Mogen David

originally published in ArtPrize Anthology

“How are you today, Bob?” someone in the retirement community would inevitably ask my dad. “Crabby!” He would respond without hesitation. This was always followed by a good laugh from the person doing the asking. It was all in the delivery. Despite his desire to communicate a “bah humbug” demeanor, my three-hundred-pound, wheelchair bound dad was really more teddy than grizzly bear. And at Christmas, despite his Ebenezer Scrooge ways, he was always more Santa Claus. He never wanted to put up a tree. He didn’t want family to make a fuss. He just wanted to give presents. 

He was always that guy who would slip you a $2.00 bill, or give you a candy bar, or made sure you grabbed “a pop from the riffy” the minute you walked in the door. His generosity, even on this small scale, drove my controlling, slightly neurotic mother nuts. The complexity of that relationship is best saved for another day. This is meant to be a heartwarming story, not a lesson in dysfunctional families. 

Moving on. 

After my mother passed, my father moved in to a small, one-bedroom apartment in a complex for retirees. He wasn’t much for social activities with the old folks. He didn’t like bingo or travel shows but his quick wit, kind heart and impressive storytelling abilities during communal mealtimes made him a favorite between workers and residents alike. 

Each Christmas, he would ask me to buy a dozen or so small presents that he could gift to the staff. This included perfumes, chocolates, flavored coffees, lotions, etc. In addition to the various sundries and treats, I always had strict orders to buy a pint of bottom-shelf whiskey for Mike, the janitor and apricot brandy for Cheryl, his caregiver. When I’d arrive with presents in tow, I’d have to review all the gifts with him.

“Show me what you got,” he’d say, clapping and rubbing his hands excitedly. I’d hold up gift after gift. “That’s nice,” he’d say, “I think Sue, the cleaning lady, will like that.” Or “Hide that one! I want Jessie, from the kitchen, to have that.” On and on he’d go. When it came to the chocolate, he would usually offer a “You paid how much for that?” Spending money on good chocolate was lost on him. “Why buy Godiva when Three Musketeers are just as good?” After he approved each purchase, I’d display them on his cedar chest. Then, without fail, as I was leaving, he’d motor his scooter over and peruse them all over again. No doubt he would re-organize and look over them each morning until all the gifts were gone. 

One year he phoned me a few weeks before Christmas and asked me a question. “Do Jewish people still drink that Mogen David wine for Hanukkah?” “That Mogen David wine?” I chuckled. Why on Earth did he want to know this? He then added, “Will you please go pick up a Hanukkah card and, if they drink that wine, pick me up a bottle of that, too?” That was an interesting request. “Why?” I asked. “There’s a Jewish guy that lives here. Everyone is always throwing Christmas up around here and there’s that one lone Jewish guy. He should get something Jewish.” 

Taking my orders, I went investigating on his behalf. (My Catholic upbringing left me unable to answer the question myself.) Lo and behold, I learned from a friend that some Jewish people, especially older Jewish people, like the sweet wine. I went to the local grocer and picked up a bottle of Maneschewitz (similar to “that Mogen David”). I phoned to ask if he wanted me to sign the card. He gave me an emphatic, “No! Just bring it to me. Cheryl will fill out the card.” I couldn’t imagine what personal message he wanted Cheryl (his caregiver) to write that I couldn’t, but I didn’t ask. I brought the wine, a Hanukkah card and Hanukkah gift bag a few days later. 

A few weeks later I stopped over to my pops. I realized I had never asked him about the Hanukkah gift. “Hey Dad, did that guy like his gift?” I asked. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know?” I pushed. “Nope,” he responded. He seemed to be communicating in that half conversation, non-forthcoming way that my husband uses when he wants to drive me slowly insane. I kept pushing. “Well, did he thank you?” While I knew there were some curmudgeons that lived in this community of senior citizens this seemed like such a nice gesture. I thought surely, he was thanked. After a pause, he offered quietly, “He doesn’t know it was me.” I was confused. 

My father explained. The gentleman that he gifted the wine to was the neighbor in the apartment next door. I was surprised. I knew immediately that this was the cranky guy that did not like my dad. This was the guy that kept his television so loud that it bled through the walls. This was the guy who made it so my dad had to wear earplugs in his own apartment. This was the guy who, after repeated requests to turn down the volume, left my dad with no other option than to call the management and complain. This was the guy that was so unhappy he was called out for his loud television habit that he stopped talking to my dad. He continued. “I didn’t tell him it was me. Why would I do that? He doesn’t like me.” My father shared this in a very matter of fact way. There wasn’t anything to talk about. Everyone got presents and this guy should, too. End of story. 

I was speechless. 

A few months after my father passed, I attended a lecture given by a Rabbi. He explained that in Judaism the act of giving is called a mitzvah. He shared that giving anonymously is one of the higher forms of mitzvah. As he spoke, I couldn't help but think of my father. I cried. 

I once read an inscription in one of my dad’s old yearbooks. It read, “Hey Bob! I know I don't know you well, but thanks for the candy bars!” My father had a compulsion to give his whole life. I sometimes wanted him to stop. I felt like he was doing it for the wrong reasons; that he was doing it for acceptance. I thought it was unhealthy. (I am my mother’s daughter, after all.) I learned otherwise that day. 

Over my lifetime I watched my father give. Yet it wasn't until that moment I realized that in his giving, over and over again, year after year, I saw that his generosity was not something he did, but something he had become. Through his lifetime of mitzvah he became not only the giver, but also the gift.

I Hated My Dad

I Hated My Dad

I hated my dad. Hated him. H-A-T-E-D him. I’d scream it on the regular. 

To him: “Go away. I hate you.” 

To my mother: “Why don’t you make him leave me alone?” 

To the Universe: “ARRGHHHH!!!! I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.” 

That relationship was fraught from a very early age. 

My dad wasn’t a physically abusive man. He was emotionally abusive. He was a teaser. He liked to tease. That’s it. Teasing. Still, it was tough. Never-ending. He pushed and pushed and pushed me to tears. He pushed me until I’d beg, “Leave me alone.” He pushed me until I screamed, “I hate you.” And then he’d push me some more. 

My dad worked two jobs my entire young life; from the day I was born until I was in my mid-twenties. One job was from 7am-3pm, Monday through Friday, at Kelvinator’s – a factory. He was on the line. I think he was a foreman for a while but didn’t like it. The second job was 4pm-11pm, Sunday through Saturday, 7 days a week, at Granny’s Kitchen – a restaurant. There he was a maître d' and a manager. At least that’s how I remembered it – the work schedule. That left about, what, 16 hours of time each week that we’d be together? Saturday mornings and Sunday mornings and occasional run-ins throughout the week. I think he went in to work at 2pm on the weekends. He’d get time off occasionally, but the point is he worked… a lot. Still, in those off hours there was plenty of time to interact and that interaction was all too often painful. 

Here’s the thing… the teasing was silly. Mostly childish. Sometimes inappropriate. Always relentless.

“Hey Teresa! Cousin Robbie called. He has a crush on you,” he’d say. 

“You’re lying. He didn’t call.” I’d reply, praying that the conversation would end there. 

“Oh yes he did. He thinks you’re cute.” He’d say this in a sing-song way to make sure there was a better chance to get under my skin. 

“No, he doesn’t. Stop saying that.” 

Singing again, “Someone has a crush on Teresa.” 

“Stop it. He does not!” 

“And Teresa has a crush on Robbie.” 

“STOP IT! I do not.” 

“Teresa and Robbie sitting in a tree…”

“Shut up!” 

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.” 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” By now the tears were flowing. 

“First comes love. Then comes marriage…” 

“Stop it! I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” I’d scream, running to my bedroom. 

As I ran I’d occasionally hear Imelda (my mother) pipe in, “Dammit Bob, Leave the girl alone.” But it was never enough. I couldn’t stop him. She couldn’t stop him. Or wouldn’t. That’s what the little girl in me decided. “If you loved me, you’d divorce him,” I’d cry to her. She never did. 

Usually two days later, after the worst of the exchanges, he’d come home with a stuffed animal from Meijer or a bicentennial coin from Old Kent or a ham hoagie from Granny’s. I loved ham hoagies. He wouldn’t say sorry, but he’d give me a gift of some sort. 

Only a few days would pass before things would start again. Maybe this time he’d ask me what time it was. I didn’t know how to tell time. Clocks confused me. It took me awhile to understand how to read a clock. I knew I was late to it. I was embarrassed. He knew this was difficult for me. I’d not answer and pray he wouldn’t ask me again. He would. And when I couldn’t answer, he’d laugh and tell me that everyone I knew could tell time and I had better figure it out because I didn’t want to be late for everything my whole life. “Teresa can’t tell the time! Hey everyone, Teresa can’t tell the time.” He’d share to the household. No one really paying attention, I’m sure. Still, again, I’d cry. 

The pattern repeated itself over and over again. Tease. Cry. Buy. Repeat. 

Occasionally, he’d take me (all of us kids) to a Museum, the zoo, the beach or the Meijer store. I vividly recall our drives to get groceries. He’d ask me to bring a book so I could read to him or he’d quiz me on my address and phone number (in case we ever got split up.) He’d give us quality experiences. I loved these times with my dad. I loved THIS man. And I thought this man loved me. The other dad, the one that was teasing non-stop, he didn’t love me. How could he? How could someone be so cruel to someone you love? I never understood why he couldn’t be this man all the time. If he loved me, he’d stop teasing me. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I know that now. 

My dad was a mess. 

As I got older and the teasing diminished and the therapy began, I’d try to make sense of it all. I knew I couldn’t figure him out on my own. I knew this had to be a joint effort. Finally, in my late twenties, I made a decision to heal this dysfunctional relationship. At 28, I wrote him a letter, several pages long and decided I would read it to him. 

I vividly recall that day. I found him sitting in his bedroom where he and his Lazy-Boy knock off with its food stains and worn armrests had been banished. My mother had him put it there, too embarrassed to have anyone see they owned such a “piece of garbage.” He was saying his rosary, like he always did. “Hypocrite,” I always thought. Sometimes I’d say it to him too... especially when he’d tease me as we left church. We’d exit the doors after 11am Mass and by the time I’d gotten home I’d be sobbing. I hated him for pretending to Love God in one moment and hate me in another. 

I took a breath and asked him if I could read a letter to him. I asked if he would be open to hearing what I had to say about our relationship. At that time, I had been learning a great deal about reincarnation, so I explained to him that I wanted to be sure we cleared up everything in this lifetime so I didn’t have to come back and deal with him all over again. My very Catholic father quietly said, “Okay, go on.” 

I read the letter aloud. I asked why my pleas to stop the teasing went unheeded. I asked why he was so cruel. I asked why he never hugged me. (He was not a hugger.) I asked why he never intervened when I was in relationship with a major abusive alcoholic. I asked why he didn’t love me the way I needed to be loved. I asked about so many things – some too painful to share now. I apologized for how much I told him I hated him and that I only said it louder and louder because that was the only way I thought he would stop. And when I was done reading the letter, we both sat there in tears. 

After a few minutes of silence, my dad spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry.” He added, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” How could he not? I thought. But I didn’t want to fight. I wanted to understand. We talked. Really talked. He said he didn’t know how to stop. He told me my mom did ask him to stop. He told me he thought that someday I would stop crying and that I would learn not react. He thought that was a good thing. He told me some other things I can’t share with you. He told me he didn’t intervene with the boyfriend because he knew I’d make a choice and that he was certain the boyfriend would win and he didn’t want to lose me. He told me that he saw the way that man treated me and that he prayed to God I would leave the guy. He told me that he’d cry himself to sleep at night in pain for me. He said that to me. I cried harder. The tears were good. So good. Healing. For the first time my dad made me cry for all the right reasons and my heart was so full of love it almost exploded. 

We talked for probably another three hours that day. When I left the room, I knew that our relationship was forever changed. I knew that my dad heard me. And I knew that if reincarnation was a thing, I wasn’t going to have to deal with him again. We worked it out. Or were working it out. I still didn’t understand him. I still didn’t understand why he did the things he did, but I knew I didn’t need to know. It didn’t matter. What mattered is that we had a new beginning. A father-daughter do over. I understood how rare that was and I was grateful. 

Over the next 15 plus years, he’d “check-in” with me. Occasionally, he’d ask, “Hey there, how you doing T-bunk (his nickname for me)? Are we okay? You’re not holding on to anything are you?” And I’d say no. Sometimes I’d ask him questions about his life and the conversations would get deep. He would share with me the emotional trauma of his youth and the challenges he faced as a husband. And sometimes when he’d start to tease, I’d randomly yell, “$75!” “What the hell is $75?” he’d ask. “That’s the money you’re going to owe me for a therapy session if you don’t behave.” And he’d laugh. His big belly would shake and my heart would get that – I’m-gonna-explode – feeling again. 

My dad was a rare breed. He was an old dog who wanted to learn new tricks. He wanted to be a better person. He tried and he failed over and over again, but he never stopped trying. He bought me so many things as a kid but my favorite was the one he didn't purchase. It was him. He showed me what it means to be broken and whole at the same time. 

I had this vintage glass bottle. I loved it. It was that soft green, like honeydew, not pine. I used it for bouquets. At some point I dropped it and it got three different cracks, but it didn’t break. None of the cracks were strong enough to shatter the bottle. And, it still held water. It was broken and whole. It was damaged but kept on giving. I loved it even more. Just like my dad. Once I saw his cracks his Light shown brighter than I had ever known. He showed me that becoming a better person is hard and that it’s something you do for yourself and in doing for yourself you can help others. He showed me that the work is not perfect and the result is not perfect and that’s okay – even with the cracks you can still be whole. Broken and whole.

I loved my dad. Truly loved my dad. L-O-V-E-D him.

Every Twenty-Eight Days: FOR DECADES

 

I have a colleague who is struggling with some women specific issues right now
and it sent me down a rabbit hole of thought. Turn away if you don’t want to read about periods and lady business, because I’m going all in here.
Graphic Content Ahead. 

I got my period when I was 15 and I stopped when I was 47. I’m very lucky. In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t bleed as long as many women. I got my first migraine at age 8 and when I got my period, well, migraines and periods became fast friends - nearly every month for 32 years they’d show up together. How nice. I did the math. 384 periods and, I’m guessing, at least 300 headaches to varying degrees, estimating 250 migraines. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY MIGRAINES! Ask my husband. He’d concur. 

It wasn’t until the early 2000’s that migraine medicine finally started working for me. Thank God. I remember my mother telling me once, “If you think putting your head through a wall will make things better, it won’t. Trust me,” she added. “I’ve tried it.” I took her advice. Never did. But it took every ounce of my being more often than I’d care to admit not to grab a sharp knife to slice open the back of my neck to relieve the pressure. 

When I watched my colleague working through her obvious pain I remembered all the times I did the same. I remembered the times I would tell my staff I was taking a lunch and then I’d drive two blocks from the office to try and sleep off a migraine – or wait for the nausea to pass. Closing my office door to hide on the floor. Waking up at 4am with severe cramps knowing that I had a 7:30am meeting to prep for. On and on, year after year for THIRTY-TWO YEARS! And I haven’t even talked about the bleeding. Oh. My. God. The bleeding! 

Excruciating moments... Sitting in a meeting with a major donor – in their home - and realizing that my period had JUST started. Excusing myself quickly so I don’t leave blood on the chair. Grabbing my purse as I run to the bathroom only to realize I don’t have a tampon or pad because I was certain that my period was going to start next week. Then using up a half role of toilet paper stuffing it in my underwear, praying that they won’t notice the bathroom supply diminished by half and that the meeting will end soon. Then returning to the meeting with a fresh application of lipstick because surely that will distract them into thinking I only went to the bathroom because I had to pee. And, yet, somehow, I still managed to stay focused on the conversation AND secure the $10,000 donation WITH BLOODY TOILET PAPER WADDED IN MY CROTCH! 

And the time that I wore that new white blazer to work and halfway through the board meeting I look down and realize that the inside of my right cuff has thick “red marks” on it because apparently I didn’t manage my tampon removal and placement as effectively as I thought I had. And yet I still was capable of presenting the strategic plan in such a way that I got unanimous approval from the board… all the while effectively HIDING PERIOD BLOOD ON MY SLEEVE! 

Those are just TWO of my stories. TWO from three hundred eighty four periods. I have heard so many stories from other women. Women who bleed so hard they have to wear a tampon and two pads. Women who have left their mark accidentally in a variety of places from conference room chairs, to dining room chairs, to living room chairs, to Hotel Rooms. White HOTEL ROOM TOWELS!?!?! OMG. WHY?!? It’s an accident. It’s always an accident. Women who have to sit at their desks with warm compresses on their stomachs as they balance monthly accounts. Fast food workers have to excuse themselves to prying male bosses as they request a 10 minute break (not a five) because their supplies are in the car. Too many stories. I did the math again. Ten women, bleeding for 20 years, once a month – leads to the possibility of 1,200 times when a period or the challenges associated with that period existed. TEN WOMEN. 1,200 BLEEDS! 

And this is where the rabbit hole took a deeper dive. I started to think about famous women throughout time and how we just never talk about their periods or all the challenges that can and often accompany them. I thought about Betsy Ross sewing that damn flag and wondered if some of the American Flag material ended up in Betsy’s rag bag and then ended up in Betsy Ross’ bloomers. I think it happened. Betsy Ross was on the rag with the American Flag – maybe LITERALLY. And then, after she made the flag she had to wash her own rags just to be used again. SHE HAD TO WASH HER OWN PERIOD RAGS. They all did. 

And what about Madame Marie Curie? Was she fighting through cramps at the same time she was slowly being poisoned by radiation? “Oh I know I want to die right now, take a hot poker and shove it through my belly button, but there has to be a better way to give an X-ray. I will carry on” I mean, at some point in her research, that woman was bleeding. 

And then there’s Harriet Tubman. HARRIET TUBMAN! Working the underground railroad. Did she organize it around her period or did she just plow through? I’m guessing she plowed through. I mean… Harriet Tubman. Wouldn’t it be great if in one of the scenes of the movie HARRIET, some guy who sprains his ankle and doesn’t think he can go on begs her to slow down and she just lifts her skirt to reveal a rope belt attached to a pile of rags between her legs and says… “If I can push through with this, you can push through with that.” Harriet Tubman was a bleeder and a bad ass... a bad ass bleeder, if you will. 

Kamala Harris, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, Taylor Swift, Mamie Eisenhower, Sally Ride, Amanda Gorman… Your favorite woman here: ____________ All of them dealing on some level with their period and the challenges that are inherent therein. And, I haven’t even mentioned dropping a 5-9 pound ball through your vagina. I never have, so I can’t even imagine the wonders pregnancy and motherhood brings. Nor have I mentioned that when the bleeding stops… there’s a whole other host of fun stuff to deal with. (Guys, if you’re still with me… that’s menopause and that's sarcasm.) 

And finally, here’s the point. Here’s why I am writing this... because… 

WOMAN, YOU ARE REMARKABLE! 

You persevere. You go about your day making the world go round without ever stopping a meeting to say, “Hey guys, I just started bleeding from a hole between my legs. I feel a migraine coming on and I’m cramping. Can we just take five for a little quick self-care?” No. That’s not said. Instead you go on. You do great things. Over and over again. They can be grand things or simple things, like getting dinner on the table or finishing a term paper or picking up meds for the kids or for your folks when all you want to do is crawl into the fetal position and pass out for five days. The history books won’t remind people that everything you accomplished you did so while bleeding every 28 days for decades. On this, the month to celebrate women, I salute you. 

(The photo above is an old picture of me. I grabbed it because I'm guessing by the color of my skin that this was a period day or a migraine day. Or both.)

HE KNEW.

MAD AS HELL

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdQCPlAZjbY

194,000 and counting deaths.

"This is more deadly than the flu." HE KNEW.

"Now it’s turning out it’s not just old people, Bob. Just today and yesterday, some startling facts came out. It’s not just old- older...Young people too. Plenty of young people." HE KNEW.

"This is deadly stuff." HE KNEW.

He knew. He knew. He knew. I thought he was just an idiot. I really thought that he just chose not to believe it because he's incompetent. He didn't. He believed it and still he chose to lie to you. And so did all those people that work with him. EVIL.

He called it a "hoax" so you wouldn't wear a mask when HE KNEW people would die.

And while we're at it...

He says the same thing about Climate Change... as the country burns to the ground. HE KNOWS. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says race isn't an issue... as he stokes the fan of racism. HE KNOWS. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says that he's Pro-life... as he puts children in cages and separates them from their families. HE KNOWS YOU WILL BELIEVE HIM. HE LIES. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He says that he's pro Law and Order... as he gets his Attorney General to defend him against libel accusations made by a woman he sexually assaulted. HE KNOWS IT'S UNETHICAL. IF NOT ILLEGAL. HE DOESN'T CARE.

He called our military personnel, our heroes, "losers" and "suckers" after taking five deferments to avoid serving. Then he calls himself a PATRIOT and tells YOU I'm anti-American. He suggests that not getting VD is akin to fighting in VIETNAM. HE DOESN'T CARE about our service men and women. HE JUST DOESN'T CARE.

He told you he'd have a new health plan in "two weeks". He's said that since he ran for office. HE LIES. HE DOESN'T CARE... because you don't.

YOU LISTEN, BELIEVE, JUSTIFY and SUPPORT.

Today I drove downtown to interview someone about community theatre's trying to survive. It kills me what we've all had to endure in terms of loss of revenue, loss of jobs, loss of livelihood, loss of joy. And then I drove past the abortion clinic where 6 mask-less men and women carried signs saying they were Pro-life. I don't believe them. I don't believe they are any more pro-life than he is. It struck me that I am probably more pro-life than any of them. I should carry the sign.

I AM PRO-LIFE. I wear a mask when I go out that I don't accidentally infect someone. Because I know... because science tells me... I could have COVID and not know it. So I protect YOU. I try and limit my carbon footprint or give money to organizations that I know will help me limit my carbon footprint or that of others because I don't want to contribute to climate change. I support Planned Parenthood that women have access to contraception and safe procedures. I contribute to organizations that are working to save the planet and save my beloved birds. I support Gun Control organizations because I know that better gun control is an answer. I support conversations and organizations taking actions that ALL MEN and WOMEN and anyone in between (POC, DISABLED, LGBTQ, ECONOMICALLY DISADVANTAGED) have access to a quality life. Because I am PRO-LIFE. PRO-QUALITY OF LIFE. FOR EVERY PERSON.

On November 3 (and/or the days ahead), we have a choice to vote for Biden/Harris and if you do, you will have done tremendous work towards righting the wrongs that have happened in the last four years... but that vote is not the only thing you can or should be doing. Throw open the window. Yell out. And after you've screamed, get to work. Make a call. Make a donation. Volunteer your time. Learn about climate change. Gun Control. Systemic Racism. And after you learn... know this. KNOW THAT THE DEMS ARE NOT GOING TO FIX THIS FOR YOU. KNOW THAT BIDEN/HARRIS ARE GOING TO GET THINGS WRONG. KNOW THAT POLITICIANS DO NOT HAVE ALL THE ANSWERS. But work with them. Educate them. Educate yourself and know that the work is yours. Then act towards building a better tomorrow.

Help! I've Fallen... or maybe don't help. Gah! I don't know what to do.

I've avoided this conversation for weeks. This week I needed help, so here it is.

I needed a walker. I knew if I put it on Facebook, someone would surface. That’s one of the best parts of Facebook. People are really helpful. I know when someone posts that they need something I’d be delighted to help if I can. I just knew the same would be true for me. But I avoided my post for weeks. Monday that changed and I got one to borrow. That’s not all I want to say. This ended up being much longer than I had anticipated.

Three weeks ago I was having the first really great day in quite some time. My husband was given his negative test result from COVID. This meant we were nearing the end of our quarantine. Just a couple more days to be safe but we were certain he was fine. For the quarantine, he had been relegated to the second floor and basement. I was managing the kitchen and living on the first floor. He was extremely disappointed to be waited on hand and foot. Not that I do a bad job, mind you, I’m an awesome helpmate. But, because he’d much prefer to be able to function on his own. We are both fiercely independent. Most importantly, however, his lack of access to the kitchen meant a break in routine for him. "You mean, I can't just go grab my *schnibbly throughout the day?" "Nope. Quarantine baby. You gotta protect me too!" He understood. Still, bummer for him. FYI: *Schnibbly is what he calls the nuts, dates and chips he snacks on throughout the day. He's adorable.

Anyway, I was headed down the stairs when I noticed a Blue Jay was at my newly placed bird feeder. There's a window at the bottom of our stairway leading from the main floor to second. I was delighted at the sight of the bird and completely distracted. I thought I was at the bottom step. I was not. I was third from bottom. I stepped out and my dear, sweet ankle couldn't handle the weight of the fall. It twisted left and right before dropping me to the floor. I cussed like a sailor, threw off my shoe as quickly as I could and yelled for Fred, who was already bounding towards me.

There we were, face to face, maskless, for the first time in over a week. I asked him to bring me an ice pack. “Asked?” Wait. Not that. I’m sure it was more of a scream. “Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God! I need ice. Get me ice. Now. Please. Ow. Ow. Ow.” Followed by a few more expletives. Yes, definitely a scream. For the first time in more than a week there the husband was… in the kitchen and in the refrigerator, no less. I was devastated. Fred was elated. Not immediately, of course, but soon. The elation certainly wasn't because I was in pain, but because my accident meant his home quarantine was over. No being waited on. No denial of kitchen access. Complete role reversal in the span of a second.

That happened June 9. No break. Phew! But a torn ligament. No weight bearing for two weeks, the doc said, initially. (He'd add a week later.) A neighbor offered her crutches (so nice) and we rented a knee scooter. The PT recommended a walker next and then a cane. I have a cane. I didn’t have a walker. Why didn't we keep all the old people medical paraphernalia from our parents? We keep kicking ourselves. Admittedly the kicks aren’t as hard as they used to be. There’s been some muscle loss over the years.

That's pretty much the story. So why then does this post get so long? Because I’ve been doing loads of contemplating from the couch where I sit, lay, eat, read, binge and sleep – day after day after day after day committed to R-I-C-E. Thought I’d share some of those observations and questions with you.

First observation. Life can turn on a dime. Of course I knew this, but now I am in it. 2020 has been such an experiment in how to live. For all of us. I recognize now and did so almost immediately that my abrupt change was necessary. I'd been burning the candle at both ends trying to paint and finish a kitchen, create a new garden, clean-up the existing, clear out a basement, organize family photos, organize personal photos, find time to bird, to write, prep for a garage sale, learn to cook loads of new foods and do all the work-related activities I needed to be focusing on including directing an online piece for a local theatre company. Then life said, "Um, no. You've not been centered spiritually. You've not been taking good care of yourself. You haven’t done any self-reflection this whole pandemic, little exercise, etc. despite being given ample time to do so. If you won't do it, then I'm going to do it for you." Then blam! Down I went.

First Question. To ask or not to ask. Right after it happened, I wanted prayers, good juju, happy thoughts sent my way. I’m a firm believer that if you put that good energy towards someone in the world, it can manifest. It’s not an exact science but even the placebo affect makes it worthwhile. I reached out to a few friends, but I didn’t post anything on Facebook. I didn’t want the world to know I was having a problem. That’s not what Facebook is for. (This is something that has been repeatedly reinforced to me by friends and family. And I've said it myself a dozen times.) Still I was torn. I kept this argument going in my head. “Just post about your ankle on Facebook. Ask for some good juju, prayers, thoughts. It’ll help.” And then there was...  “Don’t post anything on Facebook? You want sympathy? For something so miniscule? What’s wrong with you?” More on this in a second.

Second Observation. When given the time for self-reflection, take it.  After I fell, I was engulfed in online news. I mean good God, the world really had gone to hell in a handbasket. I had just started an anti-racism dialogue group and was knee deep in that. I was bingeing on social media and entertainment to avoid the pain. (That sucker hurt!) Plus, who knew that watching people throw water on unsuspecting family members could be so hilarious (Tik Tok anyone?) Ten days after the fact, I realized that more than a week had gone by and I hadn't really done any self-reflection. If the Universe really had just said to me, “slow down and take care of yourself,” then why wasn’t I listening? I hadn't done any writing to speak of. I was irritable. I was stuck. The next day I tried to improve the focus of my meditation. I even did a little spiritual reading. There was certainly no groundswell of change. The next night I was listening to a podcast, heading to the bathroom on crutches, thought I'd pick something up off the floor to throw away, half paying attention, lost my balance and down again I fell. Stepped right on the foot with the injured ankle. Blam!  It happened again.

Second Question. When is bad really bad? As I lay on the floor, I tried to cry. Tried. There wasn’t an immediate flow of tears. The fall wasn’t bad enough. I thought a good cry would make me feel better. But I couldn't cry. Instead I laughed. I laughed at myself for trying to cry. It wasn't that bad, the fall, and somewhere deep inside I knew that. I just wanted to feel sorry for myself.  Right after the second fall, I wanted to send a text to my sister letting her know I fell again. I knew she’d be great on the nurturing response front. But I hesitated. I wanted her compassion, but I didn’t. (see first question) I was embarrassed to want sympathy. I was embarrassed to want others to know that I was hurting. I compromised. I sent a text to my sister, but I went for the laugh. “Can you believe what your idiot sister, just did?” She responded with a kind word. I was so appreciative. Still I knew. Sure, all of this sucks. It does. Not going to deny that. But in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t suck that much.  I mean my friend Kathy has been climbing her way back to health in a rehab facility since February following a heart incident. Racism is rampant. Climate change is killing all of us. Brown children are still in cages. I sprained my ankle. Boo Hoo.

Third question. Even if it's not that bad, can we/should we still ask for help? I’ve discussed just this quite a bit with the same sister in the last few weeks, as well as the hubby and a few friends. What is the balance to recognizing that life is shitty and you’re sad vs. moving on? When do we ask for sympathy or empathy and when do we buck up? There are degrees. Surely. But when I was laying on the floor the second time thinking to myself, “Why can’t I catch a break?” somewhere I knew I’ve been given breaks my whole life. Does that make it not okay to ask for emotional support? This weekend a friend and I were talking about this very thing. He said, “Why is it so easy to ask someone if you can borrow a hammer, but not ask them for a emotional support?” Why is our first instinct when we are having an issue, personal/physical/emotional to beg those in the know “don’t tell anyone.” Why is it so bloody important to hide our challenges? I vividly recall a particular moment upon return from our 20^th Anniversary trip to Italy. A friend saw my pictures on Facebook and asked me how it was. The pics were stunning and she could see it was a remarkable adventure. I told her we had a great time, but my birthday, the 10^th day of the trip, really sucked. She grinned ear to ear and actually chuckled and said, “Thank God!” It’s so nice to see that people don’t live perfect lives.” 

The Conclusion (or non-conclusion.) I still don’t know the formula. All this contemplating hasn’t provided an epiphany. It has given me permission, though, to ask for some good juju, thoughts and prayers for a speedy recovery. I’m not sure I’ll post about a personal challenge again. I will write about it though. Maybe I’ll put it on my blog. Maybe I won’t. But I will write about it, because I am a fan of self-reflection. I do want to be the best human I can be and maybe showing my flaws or my challenges more honestly, either with you or simply for myself, can help get me there. Both the doc and the PT told me that the healing process can take up to three months. At least I know I’ll have more time to think about. Maybe I'll have a different response at the end of all this. I'll let you know. Or I won't. I'm just not sure. 

Application Denied (or Love With and In Michigan)

Photo from Porcupine Wilderness State Park Website

Artist-In-Residency Application: Denied

by Teresa L. Thome

I submitted this story to Friends of the Porkies for an application for an Artist-in-Residence Program. I made a few edits, but this is 98% the submission. I was uber-bummed. I worked hard on the application (this is a piece of it), so I thought I'd share it here with you. It is a love story. Oh, and while I wasn't chosen for the program, I am eager to research other artist residency programs. 

My mother wasn’t one to mince words. As a child I often heard, “If you’re bored, it’s your own damn fault.” I got the point. 

When I was ten, my parents moved to the country – cornfields, cow pastures, meadows, miniature golf. (It actually wasn’t that far out of the city, just far enough.) Still, when I’d played long enough with my Lego’s, got tired of Lite Brite or coloring Little Lulu and there were none of the five neighbor kids to be found, I wouldn't cry "I'm bored" for fear of my mother's scolding. I’d do something else to occupy my time. I’d walk through the woods, back roads and apple orchards of Alpine Township, Michigan. While I grew up in a home with its fair share of dysfunction, these walks weren’t always a means to get away from it all. In fact, I dare say… rarely. At some point, I stopped waiting to get bored and I’d just go. Outside. By myself. For hours. My entire late childhood/young adulthood. These walks were a chance to get outside, breathe, take in the woods, re-calibrate. I was practicing “forest bathing” before I knew such a thing existed.

Years later I would meet a man who would eventually become my husband. On our first official “weekend getaway”, I planned a surprise trip for him. I booked a B & B in the Leelanau Peninsula. For three glorious days, we hiked and strolled, meandered and lollygagged through back roads and cemeteries, pastures and streams. I was in my early twenties and it was my first time north of Ludington. Sure, there was one brief trip to Cheboygan for a theatre festival, but I was inside for the entire time. No, this was my first real adventure up the Mitten and it was everything I had hoped for and more. We had such a great time that we decided we would make annual visits to Northern Michigan and/or the Upper Peninsula. Over the course of our courtship and marriage, we’ve made every attempt to travel annually and we’ve done pretty good.

We’ve hiked Sleeping Bear Dunes, gotten lost on a few different “two tracks” and toasted marshmallows at Harry and Gert’s cottages somewhere in the U.P. I forgot the town but I’ll never forget Harry and Gert.

“Hi, my name’s Harry… and I’m not very!” He’d say with a laugh.

She’d implore, having heard this a million times, “Oh Harry. Please stop!”

We have driven, breathless, through a mystical, magical early evening fog on Old Mission and stood in wonder at the Soo Locks. We’ve dipped our toes in coastline from Empire to Munising. We’ve basked in the glow of the sun walking along nature trails under shimmering red, orange and gold leaves in Glen Arbor and Marquette. We’ve taken in sunsets at Frankfort, Charlevoix and Torch Lake. We’ve driven countless miles looking for vegetarian pasties and have eaten lots of cherry pie and cherry jam and cherry salsa and cherry candy and plain ol’ cherries. 

We’ve enjoyed fireworks in Indian River and parades in Harbor Springs. We’ve meditated on the banks of the Pigeon River. We’ve even experienced Escanaba in da moonlight. We’ve taken the two-seater plane to Beaver Island where we roamed aimlessly for days. Oh, and there was that time we accidentally broke into a bank on Mackinaw Island. (True story for another day!) 

And… we have birded (viewed and recorded birds) in Seney Wildlife Refuge, Whitefish Point, Alpena and... wait for it... the Porcupine Mountains! Well, mostly, I bird. The husband proudly calls himself a Junior Birder. He’s the best.

I think it would be easy for me to say that I fell in love with my husband at the same time I fell in love with Northern Michigan and the Upper Peninsula.

When I heard about the opportunity for the artist residency, my head started spinning with excitement and, well, fear. Because as much as I love the outdoors and actually love being alone (more about that in a second), I’m also a wee bit afraid of being in that outdoors alone. I’m constantly on the lookout for bears, bobcats and snakes. Oh my! 

As a survival mechanism I’ve decided that pretty much every outdoor plant is poison ivy, so I won’t get it. Neurotic or clever? I’m going with clever. I’ve been spooked by Canada Geese and Sandhill Cranes. I mean, have you seen those attack videos? Trust me, though, I’m a high functioning adult. I really am. Just a healthy dose of fear inflicted by the mother I’ve mentioned.

“Go through life like everything and everyone is out to get you and you’ll survive,” she’d offer far too frequently.

“Thanks Mom! Great advice,” I say sarcastically, looking over my shoulder.

Despite this underlying unease, I’m incredibly independent. I should probably add, even somewhat courageous. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Five years ago I loaded up my car to drive Route 66 by myself, write about my adventure and then spend time in Los Angeles living and working towards performing a solo show. That Junior Birder is a very low maintenance husband who more than tolerates me living part-time in California to this day. That’s what I meant before about “love being alone”. I think all those walks by myself at such a young age not only became something I was good at, but something I craved. This time I really do mean, “Thanks Mom!”

Often in those alone times, I like to write. I use writing as a tool to understand the world around me and my place in it. I’ve found that the more vulnerable I am in describing my own experiences, and the more humor I can mine from the situation, the more relatable stories and lessons can be. I write for others to read (in blogs or stories or long Facebook posts) or for me to perform (in telling short stories or my solo show.) My goal is to make people laugh and think. I understand that challenging oneself provides the best material. I could think, therefore, of no better challenge and/or opportunity then heading to a cabin in the woods in the splendor of the Porkies for two weeks to help me find and tell a new story.

From this residency, I will gain a life-changing experience and a new story to tell. What that experience will be, I do not know, but I’m thrilled, albeit slightly nervous, to discover. I will gift to the park a personal story in performance (live and recorded), images and personal essay that seeks to inspire others, through humor and honesty, to appreciate, conserve, and hopefully explore the Porcupine Mountains. Oh, and I’ll use my social media platforms, Instagram, YouTube and Facebook to shout about my experiences to the world wide web. 

#porkies #friendsoftheporkies #wildspaces #adventure #cabinlife #danscabin #storytelling #personalessay #writer #comedy #drama #creativity #artistinresidence #upperpeninsula #michigan #michiganmountains #wilderness #nature #birdsofmichigan #birding #birder #savethebirdssavetheplanet #climatechangeisreal #conservation

Self-Isolation Epiphanies (or the Difference between Self-Esteem and Self-Confidence)

I was supposed to attend a “kind-of” reunion with my high school alums. No one ever planned our 30^th Reunion so I offered to pick up the ball and aim for a 31^st, of sorts. Quick turnaround. Not a lot of planning. Low maintenance. I created a post on our Facebook alum website and an event page. A few people offered to help out. It wasn’t long before people were “in”. I was having fun. Then COVID-19 set in and our state received Stay-At-Home orders and that was that. Cancelled. I was sad... and really confused.

I was genuinely motivated to see these people but I didn’t understand why. Let me explain.

They’re good people. It’s not that. I knew lots of kids in our 250 plus graduating class, but surely didn’t hang with that many. I was shocked at the number of people I didn’t recall when they said, “YES” to attending. Some of my inability to remember is due to age, I’m sure. This was the 31^st reunion, after all, not the first. It’s been decades since I’ve seen some of these people. And, some of my inability to remember is because we just didn’t socialize. So why this deep-seated desire to make this happen? To be the person to spearhead the gathering? I surprised myself.

With extra time to think about such things (thank you self-isolation) I’ve been contemplating this unusual commitment to engage. At first, and maybe still partly, I decided it was because we’ve lost a few classmates recently. In particular, one of my closest high school friends. Gone in an instant. I wished we had connected before his passing. I couldn’t be there for his funeral. I was out of state. I was heartbroken. Thinking about him brought up a lot of high school memories. It definitely created in me a need to connect to the past. Shortly after he died I reached out to a woman in my high school friend circle and urged a get-together soon. I was clearly pining to relive some old memories. But that wasn’t the whole story.

I think it started when we lost the husband of a classmate. I had offered to provide a gift (a couple of bottles of wine) for a fundraiser for this man’s hospital expenses. In doing so I connected with another classmate. I was giving her the wine since I couldn’t attend the event and she could. I didn’t know her well in high school. She was a familiar face and a nice person. Smart. That was my sense of her, at least. Nice and smart. We met in a cemetery near our high school so I could drop off my gift, which felt very “high school” I might add. Passing bottles of wine in the cemetery where I used to party with friends when we skipped school definitely felt like a full circle moment. Anyway, we spent a good half hour talking about our respective high school experiences. And this… this I believe was the seed of my pending discovery. I was fascinated how differently she saw me back then to the person I thought I was. She was surprised that I didn’t feel as confident as I came across. (Yes, we went this deep in a 30-minute exchange.) I was surprised that she thought I was confident. This thought rolled around in my head for some time after we met.

A few months later, up pops this reunion opportunity. A guy I had gone to high school with, even hung out with some but was never really close with, had made a Facebook post suggesting he wished we’d all get together. I picked up the ball and the posting began. Then the same woman I met for the fundraiser offered to help. We decided to bring a small group together. Not in a cemetery but at a West Side party hall. If you are from Grand Rapids, and specifically the west side of Grand Rapids, then you are keenly aware of the Catholic Party halls, named for saints and in existence seemingly since the dawn of time.

Two other classmates joined us for planning and the same thing happened. One of the two (another woman) described the way she remembered me. I was completely flummoxed. “Wait? You thought I was popular? You thought I had it all together?” That was shocking to hear. I mean, who was that high schooler? I would have loved to have been that high schooler. I should say that I apparently had her all pegged wrong too. At least the way she understood herself.  

One week later, as I was posting the notice that we’d have to cancel the reunion due to the virus, it hit me… that’s what this is all about. Drum roll, please. Because this is some A level self-isolation, self-awareness emotional work that lead to Epiphany Number One: 

I’m finally becoming the high school person I always wanted to be, always knew I could be, but never tried to be.

What I wanted to be was an accomplished over-achiever, boy appealing girl, class President, getting straight A’s, who would go on to run the world. What I was, however, was an under-achiever with an insatiable appetite for social life, a non-existent boyfriend life, and an underwhelming desire to make decent grades.

And, now maybe another drum roll, because here is self-isolation, self-awareness emotional work Epiphany Number Two: 

I have almost always been both of these people. It’s just that sometimes I was/am more one than the other.

In a deeper effort to understand this, I jumped in the way back machine.

For the most part, through age ten, I was a great student. Consistently. Either VG’s or G’s on the report car (Catholic School A’s and B’s.) Featured roles in school plays, winner of the 5^th grade spelling contest. I was chosen to both carry the baby Jesus to the altar for midnight mass and crown the May Queen (Mother Mary) on the lawn of Immaculate Heart of Mary School. I mean, Holy Jesus Batman, that’s some quality over-achievement.

Then my parents moved to Alpine Township. At age 11, somewhere between Dickinson Street in the heart of the city to Baumhoff Street in the middle of the country, I started to shift. This two-personality person started to emerge. I started band with a desire to be first chair clarinet and then slowly I’d move on chair over at a time until I sat last. I never practiced.  I’d get to my homework after watching “The Brady Bunch” reruns. At age 12, I ran for student government. I talked too much in class and my grades weren’t fantastic, but still, I knew I would be a great leader. My teacher’s thought otherwise. Because I needed six of them to agree that my running was a good thing and I could only get four, I forged two signatures. I believe they call that ballsy... or unethical. I never got caught, but also never got elected. Instant Karma, I suppose. As my grades diminished my social circle grew with popular people. They were the pretty girls, hanging out with the cute boys. As they developed into prettier versions of themselves, I could only see me as developing into a less attractive version of myself.

I recall vividly the day in 7^th Grade that Annette M. yelled out, “Teresa Thome has a bra on! Why does Teresa Thome have a bra on?” The whole class laughed. I was mortified. Still, Tom K. kissed me at the 8^th grade dance and Mark D. and I went to another. But that wasn’t enough to convince me that I was worthy of affection or worthy of praise. It shouldn’t have been the bar, but it was.

Then, from the depths of all this mind delving, I had another self-isolation, self-awareness epiphany.  And this was the big doozy, the dooziest of the doozies… Epiphany Number Three: 

I have almost always possessed self-confidence, but I’ve rarely possessed self-esteem.

Mind. Blown. I mean that’s some grown-up therapy I did on myself. Right? In trying to unpack that self-realization, I started with Google.

Self-esteem is how you feel about yourself overall. Self-confidence is how you feel about your abilities and it can vary greatly. Repeatedly I read how people with high self-confidence in certain areas can be seen as someone with high self-esteem in general, although that isn’t necessarily the case. DING. DING. DING. Damn, Google knows me.

I have had a fairly strong self-confidence throughout my life. I started making people laugh when I was six-years-old when I would do impressions of the old women in my grandfather’s nursing home. What I didn’t have was self-esteem. Why? I’m guessing it’s because I was one of the poorest kids in the richest school districts. That I believed myself to be the ugly red-head who hung with all the beauties (reinforced on the regular by neighborhood bullies and horrible boys all through my childhood and young adulthood). Perhaps it was too difficult that while I always got VG’s and A’s someone else always got VG+ and A+’s. And, well, I was certain that my dad loved my friends more than he loved me. There was that. And that's probably the biggest reason.

Regardless if it was any one issue, a combination of them all or just part of my DNA, eventually I gave up. I leaned into the parts of my personality that reflected my self-confidence (friend-making, socializing, performing) and buried the parts that would boost my self-esteem (feeling self-worth, limiting negative self-talk). I know that I have been slowly doing the work to better emotional health my whole life, it's just now, I have a deep understanding of what the work needs to be. 

I hope to look back on this time in a few years and see that it was the point in my life where self-isolation lead to self-care. And a time when self-confidence and self-esteem were finally able to express themselves fully in me and at the same time. Now that's a scary thought. I guess I have some more unpacking to do.