MPL to five friends I trust explicitly. I know they’ll hold whatever I tell them in confidence, and so I’m able to write freely. I’m careful not vent (because who wants to hear that?), but rather tell them what I’m learning about myself as I trudge along on this particular portion of my journey. And, wow. I’m learning a lot.

Life has peaks and valleys, and right now I’m climbing my way out of a valley. Nothing tragic, thank God, just Life. Thank God, indeed. Though it isn’t easy, I’m striving to release a situation I’d rather control and let my higher power take over. If this particular situation had happened just a few years ago, I’d probably be checking a different marital status box on IRS Form 1040. I’ve never been more grateful to be in recovery. I definitely am not the same person I used to be.

The past few months have seemed like a roller coaster at times, complete with ups, downs, 360 degree loops, and terrifying descents. I think back to one of my favorite movies, Parenthood, where the grandmother compares marriage to a roller coaster ride…something that made her “so frightened, so scared, so sick, so excited, so thrilled all together.” So maybe my situation isn’t unique.

When I lived on a sailboat I quickly learned that the wind is never ‘just right.’ Most times it came right out of the direction we wanted to go, and it was only by tacking back and forth that we made any forward progress, and always much slower than desired. Believe me, sailing is neither as easy nor as relaxing as it appears! There is always something to do. A sailor needs to pay close attention and know when to pull the sails taut and when to let them out, all the while keeping his hand on the helm so that he can make slight, constant adjustments to the rudder.

It’s the same way with our closest relationships. Smooth sailing often gives way to both storms and doldrums. Here are just a few of the adjustments that have helped me lately, and maybe they’ll help you, too. Granted, they’re not easy to do, but they are simple:

Vow to live just for today. Just in this particular 24-hour period. This is vital. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow isn’t here yet. Do what needs to be done today, and tomorrow will take care of itself.

Be honest with yourself. Acknowledge that you can’t control anyone or any circumstance–just your self and your responses.

Be openminded to the idea of a source of power outside your self. There is a reason the stars don’t fall out of the sky, that it always takes 365 days for the earth to travel completely around the sun, and that there’s a certain order to the seasons. Even if you don’t believe in a power greater than yourself, just be openminded. Or at least realize it’s not all about you.

Be willing to do the next RIGHT thing, whatever it may be. Sometimes it will not be what you want to do at that particular moment, but just do whatever needs to be done next. Don’t worry that you won’t know…your heart will let you know what ‘it’ is.

In “Parenthood,” the grandmother goes on to say that, “Some didn’t like it (the roller coaster.) They went on the merry-go-round. That just goes around. Nothing. I like the roller coaster. You get more out of it.”

So it is with Life. We can choose to either play it safe or take a leap of faith. I think I’ll put my trust in the latter.

Wild hair!

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Yesterday I got a wild hair, the first one I’ve had in a long time.  It happened quite unexpectedly around 6:30 in the morning when I decided do something fairly impulsive: surprise my 7-year-old granddaughter by having a few colored streaks put in my hair, just like she’s got.

The plan hinged on my hairdresser having the time to do it, of course. I’m vain enough not to let just anybody do something crazy with my hair. As luck would have it, she did, so I felt the Universe was cooperating with my resolve. Besides, I thought it would be fun.

My hairdresser, Liz, is good at what she does, and even though I sometimes think about trying out someone new just for variety, I never get around to doing anything about it. After all, there is a certain assurance and comfort in people and things that are dependable.

The whole process took longer than I thought it would (I’ve never had color put on my hair professionally), so Liz and I had time to talk about everything from baseball (her Yankees, my Cardinals) to hair extensions. (Did you know they’re sometimes GLUED on?!) Since I was there nearly three times as long as I usually am, I was privy to what gossip in a small town beauty shop is like. It was just like the beauty shop scene in “Steel Magnolias,” one of my most favorite movies, and I chuckled at the thought. I listened mostly, and did not contribute much to the conversation other than to answer questions about the brewery. But WOW, did I learn a lot that I really didn’t need to know. I felt grateful for living a fairly low-key existence.

By the time I walked out almost two hours later, I was wondering if it was all worth it, but that question was soon answered. Maeby loved it! As the day went on, the color got a lot of notice especially when I stood in the sunlight, and one of my girlfriends commented that it was UK blue (University of Kentucky), so I’m ready for March Madness! Even the 20-somethings working at the gym noticed it and said they loved it. I admit: the entire day was an ego-boost! I don’t remember ever having had that much attention, and it felt good. Unusual, but good.

I doubt that I will habitually continue to put colored streaks in my hair, though. I learned after the fact that with color comes a certain amount of upkeep, something I know wouldn’t be sustained in the long run. Liz suggested that rinsing my hair in cool-to-cold water would preserve the color for awhile. That probably won’t happen on a consistent enough basis to make any difference. Besides, I have grown to love my natural grey streaks. Still, I’m glad I threw convention out the window and went with my wild hair. The memories alone were worth every penny!

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It is what it is.

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Cheers!

Cheers!


Just yesterday I wrote about life never going the way we planned, except it was in the context of three individuals in the world of sports. It made me think about my own life, and absolutely no part of it is anything like what I dreamed it would be. Take the past year, for instance.

It’s been ten months since I left my job at our local community college where I tutored students in writing. Since that time I have been navigating the uncharted waters of being with my husband of almost 40 years, 24-hours-a-day. It’s been challenging for both of us, and I laugh when I remember a couple of sayings within my fellowship that help keep me sane: “The Steps keep us from committing suicide and the Traditions keep us from committing homicide,” and “One day at a time,” both of which are true.

I am, and will always be, ever so grateful that I was able to walk away from the ranks of the gainfully employed at a relatively young age. In retrospect, though, I should have thought things through a little more thoroughly before submitting my resignation. I just assumed that life would be pretty much like it was back in the day, before kids. My naïveté still surprises me.

Immediately after I retired last year, we took a month-long camping trip out west to Colorado Springs and had a sort of honeymoon period before launching full bore into living together again. We returned home just in time to welcome our daughter and her family back to Hopkinsville. The Army had kept them away for nearly four years. They were the reason we even settled in Kentucky in the first place (they both were assigned to Fort Campbell), and all of a sudden we went from being scot-free to having our kids and grandkids living just down the street. I am not complaining. I’m just saying it was no longer just about us.

A whole lot has happened in the past ten months. For one thing, our kids are in the process of establishing the first microbrewery in Hopkinsville, and the road (that we find ourselves on with them) has not been easy. First there was the daily anguish and gnashing of teeth of what turned out to be their very successful Kickstarter campaign. Thirty days of being on the “will we make it or will we not?” rollercoaster smack dab in between Thanksgiving and Christmas was something I would prefer not to ever repeat. I was so thankful when that was over!

And now, in addition to dealing with mounds of paperwork to satisfy city, state, and federal regulations, they are renovating and upgrading an almost-100-year-old building–doing a lot of the work themselves–and there have been twice many steps backwards as forwards. But that’s entrepreneurship. It’s an education. And actually, all of this is being done on the side… they’ve both got other things going on. He’s still full-time Army and she’s a full-time mom who homeschools, teaches yoga, takes graduate classes, and is a Girl Scout leader. It’s crazy now, but in the end, it will all be worth it. Hopkinsville Brewing Company will hopefully be open by early this summer.

Because they live just a few houses away and the fact that their parents are burning the candle at both ends, I see two of our three grandchildren nearly every day, and I love it! I lived in the same house as my mother’s parents until age seven, and to this day I still have the fondest, most loving memories of both my grandma and grandpa. Nothing compares to the love between grandparent and grandchild, and I love that I get to be a Mimi. I’m grateful that I have the wisdom and the foresight to know that these days will never pass again and to appreciate the time we have together. Bobby’s big double-digit birthday is coming up in June, and Maeby will be 8 in September. He’s already playing travel baseball. Pretty soon they’ll be teenagers, and we all know what happens then.

I expect by that time we’ll have traded in our 5th wheel for some sort of smaller, self-contained rig; the jury’s still deliberating on whether it will be what I want (a Class B) or what Dave wants (something bigger) and we’ll be on the road to somewhere, at least in the wintertime. The older we get, the less we want to deal with cold and snow and yuck weather. I prefer that things get easier the older I get, which is why I want a Class B. I want a smaller rig that would make it easy to explore national and state parks and he wants “comfort,” which comes with bigger units. There will be time to hash it out.

In the interim, we’re planning to spend the next few years getting away from time to time in what we’ve got, including wintering in Texas where our youngest grandchild lives. Our older RV is big and has got all the comforts of home, which is exactly what we wanted when we bought it in ’06 and thought we’d be full-time RVers for a while. That’s not exactly what happened; grandchildren did instead. So we just take them with us, and when we do we’re REALLY grateful for the space the 5th wheel affords.

It’s good to have plans, but it’s better to be flexible and accept life as it unfolds. Like most everyone, there have been certain unplanned experiences in the past that I wish didn’t happen, but they did. And there were probably at least twice as many—if not more—that were over-the-top wonderful that I also didn’t plan on happening, but did. Mine has been a fairly fantastic life.

I’ve finally realized that “acceptance” doesn’t mean we have to like a particular situation; we just have to acknowledge that it’s different than what we expected and go on. So what if my retirement isn’t exactly what I thought it would be? In actuality, it’s way better! All in all, life is, too, when I remember to live in the present, one day at a time, and enjoy the journey.

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Oh, life! It’s never what we planned.

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Other than the news programs I see on the television screens when I’m working out at the gym, I’m pretty much a current events cripple save for what’s going on in the world of sports. I’d much rather watch Sports Center any day than constantly negative news (aka CNN.) Three different-but-similar sports stories captured my interest last week. Each one involved a personality who was leaving the game: one willingly, one probably and reluctantly, and one because he had to. The irony led me to think of the parable about the talents, which is pretty remarkable since I’m not at all religious and certainly don’t know my way around the Bible.

Thirty-year-old Calvin Johnson, a wide receiver for the Detroit Lions, retired after nine seasons. Though only two of them were winning seasons for the team, Johnson was invited to the Pro-Bowl six times and holds 15 NFL records, including most yards received in a season, 1,964. His humility and integrity were obvious in that he did not hold a press conference to announce his decision to retire, but instead issued a thoughtfully written statement in which he acknowledged his gratitude for those who helped him along the way. Moreover, he returned a portion of his signing bonus to the Lions, which I thought interesting and quite an admirable thing to do.

Drafted in 2007 like Johnson, Oakland Athletics pitcher Jarrod Parker’s career more than likely ended this week, though completely unplanned for and quite unexpectedly. Having already undergone two Tommy John surgeries on his pitching arm, Parker first broke his elbow last May and then again on Friday, just twelve pitches into yet another comeback attempt. My heart breaks for this young man, because when he’s healthy, he’s good: a cumulative 25-16 record over three partial seasons, and even going 19 straight games without a loss, a team record. But an athlete’s health is as important as his talent, if not more. I can’t imagine any team risking an investment in Jarrod Parker. He’s only 27.

Perhaps the sorriest story is that of Johnny Manziel, former quarterback for the Cleveland Browns, who just can’t seem to get his act together and grow up. Winner of the prestigious Heisman Trophy only two years ago and drafted with the highest of hopes, Manziel has squandered the many opportunities his team gave him to get clean and sober. The Browns paid him big bucks to deliver, and for one reason or another, he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. At any rate, no team wants him, so the Browns placed him on waivers yesterday. He’s 23.

Each of them was blessed with the incredible talent necessary to become a professional athlete and do what they do best in front of millions of fans and get paid! One developed his the best he could and reaped an abundance of rewards. Another had the desire and the willingness to do whatever it took–including a couple of surgeries–but life is not not panning out as planned. Hopefully his tenacity will help him overcome this sad hurdle and put him in a position where his talents can be utilized in another capacity. The third made a series of poor choices that completely obliterated the talent he’d been blessed with. His future is up to him and anyone’s guess.

I couldn’t help but think about my own talents…not in a conceited way, but more like an inventory assessment. I pondered whether they were being used effectively, particularly at this stage of my life. I’ve got a couple of projects that I’m developing and that have me pretty jazzed. They have all the components of things I love to do: have fun, be with people, write, put things together, have fun. Oh, did I say ‘have fun’ twice?

Back to the parable…the master was so pissed with the slovenly servant that he stripped him of what talent he had left and threw him out ‘to the darkness.’ Interpret that as you will. Everyone’s darkness is different and is, in essence, the pits. Complete darkness. Hopefully Johnny Manziel and others like him will eventually see the light and opt for a Hail Mary pass before time runs out. After all, miracles happen all the time. But you first have to want them.

 

(I’m) Completely Clueless About Minecraft

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imageLike a lot of other kids these days, my grandkids are really into Minecraft. They love it. If they had their way, they’d probably play it for hours. Because the players themselves design everything as they go along, they are literally in their own little world. If I happen to drop by while they’re playing it, they are only too eager to tell me all the details: where they’re at, what this and that is, what they’re doing. Once they were in London and built Big Ben; they were genuinely excited! I feigned understanding, and I think they saw right through it. I’ll admit, I just don’t get it.

The closest thing I can compare Minecraft to is blocks, but using a mouse to manipulate a virtual one just doesn’t seem to render the true experience of holding a real block, nor does it require the use of imagination to place and balance it one way or another. It doesn’t even seem the least bit challenging. Of course, what do I know? I remember Pong and Pac Man coming on the scene (can it really be more than 30 years ago?) and though I enjoyed them the few times I played, I never became addicted. Unless playing pinball and shooting pool count. But, since I love to learn anyway, I thought I’d research Minecraft and at least try to have some idea of what Maeby and Bobby talk about. As it is, my brain automatically goes into “I have no clue” mode when they do, and I really don’t want to be that old person. At least, not yet.

I began to google ‘Minecraft for grandparents,” and simply typing the first couple of letters of the word ‘grandparents’ resulted in a plethora of potentially helpful links. At least, at first, that’s how it seemed. Descriptions of a YouTube video entitled,”If GrandParents Played Minecraft,” and a grandparents’ chat forum about Minecraft were enticing and made me think that I could find out everything I need to know, in a nutshell, preferably. My encouragement was short-lived, however, when the video proved to just have grandparent-looking characters and the only grandparents in the chat room were wandering around the internet as clueless as me.

I was flustered that there wasn’t a quick fix to this trivial–yet important-to-me–dilemma. Then it dawned on me to simply google “minecraft,” and what do you know? The first link, https://minecraft.net/, took me to exactly where I needed to find the information I wanted. Lesson: See the big picture instead of focusing on me.

"No, it's not," by Maeby (2015)

“No, it’s not,” by Maeby (2015)

Skimming through the pages of the website, I came across phrases like “watching the sun rise over a blocky ocean. It’s pretty…” which I have a hard time wrapping my head around. After all, how can pixilated blocks even remotely capture a splendidly indescribable sunrise across the ocean? I guess that’s where one’s imagination comes in.

When I found the Community Resources page (on the very easy to navigate website, I might add), I congratulated and high-5ed myself when up popped supportive links to forums (in several languages), Minecraft wiki (“learn anything and everything about Minecraft”), and of course, Facebook and other networks found on social media. There’s even a Minecraft Paper Studio that gives instructions on how players can make their favorite characters in 3-D. It claims that “arts and crafts has never been this much fun,” so I’ll pass this along to Maeby. She’s the creative one in the family.

And so, I’ll dabble little by little into their world via the Minecraft website, and hopefully get a handle on what the big deal is all about. (As an aside, Minecraft’s home page has a counter of times the game is downloaded…14 million and counting. That’s how popular it is.) This will be like eating an elephant, a metaphor for something seemingly impossible…one bite at a time. I may getting older but there is always something to learn, and that seems to be a good way to pass time which is going to go by anyway (quicker and quicker as one gets older.) That being said, I better get to it!

Live and Laugh Out Loud!

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Enjoyed. Embraced. Celebrated!

Enjoyed. Embraced. Celebrated!

I have had attention deficit disorder plus hyperactivity (ADHD) forever, but it wasn’t officially diagnosed as such until six years ago when I was 54. In years past, from time to time, I’ve tried medication to ‘dial it down,’ but no more. I figured at my age, I can be the real me. Authentic, as it were. Besides, I forgot to take the pill half the time anyway.

As a result, cooking and baking routinely result in some sort of dilemma involving the ingredients–or rather, the omission of them–and the eventual realization of which that usually ends up with me deflated, uttering the words, “Oh, shit.” Ironically, these are the exact times that cause me to run to Google to find the solution. Problem/Solution…two sides of the same coin. Yesterday was such a day.

The situation always–always–starts off well and with the best of intentions. By 8:30 a.m. I already had supper in the crock pot and decided to make some bread. I was in a rare Suzy homemaker mood. Things were humming along nicely…ingredients were being kneaded effortlessly in my mixer, and then it was time to cover the dough and let it rest for twenty minutes. As I began to clean up the counter and put things away, I happened to glance at the recipe in the cookbook and saw my daughter’s handwriting where she had scratched out what was printed and had written the amount of salt she used when she made this bread.

Salt?

I didn’t put any salt away, which meant it never made it out of the cabinet. Which meant the dough–which was now rising beautifully–had no salt. I didn’t take home ec or chemistry in high school, but I knew that salt was an integral ingredient in the process…but just HOW important was it? I wondered if I could let it slide.

My knee-jerk reaction was to throw the baby out with the bathwater, but if I threw away the dough, I’d have to figure out something else to make. That would probably mean a trip to the grocery because I’d used all the bread flour. I decided to grab my iPad and do a search on “made dough forgot salt.” Either alternative would take time; additional time I had not built into my day. I mentally scolded myself. As I already stated, this (forgetting an ingredient) happens regularly. I really should know better.

Amazingly, several links popped up rather quickly…it’s always reassuring to realize that I’m not the only forgetful one. While searching for a solution, I scanned someone’s comment, “Bread without salt is like life without love.” That did it. Obviously, salt was important and I could not take the easy way out and let it slide.

One suggestion was to roll out the dough, brush on a mixture of the exact amount of salt in the directions and just enough water to moisten it, knead it again, roll it out again, and form the loaves. This I did. The dough in both pans rose nicely, but my expectations were quite low as I slid the two loaf pans in the oven. They baked nicely, too, which gave me hope that there just might have been salvation. Slices were cut, tasted, and OH, MY! The bread turned out GREAT!!!

I was so happy. I was so proud. After dinner I called my daughter and when she answered, I announced, “My bread turned out GREAT!!!” practically jumping though the phone.

No response. Nothing. Until a few seconds later when she said with feigned enthusiasm, “That’s great.”

“Didn’t I tell you about making bread and forgetting the salt?” I asked, trying hard to remember who I told. I KNEW I had told someone.

“What salt?”

Obviously I hadn’t. I knew that I told SOMEbody in the course of day, but that really didn’t matter now. Both of us just burst out laughing and laughed so hard we couldn’t stop! We couldn’t speak, we were laughing so hard. So we just ended the call, still laughing! If it wasn’t so damn funny, it might have been embarrassing. But as it was, a genuine, hearty belly laugh was good for my soul, and it probably lifted my daughter’s spirits, as well.

I can’t remember when I laughed so hard, but it felt so good. I’m going to have to remember to do it more often. After all, laughter is the best medicine!