UPDATED on May 31: Made my month goal.
UPDATED on May 27: Filled in some missing data. Made my May goal and am now aiming for an extension.
I have a New Watch Page for the month of May. If you care to compare, here's a link to the Old Watch Page from April.
Entering May, I have lost six pounds in four weeks. I know that doesn't sound like anything to brag about, but I saw my heart doctor this week and he said he was happier with my six than he would have been with sixteen. He wants me to lose one or two pounds each week - and no more. Slow weight change means I'm changing the way I live. Fast weight change means I'm starving myself. That can't be maintained.
Showing posts with label Group Help. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Group Help. Show all posts
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Tortoise and the Hares
So I got the bicycle and have been riding. Put in eleven miles and seventy-five minutes yesterday. Paying for it today. Not feeling well at all. Will probably stay off the bike (probably not) and just do treadmill today.
Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.
It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.
Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.
We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.
On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.
After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.
Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.
Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.
Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.
Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.
I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.
It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?
I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.
I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.
"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)
"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."
"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."
I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.
"Are you sending me home?"
He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.
I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.
Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.
Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.
Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.
It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.
Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.
We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.
On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.
After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.
Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.
Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.
Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.
Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.
I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.
It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?
I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.
I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.
"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)
"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."
"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."
I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.
"Are you sending me home?"
He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.
I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.
Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.
Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Remembering My Sister
So, I took a day off in order to let everyone catch up. I'll try to keep myself in check and avoid multiple post days in the future. Can't promise anything. Sometimes I just get carried away.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Defining Me, If It is at All Within My Power to Do
Who am I? What have I been and where have I been? Where am I now and where am I going? Am I who I want to be? What changes must I make to achieve my goal of being "a right person before God"?
These are questions I think we all (or at least most of us) ask ourselves in various ways at various times in our lives. I happen to be at an interesting intersection of life in which so many questions about myself have raised themselves and insist upon an answer. Some answer require some serious thought. They all require serious honesty, and not flippant answers of correctness.
We are told by God that he will "shake the heavens and the earth" (Hebrews 12:26-27). I believe this will ultimately be fulfilled literally at some future date, but I also believe it speaks about other things. Us, for one. Who are we, and what do we really believe? You see, I have found in my past that it is easy to say I believe a great many things when there is no pressure to believe, only to find out my behavior changes dramatically when I found myself "put to it".
There have been times (more than I am comfortable admitting to) that I boasted of my bravery in standing fast and true for a friend, or cause. Then, when I found myself personally threatened by such bravery, I abandoned my friend or cause in order to save my own skin. Strangely enough, I have also found the opposite to be true. I have assured friends NOT to count on me should such and such occur, and then find myself at the forefront of disaster in order to help. This kind of behavior puts both my bravery and cowardice in question. I'm not sure what I am.
What I can say is being older helps. Having survived various calamities in my past, I can face current calamities with a different perspective. Some see this new attitude of mine as foolish, lazy, stupid, and childish. Others see it as a form of wisdom, strength, courage, or faith. I don't know what it is. I just know that what we believe will one day be tested for its truth.
Probably the most frightening thing to have tested is faith. The three women who wrote The Faith Club, Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner, found this to be true, although they did not go through it at the same time. It was like each had her turn, and the other two became the support for the one in challenge.
I have had my own testing of faith. That is part of what I have been going through for these past seven years. Actually, it is what has been going on all of my life, but these past seven years seem to have put special focus on what I believe about God. Particularly with regard to his love for me, and whether he does, in fact, make "all things work together for good".
It is frightening to wonder about one's faith. I mean really wonder, not just wonder. It's kind of like what Peter said to Jesus when more and more disciples deserted him.
From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more. Then Jesus said to the twelve, "Do you also want to go away?" But Simon Peter answered Him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." John 6:66-67 New King James Version
If we do not believe in God, then what is there to believe in that matters?
I read another portion of the Quran this morning, and while what I read does not explicitly address this, it does point to a part of my character I find disturbing. Hypocrisy. I wrote about it on Faith in Forgiveness. But this is what I read this morning.
2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah)
[2:99] We have sent down to you such clear revelations, and only the wicked will reject them.
[2:100] Is it not a fact that when they make a covenant and pledge to keep it, some of them always disregard it? In fact, most of them do not believe.
I do not wish to be a hyprocrite, but it sometimes seems so hard not to be. I preach a level of love, forgiveness, and acceptance which I do not always live up to. Particularly when it comes to family.
Examples:
My mother is recovering from cancer surgery. She lives alone in an apartment building reserved for the elderly. She has many physical restrictions upon her. She called me earlier this week to request that I come and do some driving errands, as well as do her laundry. I didn't do it. My excuse? A forty mile drive to get there, and a forty mile drive to get home. It would be cheaper, and make more sense, for her neighbors (who are falling over themselves to help her) to do these errands. Which is what happened. But the truth is, I did not want to do these things for my mother. A family history (which I will not go into now) has conditioned me to instinctively keep my distance. (Hence, I live forty miles away.) Not exactly loving, am I?
Spouse's father died on Thursday. The funeral services were today in Milwaukee. We didn't go. It was Spouse's decision, but that decision was based partly on me. You see, while I was perfectly content to drive to Milwaukee, spend the night in a hotel, and drive home the following day; or even drive to Milwaukee, attend the funeral, and then drive home the same day, there was something I was not willing to do. Spend the night in the home of an in-law. Not that I don't like them. In fact, I think some of them are the most wonderful people I know. But they don't particularly like me. Never have. And during the past seven years they have made that quite clear. In fact, I would not have been spending the night in my in-law's house. Spouse and Son would have. My in-law's plan was that I spend the night in a hotel. I got angry and made a scene. (This was done at home, without in-law knowledge.) After I apologized to Spouse, Spouse decided not to go. Wanted to avoid the inevitable confrontation between siblings and me (when it became clear none of us would be spending the night in her home). Not exactly forgiving and accepting, am I?
Why do I confess these things?
Because one of my big fears is that I am nothing more than a hypocrite. I have watched more than one preacher rail against this sin or that, and then be exposed for it himself/herself. It's disgusting. I don't want to be disgusting. But I kind of think I am sometimes.
So what about faith in general and my faith in particular? This is what I believe.
Faith is like an ocean. Rivers of fear pour into it. We are creatures of water who can abide in either fresh water or salt water. But brakken is difficult. Where faith meets fear is the estuary of brakken. We must choose to go one way or the other. We always choose the side which is strongest. When fear is stronger, we flee to the Rivers of Fear. When faith is stronger, we dive into the Ocean of Faith. Both faith and fear are tested in the Waters of Brakken. It's an awful place to be, but necessary if we are to grow.
Having been there regarding my faith in God I can say I chose the ocean. The base tenents of my faith are what I believe. God loves us. God forgives us. God paid the price for our sins (I believe through Jesus's death on the cross, but I accept others believe God used a different means) to do this. God loves and forgives everyone, so we should, too. That's easy for me to say. But then I have the issues with my mother and my in-laws.
It turns out I do not preach from above, but rather from below.
These are questions I think we all (or at least most of us) ask ourselves in various ways at various times in our lives. I happen to be at an interesting intersection of life in which so many questions about myself have raised themselves and insist upon an answer. Some answer require some serious thought. They all require serious honesty, and not flippant answers of correctness.
We are told by God that he will "shake the heavens and the earth" (Hebrews 12:26-27). I believe this will ultimately be fulfilled literally at some future date, but I also believe it speaks about other things. Us, for one. Who are we, and what do we really believe? You see, I have found in my past that it is easy to say I believe a great many things when there is no pressure to believe, only to find out my behavior changes dramatically when I found myself "put to it".
There have been times (more than I am comfortable admitting to) that I boasted of my bravery in standing fast and true for a friend, or cause. Then, when I found myself personally threatened by such bravery, I abandoned my friend or cause in order to save my own skin. Strangely enough, I have also found the opposite to be true. I have assured friends NOT to count on me should such and such occur, and then find myself at the forefront of disaster in order to help. This kind of behavior puts both my bravery and cowardice in question. I'm not sure what I am.
What I can say is being older helps. Having survived various calamities in my past, I can face current calamities with a different perspective. Some see this new attitude of mine as foolish, lazy, stupid, and childish. Others see it as a form of wisdom, strength, courage, or faith. I don't know what it is. I just know that what we believe will one day be tested for its truth.
Probably the most frightening thing to have tested is faith. The three women who wrote The Faith Club, Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner, found this to be true, although they did not go through it at the same time. It was like each had her turn, and the other two became the support for the one in challenge.
I have had my own testing of faith. That is part of what I have been going through for these past seven years. Actually, it is what has been going on all of my life, but these past seven years seem to have put special focus on what I believe about God. Particularly with regard to his love for me, and whether he does, in fact, make "all things work together for good".
It is frightening to wonder about one's faith. I mean really wonder, not just wonder. It's kind of like what Peter said to Jesus when more and more disciples deserted him.
From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more. Then Jesus said to the twelve, "Do you also want to go away?" But Simon Peter answered Him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." John 6:66-67 New King James Version
If we do not believe in God, then what is there to believe in that matters?
I read another portion of the Quran this morning, and while what I read does not explicitly address this, it does point to a part of my character I find disturbing. Hypocrisy. I wrote about it on Faith in Forgiveness. But this is what I read this morning.
2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah)
[2:99] We have sent down to you such clear revelations, and only the wicked will reject them.
[2:100] Is it not a fact that when they make a covenant and pledge to keep it, some of them always disregard it? In fact, most of them do not believe.
I do not wish to be a hyprocrite, but it sometimes seems so hard not to be. I preach a level of love, forgiveness, and acceptance which I do not always live up to. Particularly when it comes to family.
Examples:
My mother is recovering from cancer surgery. She lives alone in an apartment building reserved for the elderly. She has many physical restrictions upon her. She called me earlier this week to request that I come and do some driving errands, as well as do her laundry. I didn't do it. My excuse? A forty mile drive to get there, and a forty mile drive to get home. It would be cheaper, and make more sense, for her neighbors (who are falling over themselves to help her) to do these errands. Which is what happened. But the truth is, I did not want to do these things for my mother. A family history (which I will not go into now) has conditioned me to instinctively keep my distance. (Hence, I live forty miles away.) Not exactly loving, am I?
Spouse's father died on Thursday. The funeral services were today in Milwaukee. We didn't go. It was Spouse's decision, but that decision was based partly on me. You see, while I was perfectly content to drive to Milwaukee, spend the night in a hotel, and drive home the following day; or even drive to Milwaukee, attend the funeral, and then drive home the same day, there was something I was not willing to do. Spend the night in the home of an in-law. Not that I don't like them. In fact, I think some of them are the most wonderful people I know. But they don't particularly like me. Never have. And during the past seven years they have made that quite clear. In fact, I would not have been spending the night in my in-law's house. Spouse and Son would have. My in-law's plan was that I spend the night in a hotel. I got angry and made a scene. (This was done at home, without in-law knowledge.) After I apologized to Spouse, Spouse decided not to go. Wanted to avoid the inevitable confrontation between siblings and me (when it became clear none of us would be spending the night in her home). Not exactly forgiving and accepting, am I?
Why do I confess these things?
Because one of my big fears is that I am nothing more than a hypocrite. I have watched more than one preacher rail against this sin or that, and then be exposed for it himself/herself. It's disgusting. I don't want to be disgusting. But I kind of think I am sometimes.
So what about faith in general and my faith in particular? This is what I believe.
Faith is like an ocean. Rivers of fear pour into it. We are creatures of water who can abide in either fresh water or salt water. But brakken is difficult. Where faith meets fear is the estuary of brakken. We must choose to go one way or the other. We always choose the side which is strongest. When fear is stronger, we flee to the Rivers of Fear. When faith is stronger, we dive into the Ocean of Faith. Both faith and fear are tested in the Waters of Brakken. It's an awful place to be, but necessary if we are to grow.
Having been there regarding my faith in God I can say I chose the ocean. The base tenents of my faith are what I believe. God loves us. God forgives us. God paid the price for our sins (I believe through Jesus's death on the cross, but I accept others believe God used a different means) to do this. God loves and forgives everyone, so we should, too. That's easy for me to say. But then I have the issues with my mother and my in-laws.
It turns out I do not preach from above, but rather from below.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Way Sports Are Meant to be Played
I'm supposed to write about books, movies, or music today, but since I hardly ever stick to the schedule anyway why should today be different?
I came across something which I would like to share. Perhaps you are already aware of it. It is a news story out of Milwaukee, WI. It is about something that took place during a high school basketball game. Here is the link to the story I read.
For those of you who can't read the link here is what happened.
The Dekalb, IL, boys basketball team went to Milwaukee, WI., to play a basketball game. The game was held up an hour by reason that the mother of one of the Milwaukee players had died that day of cervical cancer. The coach was going to cancel the game, but the boy said he wanted his teammates to play. So the game went on.
In the second quarter the boy who's mother had died came to cheer his teammates on. The game was delayed while many hugs and well-wishes were expressed. Then the coach offered to let the boy sit on the bench and watch. He asked if he could play. This created a problem. According to the rules, that would be a technical foul, and Dekalb would be granted two free throws. The coach didn't care. He put the boy in.
But Dekalb didn't want the free throws. Not for this. So their coach argued with the referees. The referees were in a bad spot. Making exception for rules is not in the rule book. The foul had to be assessed and the free throws taken.
This is what happened according to the news link:
Something else was on Dave Rohlman's (coach of Dekalb) mind when he asked for a volunteer to shoot two free throws awarded his team on a technical foul in the second quarter. His senior captain raised his hand, ready to go to the line as he had many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"You realize you're going to miss them, don't you?" Rohlman said.
Darius McNeal nodded his head. He understood what had to be done.
He went alone to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a couple of times, and looked at the rim. His first attempt went about two feet, bouncing a couple of times as it rolled toward the end line. The second barely left his hand.
It didn't take long for the Milwaukee players to figure out what was going on. They stood and turned toward the DeKalb bench and started applauding the gesture of sportsmanship. Soon, so did everybody in the stands.
This is the way I remember sports being played when I was young. You played to win. Always. You did your best. Except when making statements such as this. At times like this, your best was actually to fail.
For some, perhaps, the gesture was meaningless. If it is for you, then I expect you don't really understand what took place.
In our culture now, and in most cultures where sports heroes reign as gods (such as our own), winning is everything. It doesn't matter how it is done. Take steroids. Ignore the rules. Maim and hurt. Do anything you can to win. Nothing else matters any more in sports. If you are a sports god, you can break civil laws left and right - until your godly powers fade. Then you are tossed away.
This is what is taught at every level of sport in our country. But not everwhere.
What the Dekalb team was saying with their gesture of missed free throws was that this hateful attitude of sports was not part of their game. They understand. A teenage boy and his mother are more important than winning. And that brings tears to my eyes, just knowing that that spirit is still alive at least someplace in this country.
I understand neither team will finish the season with a winning record. And for the winning-conscious, that is all the proof they need that good sportsmanship is a waste of time. If it doesn't help you win, then why do it?
But these boys did win. All of them. On both teams. Coaches, too. And the referees, scorekeeper, and the people who sat in the bleachers watching. They all won.
"They may not remember our record 20 years from now, but they'll remember what happened in that gym that night." Dave Rohlman, head coach of the opposing DeKalb team on what his players will take away from this experience.
I came across something which I would like to share. Perhaps you are already aware of it. It is a news story out of Milwaukee, WI. It is about something that took place during a high school basketball game. Here is the link to the story I read.
For those of you who can't read the link here is what happened.
The Dekalb, IL, boys basketball team went to Milwaukee, WI., to play a basketball game. The game was held up an hour by reason that the mother of one of the Milwaukee players had died that day of cervical cancer. The coach was going to cancel the game, but the boy said he wanted his teammates to play. So the game went on.
In the second quarter the boy who's mother had died came to cheer his teammates on. The game was delayed while many hugs and well-wishes were expressed. Then the coach offered to let the boy sit on the bench and watch. He asked if he could play. This created a problem. According to the rules, that would be a technical foul, and Dekalb would be granted two free throws. The coach didn't care. He put the boy in.
But Dekalb didn't want the free throws. Not for this. So their coach argued with the referees. The referees were in a bad spot. Making exception for rules is not in the rule book. The foul had to be assessed and the free throws taken.
This is what happened according to the news link:
Something else was on Dave Rohlman's (coach of Dekalb) mind when he asked for a volunteer to shoot two free throws awarded his team on a technical foul in the second quarter. His senior captain raised his hand, ready to go to the line as he had many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"You realize you're going to miss them, don't you?" Rohlman said.
Darius McNeal nodded his head. He understood what had to be done.
He went alone to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a couple of times, and looked at the rim. His first attempt went about two feet, bouncing a couple of times as it rolled toward the end line. The second barely left his hand.
It didn't take long for the Milwaukee players to figure out what was going on. They stood and turned toward the DeKalb bench and started applauding the gesture of sportsmanship. Soon, so did everybody in the stands.
This is the way I remember sports being played when I was young. You played to win. Always. You did your best. Except when making statements such as this. At times like this, your best was actually to fail.
For some, perhaps, the gesture was meaningless. If it is for you, then I expect you don't really understand what took place.
In our culture now, and in most cultures where sports heroes reign as gods (such as our own), winning is everything. It doesn't matter how it is done. Take steroids. Ignore the rules. Maim and hurt. Do anything you can to win. Nothing else matters any more in sports. If you are a sports god, you can break civil laws left and right - until your godly powers fade. Then you are tossed away.
This is what is taught at every level of sport in our country. But not everwhere.
What the Dekalb team was saying with their gesture of missed free throws was that this hateful attitude of sports was not part of their game. They understand. A teenage boy and his mother are more important than winning. And that brings tears to my eyes, just knowing that that spirit is still alive at least someplace in this country.
I understand neither team will finish the season with a winning record. And for the winning-conscious, that is all the proof they need that good sportsmanship is a waste of time. If it doesn't help you win, then why do it?
But these boys did win. All of them. On both teams. Coaches, too. And the referees, scorekeeper, and the people who sat in the bleachers watching. They all won.
"They may not remember our record 20 years from now, but they'll remember what happened in that gym that night." Dave Rohlman, head coach of the opposing DeKalb team on what his players will take away from this experience.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Group Critiqued
Haven't belonged to a writer's group since 1980 or 81, when Lori P. left town. I liked Lori. I remember how thrilled I was when she invited me to the group. There were about six of us who met at her apartment once a week after work. Spouse would be there and just read while we met. There was no specific genre involved. No two of us were writing the same kind of work. And the group never got so far to review anything I wrote. After I attended just two or three meetings Lori announced that she was leaving the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. I forget if it was she or her husband who got the great job out of state, but they were jumping at the chance and leaving. The group disbanded.
Since that time I have not belonged to a writers' group. Not until last July. But I didn't actually attend a meeting until January of this year. (How's that for a New Year's Resolution?) At the end of the meeting I was invited to submit something of my own, should I have anything. By chance I did have something new. Apprentice. It was a short story I wrote just before Christmas.
As mentioned in my previous post, last night I was at my second meeting. This was the meeting when I would receive a critique of Apprentice. Another member had submitted the first chapter of his new book and I also did my first critique (since 1980 or 81). This was my first critique of a fantasy story, though. (I also added a few comments on one or two Evil Editor submissions, but those hardly count, I think. Haven't done so in at least a month. Maybe two. No confidence.)
There were only four in attendance, which was both bad and good. Having lots of people means getting lots of ideas and lots of help. So not having lots of people was bad. But having lots of people means getting lots of ideas which have to be sorted out, which is hard. So not having lots of people was good.
We did the other work first, which meant I got to demonstrate my critiqueing skills early. I don't think I did poorly. Not too poorly anyway. A good number of my points were shared by the other two, which I think gave them credibility. (When three out of three people who read what you wrote have the same reaction, the reaction is probably valid.) Each of us had something to say which the other two did not, so the author is going to have to sort that out. (That's what I mean about sorting out lots of idea.) When a person stands alone with their point they may be right, but they may just as easily be wrong. The author has to decide. Sometimes, fixing a work for one person only ruins it for everyone else. It's a risk.
My work came last. I confess to hoping there would not be much correction. I had already submitted it to a single person who had provided several important help suggestions. So I was thinking the story was fairly solid.
I got more comments than I expected. Several about word choice. A couple of Point of View miscues I missed. Some discomfort with some of my word choices. A section where I let the dialogue slip and it became confusing to keep up with who was speaking. And a couple of continuity issues. (The most humorous being when I put the characters in a room without windows and fail to explain where all the light is coming from.)
Probably, the most severe comment came last. What was the point? While all three liked the story, and the one member went so far to say that the prose was the story's strongest point, there was no real conflict. Basically, it is a story of two young women who fall in love. Okay. Good. Why is that important? It's a valid comment.
I knew the story had this shortcoming from the first. It is just a story of two young women who fall in love. That's all it ever was intended to be. But there is no obvious "conflict" which has to be dealt with. The conflict which exists is subtle. It is within the Main Character, and how she grows from who she was when the story begins, to who she is when the story ends. How - and if - she changes is the quiet tension the story brings. Not exactly your usual fantasy fare. And perhaps it doesn't really work in any genre.
All three questioned whether this was a stand-alone story or part of a larger work. This supports the "what's the point" observation. It was suggested that I expand the story, which is not an offensive prospect to me. I very much like the characters. (We only actually meet three.) And already I can see the larger story in which this "sub-plot", as it were, could exist. Whether or not I actually do that, I don't know. It's tempting. And maybe that's what Swords of Fire needs: me to take a long sabbatical. For now, though, I shall incorporate the observations made by my three colleagues last night and leave the story be. I have no idea of how, or where, I would submit it anyway. Which is a pity. I think it's an endearing story which belongs where the public can read it. Whatever.
I didn't get lost coming home. [grin]
This time I looked for the signs right off. Sure enough. In order to go west, one must first go east. How intuitive! The same goes for going east. Except it is reversed. So, in January, my moving to the west side of the freeway because I wanted to drive west was complete stupidity. I should have moved to the east side. Then I could have driven west. Ah, me. When will I learn how modern transportation design works?
Son and Spouse were both asleep when I got home. Son would have been disappointed anyway. About the last thing he said to me before I left was, "If you do go to Duluth again, bring back a souvineer." Alas. No souvineers.
Since that time I have not belonged to a writers' group. Not until last July. But I didn't actually attend a meeting until January of this year. (How's that for a New Year's Resolution?) At the end of the meeting I was invited to submit something of my own, should I have anything. By chance I did have something new. Apprentice. It was a short story I wrote just before Christmas.
As mentioned in my previous post, last night I was at my second meeting. This was the meeting when I would receive a critique of Apprentice. Another member had submitted the first chapter of his new book and I also did my first critique (since 1980 or 81). This was my first critique of a fantasy story, though. (I also added a few comments on one or two Evil Editor submissions, but those hardly count, I think. Haven't done so in at least a month. Maybe two. No confidence.)
There were only four in attendance, which was both bad and good. Having lots of people means getting lots of ideas and lots of help. So not having lots of people was bad. But having lots of people means getting lots of ideas which have to be sorted out, which is hard. So not having lots of people was good.
We did the other work first, which meant I got to demonstrate my critiqueing skills early. I don't think I did poorly. Not too poorly anyway. A good number of my points were shared by the other two, which I think gave them credibility. (When three out of three people who read what you wrote have the same reaction, the reaction is probably valid.) Each of us had something to say which the other two did not, so the author is going to have to sort that out. (That's what I mean about sorting out lots of idea.) When a person stands alone with their point they may be right, but they may just as easily be wrong. The author has to decide. Sometimes, fixing a work for one person only ruins it for everyone else. It's a risk.
My work came last. I confess to hoping there would not be much correction. I had already submitted it to a single person who had provided several important help suggestions. So I was thinking the story was fairly solid.
I got more comments than I expected. Several about word choice. A couple of Point of View miscues I missed. Some discomfort with some of my word choices. A section where I let the dialogue slip and it became confusing to keep up with who was speaking. And a couple of continuity issues. (The most humorous being when I put the characters in a room without windows and fail to explain where all the light is coming from.)
Probably, the most severe comment came last. What was the point? While all three liked the story, and the one member went so far to say that the prose was the story's strongest point, there was no real conflict. Basically, it is a story of two young women who fall in love. Okay. Good. Why is that important? It's a valid comment.
I knew the story had this shortcoming from the first. It is just a story of two young women who fall in love. That's all it ever was intended to be. But there is no obvious "conflict" which has to be dealt with. The conflict which exists is subtle. It is within the Main Character, and how she grows from who she was when the story begins, to who she is when the story ends. How - and if - she changes is the quiet tension the story brings. Not exactly your usual fantasy fare. And perhaps it doesn't really work in any genre.
All three questioned whether this was a stand-alone story or part of a larger work. This supports the "what's the point" observation. It was suggested that I expand the story, which is not an offensive prospect to me. I very much like the characters. (We only actually meet three.) And already I can see the larger story in which this "sub-plot", as it were, could exist. Whether or not I actually do that, I don't know. It's tempting. And maybe that's what Swords of Fire needs: me to take a long sabbatical. For now, though, I shall incorporate the observations made by my three colleagues last night and leave the story be. I have no idea of how, or where, I would submit it anyway. Which is a pity. I think it's an endearing story which belongs where the public can read it. Whatever.
I didn't get lost coming home. [grin]
This time I looked for the signs right off. Sure enough. In order to go west, one must first go east. How intuitive! The same goes for going east. Except it is reversed. So, in January, my moving to the west side of the freeway because I wanted to drive west was complete stupidity. I should have moved to the east side. Then I could have driven west. Ah, me. When will I learn how modern transportation design works?
Son and Spouse were both asleep when I got home. Son would have been disappointed anyway. About the last thing he said to me before I left was, "If you do go to Duluth again, bring back a souvineer." Alas. No souvineers.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Writers' Group - The Critique
Tonight I am scheduled to go to my second meeting of the local Writers' Group. My story, Apprentice, is up for critique. Not only that, but I learned on Sunday there is another piece up for critique which I need to get to. I didn't do it Sunday night because I was busy with the family. Then Monday came and I found my day taken up with being at the clinic with my mother. I had thought to work on it all day on Tuesday.
Then Mother had to be back at the clinic this morning. No big deal, I thought. I'll work on it this afternoon. Then the clinic ran like an hour or more late. Mother finally sent me on my way because I had to get back to town to pick up Son at school. So that shot a good portion of my afternoon.
So, here I am. It's going on four and I have to leave at six. I'm not that good at critiques anyway. I know what I like, but not always why. Same with what I don't like. Sometimes it's just a feeling. Not very helpful to someone looking to polish a story.
So, I'm off to read - and critique. Hopefully, I can contribute something meaningful.
Wish me luck. (With the author who's work I'm critiquing luck, too.)
Then Mother had to be back at the clinic this morning. No big deal, I thought. I'll work on it this afternoon. Then the clinic ran like an hour or more late. Mother finally sent me on my way because I had to get back to town to pick up Son at school. So that shot a good portion of my afternoon.
So, here I am. It's going on four and I have to leave at six. I'm not that good at critiques anyway. I know what I like, but not always why. Same with what I don't like. Sometimes it's just a feeling. Not very helpful to someone looking to polish a story.
So, I'm off to read - and critique. Hopefully, I can contribute something meaningful.
Wish me luck. (With the author who's work I'm critiquing luck, too.)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
The Short and the Long of It
So. I did it. I actually drove 45 miles in the middle of a winter weather advisory to attend a Writers’ Group Meeting. For you, Jennifer. Well, actually it was for me. But it makes me sound noble if I did it for someone else. Not really.
Going wasn’t nearly so scary as I expected. Maybe it was because I had conflicting concerns to deal with: walking in cold to a meeting of people I have never heard of nor met before; winding up in the cold because my car crashed, slid off the road or just broke down. Sometimes, even a coward has trouble determining what to fear.
The meeting took place at a Davanni’s Restaurant. These are pizza/sandwich places which operate similar to a burger shop. You place your order, wait for it to be made, and then take it to a table. Used to frequent one in Edina with co-workers back in the 90s. Good food.
Anyway, I arrive fifteen minutes early. It took exactly one hour to drive 45 miles – on the freeway. This was due less to the weather and more to traffic. Rush “hour” had yet to complete, and once I reached St. Paul I was averaging ten miles per hour. But with freezing/dying out on the road some place no longer a major concern, I was free to allow myself to be overcome with fear about the meeting.
The first thing I wanted to do was let Spouse and Son know I had arrived safely. To do this, I paced back and forth in front of the order counter with a five dollar bill wondering where there was a phone. I do not own a cell phone. (Don’t get started on me about that.) There was a young man (eighteen to twenty-five) at the counter and I went up to him, trying to say what I wanted to say, but stumbling over myself and restarting my sentence at least four times. Fortunately, the young man was fluent in Nit Wit and understood me completely.
You wish to use the telephone?
Yeah.
But you don’t know where it is, and you don’t have any coins?
Yeah.
Who do you need to call?
My spouse. To say I arrived safely.
The look he gave me told me he understood that completely. If there were any questions in his mind they revolved around his wondering why I was out and about without supervision in the first place.
He handed me a receiver and asked me for the number. He dialed it and Spouse answered. I said I had arrived but couldn’t talk because I was using the store phone. Then I handed the receiver back to the young man.
I told him why I was there and he said the group was meeting down the hall and to the right. There was one person already there. Did I want to order?
What? Oh. Yes. What do people usually order?
How brilliant! But, as I said, the young man understood me perfectly.
Would you like a solo pizza? It will only take a minute or two longer than a sandwich. We’ll call you when it’s ready.
Yeah. Thanks. Sausage and mushroom.
Your name?
No, that’s not my name. That’s what I want on my pizza.
What is your name?
Bevie.
Thin crust, or an entire loaf of bread dough?
Thin crust.
To The Room.
Like the young man said, only one person ahead of me. She was the sweetest little lady (SLL), just a few years older and a few feet shorter (remember, I’m 6’6”). Her name was J (actually, I believe it still is J), and she instantly made me feel welcome. I even helped her put the tables into a large square. Right on my heels was D. He was nice, too. Just as we finished with the tables Z arrived. There were two young girls, too: J (same name as SLL) and S (different name than SLL). A few minutes later J (different name) arrived and our number was complete for the night. (No Boris. Sigh. And I did my hair up special, too.) The weather kept the others at bay.
SLL had a chapter from her book critiqued. I was supposed to have been part of that, but doof that I am, I failed to realize that until it was time to give it to her. As J and the young girls were also new, and D hadn’t thought he was coming, only Z had a critique. He was good, though, and I took notes on what he had to say to SLL. A lot of what he told her applies to my writing, too.
Absolutely everyone was nice. The one little girl, J, was amazing. She reminded me of Tursa, a character in my saga, Swords of Fire. No smiles. Just intelligent, adult-like conversation. She had insight, dead-on questioning and an entirely professional manner and ease with the adults. Cheeky little thing! Showing me up like that. What gives her the right to be well-adjusted? Ha! Just wait until you become a teenager, J. Then we’ll see how confident you are. No. Seriously. She was wonderful. They all were. D showed me one of his published books (he has three or four).
The evening ended and it was time to go home. We all shook hands and talked about the next meeting. SLL and D both asked me if I planned on submitting anything for the next meeting. I said I would. I’m thinking Apprentice. Then it was time for the long drive home.
Looooonnnnngggg drive home.
It was dark. I was in The City. It had been years since I had been anywhere near here. But I got on the freeway and headed out. All I had to do was stay in my lane and I would be fine. I remembered how, once the freeway reached St. Paul’s north side, it broke into a “Y”. Go left (west), and I’m heading for home. Go right (northeast) and I’m heading for Duluth. No problem. Except.
I forgot about the road construction which took place a few years ago – after I last used this stretch of road. The snow has picked up so I’m paying close attention to the road and the traffic. Since I was convinced I knew where I was I didn’t bother to look at the signs much. I saw one with 694 on it, but the direction said “east”. I wanted to go “west”.
The traffic thinned. The lights faded. That wasn't good. And then I saw something I did not want to see. It was a large green sign with letters on it. Didn’t mind the sign really. The letters either. It was what the letters were telling me that was the bother: Duluth 137 miles. I was heading in the wrong direction! What’s more, I had to put on another ten miles before I got to an overpass to turn around.
At least now I knew exactly where I was: Forest Lake. I didn’t want to go to Forest Lake. The only time I go to Forest Lake is when I pass through on my way to my in-laws in Wisconsin. I didn’t want to go to my in-laws in Wisconsin. I wanted to go home.
By the time I got home my little 45-mile drive had become 75-miles. I came into the house and found Spouse and Son were still up. When I said I had driven 75-miles to get home Spouse immediately fell into an abandoned habit: Who did you take/took you home? When I explained what had happened, Spouse gave me another reminder of just how much I have aged – by laughing. No jealous fit like when I was in my twenties. Just laughter. I could have said anything and Spouse wouldn’t have been jealous – including that someone took me home! Sigh. I miss being a risk.
Anyway, the ice is broken and now I’m not afraid to back. (I think.)
Thank you, Jennifer. You made me do it. It wasn’t worth being afraid of, was it? (Even if they did all think I was out of my mind for driving so far in bad weather to attend my first meeting.)
Going wasn’t nearly so scary as I expected. Maybe it was because I had conflicting concerns to deal with: walking in cold to a meeting of people I have never heard of nor met before; winding up in the cold because my car crashed, slid off the road or just broke down. Sometimes, even a coward has trouble determining what to fear.
The meeting took place at a Davanni’s Restaurant. These are pizza/sandwich places which operate similar to a burger shop. You place your order, wait for it to be made, and then take it to a table. Used to frequent one in Edina with co-workers back in the 90s. Good food.
Anyway, I arrive fifteen minutes early. It took exactly one hour to drive 45 miles – on the freeway. This was due less to the weather and more to traffic. Rush “hour” had yet to complete, and once I reached St. Paul I was averaging ten miles per hour. But with freezing/dying out on the road some place no longer a major concern, I was free to allow myself to be overcome with fear about the meeting.
The first thing I wanted to do was let Spouse and Son know I had arrived safely. To do this, I paced back and forth in front of the order counter with a five dollar bill wondering where there was a phone. I do not own a cell phone. (Don’t get started on me about that.) There was a young man (eighteen to twenty-five) at the counter and I went up to him, trying to say what I wanted to say, but stumbling over myself and restarting my sentence at least four times. Fortunately, the young man was fluent in Nit Wit and understood me completely.
You wish to use the telephone?
Yeah.
But you don’t know where it is, and you don’t have any coins?
Yeah.
Who do you need to call?
My spouse. To say I arrived safely.
The look he gave me told me he understood that completely. If there were any questions in his mind they revolved around his wondering why I was out and about without supervision in the first place.
He handed me a receiver and asked me for the number. He dialed it and Spouse answered. I said I had arrived but couldn’t talk because I was using the store phone. Then I handed the receiver back to the young man.
I told him why I was there and he said the group was meeting down the hall and to the right. There was one person already there. Did I want to order?
What? Oh. Yes. What do people usually order?
How brilliant! But, as I said, the young man understood me perfectly.
Would you like a solo pizza? It will only take a minute or two longer than a sandwich. We’ll call you when it’s ready.
Yeah. Thanks. Sausage and mushroom.
Your name?
No, that’s not my name. That’s what I want on my pizza.
What is your name?
Bevie.
Thin crust, or an entire loaf of bread dough?
Thin crust.
To The Room.
Like the young man said, only one person ahead of me. She was the sweetest little lady (SLL), just a few years older and a few feet shorter (remember, I’m 6’6”). Her name was J (actually, I believe it still is J), and she instantly made me feel welcome. I even helped her put the tables into a large square. Right on my heels was D. He was nice, too. Just as we finished with the tables Z arrived. There were two young girls, too: J (same name as SLL) and S (different name than SLL). A few minutes later J (different name) arrived and our number was complete for the night. (No Boris. Sigh. And I did my hair up special, too.) The weather kept the others at bay.
SLL had a chapter from her book critiqued. I was supposed to have been part of that, but doof that I am, I failed to realize that until it was time to give it to her. As J and the young girls were also new, and D hadn’t thought he was coming, only Z had a critique. He was good, though, and I took notes on what he had to say to SLL. A lot of what he told her applies to my writing, too.
Absolutely everyone was nice. The one little girl, J, was amazing. She reminded me of Tursa, a character in my saga, Swords of Fire. No smiles. Just intelligent, adult-like conversation. She had insight, dead-on questioning and an entirely professional manner and ease with the adults. Cheeky little thing! Showing me up like that. What gives her the right to be well-adjusted? Ha! Just wait until you become a teenager, J. Then we’ll see how confident you are. No. Seriously. She was wonderful. They all were. D showed me one of his published books (he has three or four).
The evening ended and it was time to go home. We all shook hands and talked about the next meeting. SLL and D both asked me if I planned on submitting anything for the next meeting. I said I would. I’m thinking Apprentice. Then it was time for the long drive home.
Looooonnnnngggg drive home.
It was dark. I was in The City. It had been years since I had been anywhere near here. But I got on the freeway and headed out. All I had to do was stay in my lane and I would be fine. I remembered how, once the freeway reached St. Paul’s north side, it broke into a “Y”. Go left (west), and I’m heading for home. Go right (northeast) and I’m heading for Duluth. No problem. Except.
I forgot about the road construction which took place a few years ago – after I last used this stretch of road. The snow has picked up so I’m paying close attention to the road and the traffic. Since I was convinced I knew where I was I didn’t bother to look at the signs much. I saw one with 694 on it, but the direction said “east”. I wanted to go “west”.
The traffic thinned. The lights faded. That wasn't good. And then I saw something I did not want to see. It was a large green sign with letters on it. Didn’t mind the sign really. The letters either. It was what the letters were telling me that was the bother: Duluth 137 miles. I was heading in the wrong direction! What’s more, I had to put on another ten miles before I got to an overpass to turn around.
At least now I knew exactly where I was: Forest Lake. I didn’t want to go to Forest Lake. The only time I go to Forest Lake is when I pass through on my way to my in-laws in Wisconsin. I didn’t want to go to my in-laws in Wisconsin. I wanted to go home.
By the time I got home my little 45-mile drive had become 75-miles. I came into the house and found Spouse and Son were still up. When I said I had driven 75-miles to get home Spouse immediately fell into an abandoned habit: Who did you take/took you home? When I explained what had happened, Spouse gave me another reminder of just how much I have aged – by laughing. No jealous fit like when I was in my twenties. Just laughter. I could have said anything and Spouse wouldn’t have been jealous – including that someone took me home! Sigh. I miss being a risk.
Anyway, the ice is broken and now I’m not afraid to back. (I think.)
Thank you, Jennifer. You made me do it. It wasn’t worth being afraid of, was it? (Even if they did all think I was out of my mind for driving so far in bad weather to attend my first meeting.)
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
M.S.F.W.(t.t.h.)
My
Sure
Fire
Way
To
Total
Humiliation
Actually, that's not what the letters stand for. They stand for, Minnesota Speculative Fiction Writers. (I added the t.t.h. myself.) Tonight, unless something happens to prevent it, I will be attending my first ever meeting. It's a milestone event, although I'll be the only one there who will be aware of it. You see, Bevie's afraid.
Bevie also has a ludicrous - but very vivid - imagination. This could be a wonderful experience:
MSFW Regular #1: Say, who is that cool person who just came in?
MSFW Regular #2: Don't you know? Why that's Bevie James.
R#1: Bevie James! Here? You're kidding. Oh, I have to have an autograph!
R#2: You'll have to fight through the crowd.
R#1: I can do it. After all, I am the group president. Oh, Bevie! Oh, Bevie! Will you be reading any of your wonderful works tonight? Please say yes!
Bevie: Why, yes. I suppose I could spare a moment or two. I have a couple of tombs here.
R#2: May I get you something to drink, Bevie?
Bevie: Why thank you.
R#2: It's Pepsi - 2008.
Bevie: Excellent year.
Or, it could be the exact opposite.
R#1: Who in the h*ll is that?
R#2: Not sure. Signed in as Baggy James, or something.
R#1: James? James? Wasn't that the name of the idiot who signed up last July and then never attended any meetings?
R#2: Yeah, I believe it was. You don't suppose this is that fool?
R#1: Could be. Have Boris stand ready. If this Baggy person is as as useless as I suspect, Boris can have some fun.
R#2: Right! He'll like that. Should I let him use the lotion?
R#1: Sure. He deserves his treats.
My friends would probably assure me neither of these possiblities are really possibilities. I'm not so sure. Meeting people can be very scarey. Two more hours and I have to leave, assuming Spouse gets home with the car, and assuming the meeting isn't cancelled. (We have a Winter Weather Advisory for Central Minnesota - snow, blowing snow and wind-chills down to -35.) Hmm. The truth sounds more threatening than fiction.
I'm thinking about bringing my stuffed monkey, Tomoko. I got her at the Minnesota Zoo last summer. She sits by my computer and stares at me. Better not. Just in case the second scenario proves true.
The clock continues to tick.
Sure
Fire
Way
To
Total
Humiliation
Actually, that's not what the letters stand for. They stand for, Minnesota Speculative Fiction Writers. (I added the t.t.h. myself.) Tonight, unless something happens to prevent it, I will be attending my first ever meeting. It's a milestone event, although I'll be the only one there who will be aware of it. You see, Bevie's afraid.
Bevie also has a ludicrous - but very vivid - imagination. This could be a wonderful experience:
MSFW Regular #1: Say, who is that cool person who just came in?
MSFW Regular #2: Don't you know? Why that's Bevie James.
R#1: Bevie James! Here? You're kidding. Oh, I have to have an autograph!
R#2: You'll have to fight through the crowd.
R#1: I can do it. After all, I am the group president. Oh, Bevie! Oh, Bevie! Will you be reading any of your wonderful works tonight? Please say yes!
Bevie: Why, yes. I suppose I could spare a moment or two. I have a couple of tombs here.
R#2: May I get you something to drink, Bevie?
Bevie: Why thank you.
R#2: It's Pepsi - 2008.
Bevie: Excellent year.
Or, it could be the exact opposite.
R#1: Who in the h*ll is that?
R#2: Not sure. Signed in as Baggy James, or something.
R#1: James? James? Wasn't that the name of the idiot who signed up last July and then never attended any meetings?
R#2: Yeah, I believe it was. You don't suppose this is that fool?
R#1: Could be. Have Boris stand ready. If this Baggy person is as as useless as I suspect, Boris can have some fun.
R#2: Right! He'll like that. Should I let him use the lotion?
R#1: Sure. He deserves his treats.
My friends would probably assure me neither of these possiblities are really possibilities. I'm not so sure. Meeting people can be very scarey. Two more hours and I have to leave, assuming Spouse gets home with the car, and assuming the meeting isn't cancelled. (We have a Winter Weather Advisory for Central Minnesota - snow, blowing snow and wind-chills down to -35.) Hmm. The truth sounds more threatening than fiction.
I'm thinking about bringing my stuffed monkey, Tomoko. I got her at the Minnesota Zoo last summer. She sits by my computer and stares at me. Better not. Just in case the second scenario proves true.
The clock continues to tick.
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