Conforming, or not.

I scrapped the idea of writing anything about the holidays because, well, I figured there was lots to read out there about the holidays.  “I am not going to do what every one else is doing” , I thought to myself.  That’s the way I am sometimes...a rebel.  I use to think it was charming to be someone who doesn’t always follow the rules.  Now, I’m less convinced.  Could it be that I have finally matured? Grown up? Become a conforming non-conformist?

When my son was a teenager, he and I had a few talks about conforming non-conformity.  I had this thing, you know, where I wanted him to dress a certain way, be a certain thing.  He had other ideas.  What he did not accept was that he was not an “original”.  Very few people are, truly, original.  I mean, and this is where he use to get pretty mad at me, if it is possible to find certain articles of clothing, say flannel shirts, then doesn’t that make wearing flannel shirts not original? If it is “popular” to go to Goodwill and find too small t-shirts with elementary school names on them, or city park and recreation league teams, isn’t that the norm? He and I had many discussions on “Clothes make the man, son” and he hated that phrase.  

I was pretty good about it though, and let a few pretty wild things walk out this door back then.  I wanted him to feel like he could express himself but not put himself in danger.  We traveled to Great America one October for Halloween.  In true style, he wore red pants and a brilliant orange windbreaker...and no doubt, his trademark tennis ball yellow sneakers.  The whole park was decorated for Halloween and ghouls, goblins, witches and vampires lurked.  He and his friend walked through the park, and I will admit...he was a standout.  One lovely young female vampire, standing on a pedestal, cloaked and pale, looked down upon him and said “My, my, you are a colorful little fellow, aren’t you?”  

The thing is, I love those memories about him.  He was fun.  He was fearless, in some ways.   I use to try to challenge him that wearing bright tennis ball yellow skateboard sneakers was not “original” if there was a company out there producing them.  He didn’t like it that I held that opinion, but I think he understood my point.   He was the only kid in school with them and I guess that made them original enough. 

A year or so later, he was feeling restless one night and took a stroll out of the house. Late.  Late, late.  He walked for a few miles and was stopped not far from arriving back home, by the police.  Seems a gas station convenience store was robbed and the “perpetrator” was seen wearing a black hooded sweatshirt, which is what he was wearing.  The police asked if he would go to the gas station convenience store for a possible identification.  Now, although some may have considered him a rebel, he was still a very polite young man, so he agreed.  The police took him to the clerk and had him repeat a phrase, which included calling her a name or two.  She replied the thief wasn’t him, as the thief had a noticeable speech impediment.  

"Besides," she said “He certainly wasn’t wearing THOSE shoes!” 

Blame it all on my roots...

Hubs and I had an interesting and entertaining weekend.  About  six weeks or so ago, daughter called and asked if I thought dad would like to go to a concert as a Christmas gift.  Not just any concert, but, Garth Brooks.  She loved Garth Brooks as a kid and he always enjoyed him, too, mainly because she had so many of his CDs.  Garth was doing a series of concerts to benefit Nashville flooding relief and tickets were an amazing $25 each.  

Well, I said, I’m sure he would but we are going to have to tell him because, well, he needs to know he has enough people working, etc. and oh, by the way, this is Christmas week.  But, we dove in, drove down and boogied down, country style, in Nashville. 

The concert was great.  Fantastic even.  It was loud and pure entertainment.  We did know all the songs, thanks to that middle-schooler-now-mom that loves Garth Brooks.  But what was better, and maybe even selfish, was that our two daughters were ours for the weekend.  Both their husbands opted out of the two day trip and we had them to ourselves.  (Our son was unable to attend but,  boy,  do I wish he were there).  Beautiful young women, good friends to each other and independent thinkers.  We had great fun, lots of laughs, deep talks, and now, new memories.  We didn’t get to eat the fancy meal I would have liked, but we did enjoy some tremendous music and some pretty decent pulled pork.   We didn’t dress up, which I also would have liked, but we sang loud at a dueling piano club with gusto and walked back to the hotel, talking way too loudly,  I'm sure.   We stayed up late, we enjoyed each other’s company and just let it happen.  It was the week before Christmas, and we all still had much to do, but we just let it fly.  We ate too much, spent too much and stayed awake too much.  

Nashville is a great city.  A wonderful place for a quick weekend getaway and a super easy drive from our location.  Be spontaneous and take a little trip; you won’t regret it.  Its a walking city, easy to get where the action is.  See the dueling pianos at Bang This.   Gosh, if there is a concert at the Bridgestone, take that in.  If its a hockey game instead, see that! See a college basketball game at Belmont or Vanderbilt.  You want football? Titans stadium is only blocks from where the honky tonks line both sides of the street.  There’s loads to do in Nashville; certainly lots more than I've mentioned here, and lots more than country music. 

However, if you have time to steal away with your adult child(ren), and see them in a new light, their new light...no spouse (the husbands were missed, but it would have been different if they had been there!), no kids, no schedule to speak of, not  your house, not their house ~ treat yourself.  Spend the time with the people you grew, listen to them, speak with them, you absolutely won’t regret it. 

December stuff

My holidays as a kid were a little different than my holidays now.  Since we were often quite far away from where my mom’s family lived in southern Illinois or my dad’s family in northern Indiana, there was often just the five of us.

We lived in a trailer most of my childhood..oh, excuse me. I meant mobile home.  The first one was tiny ~ 8 feet wide and 40 feet long.  I don’t have a lot of memories of this one, just the fuzzy few photographs and snippets.  The next mobile home was 10 feet by 50 feet.  My parents referred to it as “The Anderson” years later; the manufacturer.   

I don’t have a lot of things from my childhood as, well, you can imagine. There was no place to keep anything! I may have a report card or two and maybe a drawing.   I think my mom may have bought new Christmas decorations every year or something, until I was older, because I don’t remember decorations being pulled out and hung with great care.  This might speak to my yen for collecting things, although clutter is getting less and less attractive to me.  

When we were close enough to get there, we would travel to my mom’s hometown at Christmas.   My mom had been married before she met my dad and had two boys.  Those two brothers lived with my grandmother, so in order to spend the holidays with them, we traveled when we could.  I had a uncle, named Dude, with three daughters close in age to my sister and I.  We really loved visiting them.  My Aunt May and Uncle Dude would get a huge “flocked” tree every year and I thought it was the most glamorous thing ever.  It was so much bigger and grander than anything we could put up in the little trailer.  My mom’s sister and family often traveled up from Florida as well...they also had two girls close in age to us.  I just realized my younger brother, always a “man’s man”, must have been mortified during these visits!   

These memories are busting through the cobwebs of my mind this blustery December day.  I get a little sad during some of these memory walks, as I think most of us do, when we think of times we no longer have.  I don’t have contact with any of my cousins.  I don’t know their families or their homes.  We never made a solid connection with each other, I guess because we only saw each other those one or two times a year, if then.  Each of my uncles passed away, and their wives, and I wasn’t at their funerals.  My older brother Darrell lives the closest to the old town, and is in contact with what remains of my mom’s family, but, that is also a thinning thread.  

Yesterday, surrounded by aunts,  uncles, cousins and a great grandmother, my little granddaughter made her first Christmas cut out cookie.  She heard Happy Birthday sung to her by her large family.  She ran and giggled and dodged and played.  She heard laughter and banter, and licked sugar off of her sticky fingers.  It was a great cookie and memory making day.  I wish the same for each of you...make memories. 

49 reasons...

Its great how songs secure some memories for us. Songs don’t just serve as background to me, they are a piece of the memory or thought process. I’ve always thought that music is a language and some people are gifted with delivering it, as my daughter Lindsey is, and the rest of us, well, we get to receive it.

Not a musician but appreciative of music and musical gifts and talents, I have a lot of songs that remind me of things, or events. I'm sure you do, too. Or things remind me of songs. Not too long ago, my husband and I were driving along and listening to Crosby, Stills and Nash. Before Young...you know the album. As we rode along and I sang along to all the songs, he seemed surprised. He said “You know all the words to this album?” “Well, yeah, of course.” came my reply, and was equally surprised that he was surprised. Was it because we didn’t know each other then? That we have a hard time picturing each other during that time of our lives that it surprised him that I would know? I was in California for goodness sakes! Of course I know those songs!

Anyway, my sister and I use to sit in our bedroom and play that album over and over and over. Sister harmony is the best. Neither she nor I were great singers but we could sing together because, well, we just could. Or at least we believed we could. We had a floor length mirror at the foot of the bed we shared in the apartment in San Francisco. We would sit on the floor, facing the mirror, backs against the end of the bed and could prop our feet against the wall, if we needed to stretch out. We would hold the album between us while memorizing the lyrics and sing. And sing. And sing. Too young to date, and in a new place, we’d spend a LOT of time together. Sometimes we’d look in the mirror, at ourself or each other, and sometimes we would avoid looking.

I am truly thankful for people who have the gift of music. Whether its writing it, or singing it or playing it. I have always thought of music as the language of the world. Yes, I know all the words to all the songs on that great album, and lots of others, too. He's in for a real treat when I break out Janis Joplin....

She's out of the woods, she's out of the dark, she's out of the night....

I think this is my last post on my bully. I ask that you indulge me in just a few things I need to release to the wind here - some points about bullying in the workplace that I may have missed or glossed over in previous posts. This is also going to be a bit mushy.

The bully chooses her victim. I have said this before and had some deep discussions regarding this theory with my psychologist. Its not that my bully just has a bad personality. She is well liked by many and doesn’t bully everyone. Oh, she’s narcissistic...another characteristic, and that causes some people to steer clear of her. I don’t exactly understand why nor will I ever, probably, but I think there were several things about me that got to her, and I was to some degree an easy target. I felt a responsibility to protect her, as well, and how twisted is that? If you know anything about abuse, its a phenomena that happens again and again. We are dependent on our abuser for something, or feel protective of them, or feel as though we are somehow to blame for it. She was going to bully someone in the building, of that I am sure...if it wasn’t me, it was going to be someone else, someone she could. Bullies have a second sense about who it can be, and like all abusers, groom their victim. I believe if she hasn’t started already, she will soon be bullying someone. I suspect it has already started. My therapist has said not necessarily. We’ll see.

Being an elected official, and being in the office of an elected official, does not mean the personnel policies adopted by the entity do not apply. Nor does it mean the adopted laws of the Federal Employment Act do not apply. Part of how my bully was able to bully me for so long is based in the belief that she could run her office and her staff any way she deemed fit. This is NOT the case and all adopted handbooks, ordinances and policies apply to everyone that receives a paycheck from the entity. If the opposite were true, as a very knowledgeable lawyer in employment issues put it to me, then a judge could bully a bailiff, a sheriff could bully his jailers, etc. and we all know that’s not the case, right? People can not be mistreated or harassed at their jobs, nor their workplace be a hostile environment.

Since the above is true, it is the responsibility of the human resources department of an entity, if there is one, to protect the employee from a developing harassment or hostility. In my case, I spoke to 3 different Human Resources Directors. Each women in their 40s or so, like me, and like my bully. (Ha! Yes, I know I am no longer in my 40s, but I was) They seemed to simply want to stay out of bully’s way and told me that while they certainly empathized with my situation and recognized the behavior that there was no way for them to intervene as she was an elected official. These ladies may want to do a little more research and training. If there is not a human resources department, the employee would be offered protection under the governing board for the entity and the legal department who is charged with making sure all laws are followed by all parties, elected or otherwise. The employee always has recourse, no one is exempt from fair treatment.

Workplace bullying is like any abusive treatment of an individual by another. There is a psychology to it and a recovery time from it. Its not something that someone can just “get over”. It is not a “personality conflict” between two people. I lost a tremendous amount of respect for some people I really liked because of statements just like those. In trying to protect the bully after the fact and perhaps themselves, co-workers of mine lied to an attorney in interviews regarding pay equity (which was a side to my being off work before worker’s compensation was approved). Again, Dr.’s theory is that they were trying to protect themselves, to not be me and of course, there were their jobs to keep. God grant me the courage, should I ever need to be in similar shoes, to tell the truth, to not be afraid.

To my co-workers who lied; I wish you no harm but I do not respect you. I hope you are not next. If you are next, talk to your HR Director. To my co-workers who knew and stood silent; I wish you no harm. I do wish you a voice. To those that said “it’s a personality conflict” or “that’s something personal between the two of you” when I reached out to you; I wish you no harm. A couple of you I have known for a very, very long time. Our journey together is over.

I will be FOREVER grateful to the people who believed me. The young HR Director who was in the first year of his career and believed that right is right and wrong is just wrong. His courage and his support will stay with me forever. The chief executive of my entity who pointed me in a direction to have a conversation with a legal advisor and gave me a name. Although this well respected lawyer could not get involved in my situation much beyond the surface because of a conflict of interest, his advice to me that April day changed my life. I broke down in that first conversation with Mr. Lawyer as it was the first time I heard “Well, that’s illegal as well as immoral. She can’t do that...here’s what to do.” Thank you to the wise physician in the Occupational Health facility I visited that same April day, who was unbelievably kind and knowledgeable. The two nursing staff ladies in the exam room with me that day who were as dumbfounded as I, I think, as to how I “presented”, but who showed only compassion. The insurance company representative and the nurse case manager; the two psychologists - thank you for your professionalism and help. My personal physician, who has a military background in post traumatic stress and offered great support and information. These folks are my heroes. They believed me, they listened and they were standing with me. I did not pursue this any further through the court system, or insurance, although it was advised and considered. I had to weigh it out. When the two year mark passed, I said a silent prayer and hoped I had done the right thing by letting it go. Time is the best healer, and I continue to take my time to get beyond this evil that so consumed me.

To dear friends and extended family who reached out to me and tried to figure out what to say to let me know they care, I know. I am sorry I couldn’t talk to you about it but, it was mine to work through, and it was so very painful. Sorry about all the crying as I know you aren’t use to that from me. I do so appreciate you all. If I lost touch with you over the last three years, its not you...its me. You know who you are.

Finally, to my family. My husband, who understood. Although I know it was hard, he got it. To my girls, thank you forever for all the listening you did, when you probably didn’t want to. To my boy, who heard.

For all of you that are reading my story, I hope this does not nor has it ever happened to you. Stand up for yourself, stand up for others. Know right, do right. There is NEVER EVER a time when it is acceptable for one person to abuse another. Not no way, not no how.

Heading home.

As more and more information comes out about bullying and bullies, largely in part to these recent horrific stories, I struggle with my own assuredness that I am better. I feel better. I look back at pictures from the period and know I had some good times but my memory of those days are kind of blurry. That’s what bullying and the aftermath has done for me. I have forgotten aspects of many good days. So what have I been doing the last three years?

I didn’t medicate through my treatment. I opted not to go the anti-depressant drug route and I don’t know if it was a mistake or not but it was my choice. However, I was in a fog. The depression consumed me. I functioned, I know I did, but I know I haven’t always been altogether engaged.

I use past tense purposefully although I am sure I am not all the way out of those gloomy times. But lately, I am more myself than I have been for years, I know this. I think my friends and family who have known me for a long time would speak to my silliness, my quirkiness and my fun. What drew my husband to me, he tells me, was that I was bubbly to his quietness. I worked with a man years ago who nicknamed me Sparky. That was before bullying, before depression. B.D. It bothers me a lot but the recent awareness that the traits that made me ME are rising again to the surface thrills me. Thrills me.

I surrounded myself with family and I just shut up...maybe shut out. Over the last three years I stopped talking with people. Some might think that was the depression. I don’t think so, I think it was the healing. I have a group of lovely, lovely friends. About 10 of us and I love us, I really do. But, I had to stop talking. People say the way to get through a rough period is to surround yourself with friends and keep busy. I couldn’t. I just simply could not. It was different than grief and depression I think. I instead dropped out and focused on my home, my family and getting better...focused, what? On me? What? It wasn’t a dark time...those days that were dark were the days I spent outside my home in a work environment where eyes turned the other way while I crumbled. I was now in the days of my recovery.

There wasn’t a lot of “work” being done around the house as I was not into it. So its not like I became a super home maker; I most definitely did not. You have more than likely seen those commericals about depression and they are pretty accurate. It was very hard to be motivated. If I had people in, and I did throw some big events over the last three years, it was for family. In the midst of my recovering I realized my family had no idea what had been going on. None. As I came out of it I realized I wanted very much...and it has become my priority...for my family to know each other. It didn’t matter that they had no idea what was going on but what mattered to me was that we were so much out of contact that they didn’t know what was going on, if that makes sense. It has always been a priority for my kids to know each other and to spend time together but the extended family became a focus for me. I have over the last three years gotten to know each a little better and spent a little more time with them; I love, love, love my family.

I love where I am headed.

Working through it.

After I was diagnosed with workplace stress, directly related to bullying, I heard from many people they were wondering when it was going to happen. They didn’t know how I “put up with it”. I appreciated their empathy, but, it plagued me all through my treatment that so many knew, had feelings or thoughts about it but yet, no one came to my aid.

In the weeks and months that followed my leaving my place of employment under worker’s compensation for workplace stress, while seeing a psychologist to help me work through it, I often asked why no one ever said anything. After leaving that April day, through the “kindness” of friends I learned that it was quite the talk of the building on a near daily basis...how I was treated.

Really? This knowledge troubled me almost as greatly as the issue itself. My doctor said “Its simple really...if she’s bullying you, she’s leaving them alone. No one wants to be you.” Really? Is that who we are? What would it have taken for anyone to intervene? To say one thing? Would I have intervened if the shoe were on the other foot and I witnessed someone being demeaned and degraded? In conversations, I was referred to as any number of names...would I, say “Stop that.” Would you?

It is our workplace dirty laundry. We are all so grateful for jobs where we spend more time with people we don’t like than we spend with our own family. Where people can, in certain situations, rise to levels of authority and remain unchecked. My situation was a kind of “perfect storm” where too much was allowed to happen that would not be allowed somewhere else. My doctor, a specialist in workplace stress, was not experienced with government settings, which resulted in a little adjustment to his view of my workplace. We learned a lot from each other.

Bullies everywhere

You know what’s funny? What’s funny is when you start thinking you’d like to have a Volkswagon Beetle, let’s say, and suddenly, everywhere you look, there’s a Volkswagon Beetle. Or like when I wanted another baby, pregnant women everywhere. That’s funny. What makes that happen? Just a heightened sensitivity to that subject?

I decided last month to write a little bit about bullying. About my experience. Suddenly, it seems that bullying is at the top of every discussion list. Ellen DeGeneres made an emotional appeal on her television show. Margaret Cho dedicated her Dancing With the Stars Copa Cabana number to the bullied youth of America, particularly the gay and lesbian youth. The sad and unfortunate story of a young girl ending her life because of bullying. Another sad story about a young boy, considered to be too different by some, another loss.

I read an article recently about a gentleman who worked for a magazine sponsored through a well known university. Seems his boss was a bit of a bully. He had been reported to the HR Department by not just this employee, but a couple of employees for his bullying behavior. He began to question the employee’s work, take assignments away, reassign his work to a new person in the department. As for the employee, he committed suicide and his family is blaming the boss for contributing to his declining emotional state. The article ends by debunking that theory as it turns out the man had a history of depression and had recently had some relationship issues.

Well, now, you know, the thing about the bully is…they know that about a person. They sense a weakness, a depression or a sensitivity. They dare and challenge, and whittle…oh do they whittle. Its not different in the workplace than in the schoolyard. A bully chooses her victim. Never ever misunderstand - a bully chooses her victim.

Those little kids that bully their classmate? The middle school girl who belittles and demeans another? They grow up. Often, those same traits, those same methods, are carried forward into their adult life. It becomes how they conduct themselves. Oh, they could be the life of the party, most likely are gregarious and loud, considered by many to be “fun”. Bullies have typical or common personality traits.

In the workplace, a bully is most commonly, of course, someone who has authority over her victim. There are studies that indicate women in roles of authority are more likely than men in those same roles to exhibit bullying behavior. It is often difficult to get someone to listen, as was the case with me, or to get someone who wants to take it on. The laws regarding sexual harassment or prejudicial treatment based on color, creed, or gender are well known, and enforced. Walk into an HR Department across this great land and complain of bullying and you will more than likely hear it’s a personality conflict and be asked if you have considered a different job or place of work. It is after all, your problem, don’t you know.

The workplace bully and the schoolyard bully share very common needs, and common traits. Think about the school yard bully that you may have known as a child. Now picture them as your boss.

The start

A few weeks ago, I posted that I was going to expose some of my feelings regarding how we treat each other...particularly in the work place. I was all set to share personal experiences, some not pleasant.

Shortly after I posted, I learned that my particular “bully” will be returning to the campaign trail. The news disturbed me. Greatly. More than I thought news of this sort might. In my little town, there are people in positions they just don’t have any business being in, doing things they don’t have any business doing. I held off on posting because I wanted to be sure I knew what I wanted to post, and not out of a reaction to the news. Since this blog is mine, my feelings and my thoughts, I wanted to be clear minded about it. I believe I am.

Now, before we go any further, let me also say here that this is not a sermon. Its a reflection on an experience. I want each reader to take it in as they will, and mull it over for themselves. Perhaps you will apply a Christian perspective to the details, perhaps not. Lets go.

I started a job in a small government office in 1995. I learned of the job through a friend, thought it sounded like something I could do and applied; I interviewed and was hired.

I learned on my second day on the job that the person I would be spending most of every day with did not want me for the position but preferred someone who had a daughter the same age as her daughter. They played on a girls softball team together a few years before or something. However, the other applicant, who is quite lovely, was not registered to vote. I was, and had voted republican to boot. I was in.

At some point, Bully, sitting across from me, wanted to bet me a steak dinner that I couldn't change her. Said to me she knew that Friend, who attended the same church I did, wanted me in the job because she thought I could “convert” her. No, I told her, I was not looking to convert her, or change her, just work with her. She challenged me, saying “We’ll see who converts who”.

I am including this exchange between us because I believe it’s the foundation for what transpired for the next 12 years. I don’t really think I need to post a lot of the details of how it happened, or what steps were taken to make it happen but to get us here. To get us to April 13, 2007, when I left my job under “work related stress” and a near breakdown. When I reported to an Occupational Health center in my little town with a blood pressure reading of 220/140, with a nurse, an aide, a doctor and me in a room, with only my sobs hitting the walls and my tears hitting the floor. I was in bad shape, and I knew it. I was at my breaking point and I knew it. It took 12 years and daily bullying behavior...but I was changed.

Oprah was right!

I think I turned that corner. You know the one Oprah says you’ll turn when you hit 50 or so? The one where you are finally comfortable in who you are and you embrace the lumps and bumps and bruises you have had along the way. The one where it no longer matters if you fit into a mold or size or state of mind. I think I turned that corner.

As I am fast closing in on the end of my 55th year, I realize that the last five years of my journey have been hilly. I’m going to even go back 10 years - I lost my sister to lung cancer in 2001. September 2, 2001. Somedays, it seems like such a long, long time ago and then I realize that’s probably because so much has happened in between now and then.

Of course, we all know what happened just 9 days later. My lovely little niece had a memorial service planned for my sister on September 15, 2001. While I was able to be with Micki when she passed away, and I had every intention of returning to Florida with my brothers to go to the memorial, after September 11th I found myself unwilling, unable, to budge. Too much unknown, too much fear, too much out and out horror. I couldn’t move. My brothers made it. They drove there and back in just a quick trip but I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. I had a daughter in high school, a daughter on a college campus and a son in another state. I needed to be “home base” cause we knew not what was to come. I was rocked to my core.

I worked in a building where I was ridiculed every day. Belittled and bullied, but I plodded on. Good things happened in my life and they almost made up for the daily pile of pooh I went through each day, just to earn a paycheck. I began to unravel though, just a little bit, every day. Didn’t really know it at the time but looking back, I can see it starting and I know how it finished. But, the good news is, it finished, before it finished me.

This begins a new series of my reflections folks. This one is not going to be as light hearted nor as sunshiney as the rest of my posts. This one is going to get a bit dirtier...and I don’t mean cuss words, I mean dirt. Grime. Icky, ewwie. We are going to examine words and deeds and why we endure what we shouldn’t have to endure. I won’t use names, but you are smart people and if you figure out characters, okay by me. These are MY events, this is MY story.

You see, kind ladies and sirs, I’ve turned a corner. I’ve come to embrace my fragility and my failures...mine. But I will not, do not, accept the bumps and bruises inflicted by others. I’m going to ask you to open your mind to the truth of words and deeds, and of bullying behaviors. Where it happens, when it happens, what causes someone to bully another and why oh why, is it tolerated, acknowledged but not addressed, from the playground to the office building, and everywhere in between.

This could get uncomfortable.

What do you do anyway?

I have had a lot of people ask me what I do. I know I touched on this briefly in my early post and its vaguely explained in my profile but, I’ll try to give you a little more information.

I work for an small, independent business. Its me. CL Boardman Agency. I have a home office and previously mentioned cpus, telephone line, blah blah blah. I guess the meat of the question is “Huh?”. I’m an independent contractor, fully licensed under the great State of Indiana and the United States Federal Government. I contract specifically to a corporation who serves as a “hub” for other independent contractors. This corporation holds service agreements with many, many top notch companies. I have chosen a contract to provide services to a communications company. A big one.

I am in my office 7 to 10 hours per day. I am a Quality Enhancement Facilitator. I provide this service in two ways. The first, I offer “real time” support to agents that are servicing the communications company. They are the front line, providing customer support/service. Answering questions on billings, features, services. Trouble shooting devices. Sometimes they get stumped, that’s where I come in. I provide support to them through a chat room.

The second way I facilitate quality is by serving as a contact off line to the representatives. They each have expectations to meet...did they provide good service? Answer questions correctly? Provide the right information? Make the changes they said they would make? I monitor calls, score the calls, provide feedback through email using specific forms, or not. I meet with them in a virtual environment and the telephone.

That’s my day. I listen to recorded calls late at night usually because I can concentrate then. I score them, report back to the representative and let them know where they might improve. They are all independent as well so they can take my recommendations or leave it. But, they do have to meet quality so its in their best interest to work with me on the recommendations.

This is my 4th assignment with the corporation I contract through. I have progressed to this point and did not start out in this role. Had to pay some dues and take some lumps on the way here. I may not be done with the progress either. There are other roles within the corporation that can be managed “off site” or “virtually” and I might be interested in one of those one day.

Its been a real blessing to me. I have made some nice “friends” virtually who are also finding themselves in a great situation. The work can be demanding, its sedentary, it can be stressful. Its rewarding and its nice, so nice, to take a break for a second, like we do in every “job”, to get a drink of water and walk through my home, looking at my things, seeing my family pictures on the wall, the dirty dishes in the sink (What????) and yes, out my window.

Alright. I give. I give. In previous posts I have relived my history, admitted I might be getting old as others were deferring to me in the parking lots and grocery stores and generally talked like an older person. Today, I'm ready to just face it. I am old. Chris, my husband of 33 years, is old. WE are old.

My feet swell now. Oh sure, I have had other times in my life where my feet have become swollen...pregnancy related mostly and this is different; and its new. Just swelling of the ol' feet. Sometimes just one. But, usually when its super hot and usually when I let my feet dangle, like for example, while on a stool. I remember one time years ago my older brother Glenn and I were sharing a footstool. He told me "You have pretty, little feet." One of those things that an older brother says that you just carry around with you forever. I don't think he would say that today when they are looking like little round sausages with little link sausages substituting for toes.

The insomnia that comes for some people as they age has been with me for a while. It use to bother me and now, I just roll with it. I do stuff. Sometimes I work, sometimes I watch TV, start a movie, read a book. There's no need for me to let it have any sort of victory here. But, having only two to four hours a sleep in your system is no way to get through a long day. I still want to function, you know?

What's the end result? The rebuttal to insomnia and swelling feet? Ugh. Diet and exercise, my friends. I give. I'll try it. We'll see.

Can I be seriously lucky?

Contemplating a trip to Las Vegas because I have had two lucky “wins” lately. The first, I won $50 in a raffle by attending a conference call for my business contract. The second, I won a Wii Game System for attending the same conference call this month. Am I lucky or do I just deserve a prize for attending some really long conference calls?

What if I did go to Vegas and win some serious cash doing some serious gambling? What if winning these two items is some sort of sign that I should go? Boy, it sure is easy to see how people get sucked in to making those kind of decisions, based on this kind of history, or less.

I am in an area of my spiritual thinking that always stumps me, burns my brain. If I believe that all things come from God, is my winning the Wii from God? And if He is so blessing me, as is evident by the $50, then the Wii, should I take a trip to Vegas? But, what if its just entertainment and it’s not spiritual at all? What if God wasn’t in it, except maybe to know, as only He can know, and follow me as I take my next step, whatever it might be and live with those consequences? I know there are deep thinkers that will extrapolate this all the way down to well, yes, because God brought you to a place where you were able to attend the meeting and be present to win, then yes, God blessed you with the Wii.

Smell that? Uh huh. Its my brain burning.

It's a bad wind...

This month has been incredibly challenging. Not because of drama or trauma or anything along those lines. Its the storms. My goodness, the storms. I am beginning to think I will be writing an all weather related blog!

Two recent storms in my community took down many, many beautiful, old, stately trees. While they weren’t officially saying tornado for storm #2, if you saw the uprooted trees, snapped power lines and look of dismay and dread on the faces of my neighbors, you’d say otherwise.

My home is surrounded by big, old trees. We were lucky the 100-mile an hour winds just skirted us. However, 1/4 of a mile away, trees tumbled like old time pick up sticks. The damage left in the wake is incredible. Neighbors without power for 96 hours or more, the utilities company doing all they could but this wasn’t one or two trees down, this was a road of trees, with a subdivision and a golf course thrown in. In back yards, front yards, across roads and streets, literally hundreds of trees. Roofs, windows, walls and vehicles destroyed while we ran to basements to take cover. My husband and I ran, too, then came back upstairs to watch wind and rain while 1/4 of a mile away our neighbors lives were changing.

We lost some trees, some large branches, but compared to my neighbors, its nothing. I began to think what I would be doing today if these magnificent trees that surround my home began to tumble like those 1/4 mile away. It made my husband begin to think of a survival kit. The fact that we don’t own a transistor radio..nothing to hear the news in times like these. No big flashlight but several little dainty ones. Candles to freshen the air became the light we whispered by. Why do we whisper in the dark?

I hope you are safe today. I am grateful beyond words that I am.

Just crossed my mind is all.

I have now been working from home for two and a half years, which is unbelievable to me. Just like with all “jobs” I have had to pay my dues, but I’m in a good client right now with plenty of opportunity and I enjoy the work. There have been some recent changes which will bring some welcome adjustments to how I do my work. I’m looking forward to the change! Since I am a self employed person under contract, I do get to set my own hours, I do get to work remotely and every day is casual Friday. Some more casual than others.

Some drawbacks. I have to set aside money for taxes. I also try to set aside money to pay myself vacation days, holidays, sick days. If my electricity goes out, I’m done for. If I have an equipment failure, its all on me.

Twice in the last year, my mail person has come into my driveway to drop off a box, which in itself is shocking since my old mail person would never come down the driveway. On both those occasions, it was my super casual day. In other words, I was in my jammies and slightly embarrassed. It was probably two in the afternoon. My mail person is someone I have known for quite a while. She said “Girl, if I could drive this truck in my jammies I would!”

And seriously, who wouldn’t?

Storytelling

So we’re done stomping around in my memories. I hope my flashbacks have perhaps encouraged you to think about your history. Share it with your kids. A few weeks ago one of my children said she was going to print out my entries so she could keep them. When we go through family pictures it will help give her a frame of reference. Unlike looking through my husband’s family pictures, where we live on the same piece of property he lived on as a child. There again, not saying one is better than another. Just different.

I’ve been really inspired lately by people who spin a good yarn. Tell a good tale. I’d like to be a story teller. I wish I could make stuff up from beginning to end. Oh, I have made up plenty of things but I sometimes wish I could write a book or at least a really good “novelette” or feature. It must have been really exciting back in the day to sit around a radio and listen for the story to start. Or around a campfire, horses and cattle settled down for the evening. I’ve had some great conversations around a fire. I’ve also had some really good silences around a fire.

We had a bonfire at our home a couple weeks ago. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing and was actually proposed by a family member. He had some wood scraps left from a home project and asked if he could bring it out to burn. Next, he wondered about a gathering around the fire and a get together was formed. As it turns out, it was a small, enjoyable crowd. The fire was hot, and crackly and reflecting off the water as the moon and stars came out. There were boisterous party noises across the lake and an occasional motor could be heard as boats returned to their slips and docks, or perhaps a late night cruise. One boat was on the hunt for frogs and we observed as it trolled along the shore, it’s search slow and near silent. We found ourselves whispering as it passed. The evening served as a reverent acknowledgement of the birth of a new boy. There were cigars and microbrews, a lovely, mild evening, plenty of dark and an interesting mix of folks. It was good...and life is.

Chesterton Indiana

Chesterton, Indiana was not quite ready for us and we were not quite ready for Chesterton. We were a little too modern for Cheese town. I did what I always did. I changed, I adapted. Soon, I was at all the football games and working on the prom committee and that kind of thing. I probably would not have been involved in those activities in Bloomington. I accumulated, for the first time in my life, a group of “girlfriends”. To the beach, shopping, to the movies and hanging out uptown at the park or at The Port...a root beer drive in.

My mom and dad decided to settle in Chesterton. It was close to family, something we had never been around, and centrally located for my dad’s work. My parents bought a house. A real house, on a street, with a garage and a big backyard. It was a new experience for all of us. 101 Westchester Court. A great home.

I finished my junior year with a lot of memories and friends. There was a big group of girls that boycotted prom. I can’t remember why, but we did. We had a MORP party instead at one of the girls houses. It was great fun. I also had decided to run for an office in my Senior Class...mainly because I didn’t think the other two people who had announced the were going to try for Vice President were very exciting. I was elected. My senior year was perfect from beginning to end. We had a great homecoming float, we had fun at football games and after game dances. We loved our basketball and track teams and our swim team was always highly ranked. I did go to prom my senior year and had a wonderful time. We partied in corn fields and bean fields and out at the dunes. We went to the 49er Drive In and snuck by the ticket booth in trunks of cars.

I love Chesterton still. Its changed, its bigger, it has a little different vibe than it did in 1972 when I graduated from high school. Soon, it was too small for me and wasn’t bringing me the satisfaction I sought. My dad was traveling to jobs a lot and since I graduated, and Kevin was very independent, my mom started traveling with Dad again. I moved back to Bloomington with the intention of going to college but that never really worked out. My parents weren’t of the mind that girls get college educations and they didn’t really know how to help me out with that plan. So, I worked in Bloomington, was considered a “townie” in the bars and got really tired of being asked what my major was...and grew up.

I moved back to Chesterton to my parent’s home in the fall of 1976. By Christmas of that same year, after shopping for a Christmas present for Kevin in the local men’s store, I had met Chris and we began dating. Our first date was just after Christmas 1976 and by March we were engaged, married in October of 1977. I was satisfied indeed, and a new life was beginning for me.

Soon I would be in LaPorte and in a big family, where everyone knew someone in Chris’ family. His family had a small grocery store and there were always people who commented on the store, or the lake or one of his brothers. We would ride through town and he referred to houses by the family name of who lived there when he was growing up. “The Jones House” or “The Muratori House”. It was foreign to me, those kinds of memories. He knew everyone it seemed to me. I realized how different my life had been than his. It didn’t bother me, in fact I have always been grateful for my childhood, the travels, the things I’ve seen and done. However, I had not really thought about the memories I did not have. When Chris’ grandmother passed away, we went to lunch after the funeral at St. Joe’s school. He and his brothers and sister were reminiscing about their school days there. I thought “Wow, except for Chesterton High School, and Bloomington and faded memories of the school in California, I have absolutely no recollection of schools”. They could talk about lunch money, lunch ladies and how much milk cost, what kids looked like, who the teachers were and recess. They knew the bathrooms, the tile on the floor. They had spent years and years there. It was not something I could wrap my head around. I didn’t think it was better or worse mind you...just so unfamiliar to me.

Years later, after Adam was born, I was taking a babysitter home. She lived on Small Road and as she pointed out the driveway I realized I knew the people who lived there before. Who her parents had bought the house from. I knew why they left town and where their new home was located. I was probably close to 30 years old and was as happy as I had ever been. I had roots!

Bloomington Indiana. What a wonderful town. It was just the right spot for us to be after the wild and crazy free love environment of San Francisco and the laid back Happy Camp. When we hit Bloomington High School, we were too cool for words. We LOVED going onto IU’s campus where we could find more of our kind of “crowd”..a little older, a little more “hip”.

The kids at Bloomington High School (now Bloomington South) were a good mix of kids..farm kids, townies, stoners, jocks. There was a second high school in Bloomington, University High School...which was just off campus and the kids there were a little edgier. Their parents were professors, grad students or international guests and instructors. We liked University High School but attended Bloomington, which was on the outskirts of the southern edge of Bloomington. Still located there today, its no longer in a country setting. University High School does not exist and was transitioned into Bloomington North. It does still have more students that have campus affiliations but doesn’t have that same “mini IU” that University did when we were there.

My sister and I were considered “hippies” then. I guess we were. I wore long, flowered “granny” dresses and had a pair of lace up suede boots that I loved. I also wore shawls, no coat. We were clean, however, so I’m not sure we qualified as true hippies. Kevin was in junior high..at Central which was right at the intersection of 2nd Street and College and is now a park area just on the edge of Kroger parking lot. He became a pretty good athlete.

As a side note, at some point in time during the mid to late 60s my dad turned down two assignments. The first was to Portugal. He and my mom decided they did not want to do an international assignment. The second was a long term assignment in Orlando, Florida. You guessed it. Disney World. Much construction. But, my mom’s dad had passed away, and she did not want to be that far from my grandmother in southern Illinois long term. So, Dad turned that down as well and requested to be assigned to midwest projects from here on out.

We had moved in to a new mobile home in Bloomington. It was awesome, spacious and modern. Still in a nice mobile home park, close to the high school. Micki was dating, I was flirting and secretly “dating”. Maybe it would be called hanging out these days, but, it was fun. I had a nice boyfriend named Parker.

As stated in an earlier post, my dad was working on Assembly Hall which wasn’t a very long assignment for just the steel work. We weren’t in Bloomington long but like all visitors to Bloomington, we loved it and hated to leave. But, soon we were being transported to a small town in northern Indiana. Chesterton, which would end up being the longest we had ever lived anywhere. I started my junior year in Bloomington, and we got to Chesterton in about October of 1970. Micki was a senior and by December, she had dropped out of school, left home and headed back to Bloomington, having not fit in to Chesterton. She would be turning 18 in January so my parents did not try to get her to come back. I can’t say that I missed her but worried about her. There had been so much turmoil and trouble between her and my parents that I welcomed the quiet.

Happy Camp

After we lived it up in San Francisco, we were on our way to Northern California to a charming little village named Happy Camp. Way up in logging and Indian territory. My dad was going to be doing a short term assignment on the Indian Reservation there. Yes, we were the minority. It was an interesting and rugged and wonderful place. It was indeed happy.

We had a great house in Happy Camp. I still wonder why it was there and why it was available for us for about 4 months. The town was small and there was a general mercantile there. I’ll never forget it. It had stacks and stacks of original red tag button fly Levi jeans. The kind of jeans that was all the rage back in the southern part of the state and difficult and expensive to find. But this was also the jean of the logger. The mercantile was exactly like you would suspect...a little of everything. It was fantastic.

Behind our great house in Happy Camp was a creek. The creek would be dammed by a couple downed trees and a pretty nice swimming hole created. Cliff on one side to jump from. Not bad. Populated on most days by other kids, including some native american kids and young adults. Our first day there, before it was dammed up, Kevin, Micki and I were walking along the creek. Somehow my footing slipped and I was being carried downstream. Quickly. Kevin ran along...he was all of 12 or so....and at some point was able to get to me and snatch my butt out of the creek. I was banged up, wet and forever grateful.

Soon, the kids came and got the creek dammed up, the rope swing tied up and all was great in Happy Camp. My sister was restless and we sometimes had Indians at our window at night, enticing us to come outside. Micki often did, and that’s all I know about that.

We were happy in Happy Camp. It was an adventure, a time warp, another world. It was beautiful and rugged and rough. We left there in October, sorry to go but headed to Bloomington, Indiana where my dad would be the superintendent to build the great Assembly Hall, which has a roof line that is patterned after a suspension bridge. After San Francisco and Happy Camp, a college town was about the next best thing! It was 1969, man had walked on the moon and the times, they were a changin’.

San Francisco

What is there to say about this lovely place that hasn’t been said by countless numbers of people? The streets are twisty...especially Lombard Street. The trolley cars...cute. The people. The weirdos. The winos.

First, although I have mentioned that I am quite old, we were not in San Francisco because my dad was putting up the Golden Gate bridge...no. But we were there because American Bridge was replacing the original rivets and cables on the Golden Gate bridge. Pretty exciting stuff. I was 13 when we arrived in San Francisco. My parents, sister and brother and I lived in a three bedroom apartment building in a complex on a cliffside. It was pretty spectacular in the Marin County area and our schools were nice, clean and oh yeah, just like in the movies, we were outside a lot....even at school. From our apartment complex, if you had a telescope, you could see the prisoners in the San Quentin yard right across the bay. Things were tumultuous in San Franciso, too. War protests, sit ins, dancing in the streets.

There were great open fields and hills behind the apartment complex. We'd be gone for hours and hours. There were tall, weedy grasses covering the hills and we use to take cardboard and sled down the hills. The grass when bent over was slick as an icy, snow packed sled hill in Minnesota. Kevin and Micki convinced me to climb a "cliff face" behind the complex. I would describe it as huge but I don't have a clear cut idea really of what its dimension might have been, only that I got half way up and panicked. Kevin had to talk me down and I am sure was mortified by my girliness.

Fillmore West. Big time music hall for local and nationally known rock and roll bands. You’ve seen the posters maybe. Usually very, very psychedelic light shows, glo in the dark paint, lots of smoke in the air. Lots. My favorite band was a band from the area, “It’s A Beautiful Day”. I was thrilled not too long ago when I found their entire album on itunes. Couldn’t be happier! My mom, and I still don’t know why, use to let us go to concerts at Filmore West. Kevin, no, but Micki and I were there a lot. I can’t believe it to this day, but I can only think it was because Mom was clueless. That’s the only explanation.

My sister was a scrawny, red haired, freckle faced 15 year old. I still do not know how she did not get picked up hitchhiking by Charles Manson. She was so his “type” and he was in the area, and she hitch-hiked. Oh boy did she hitch hike. We used to get rides to Sausalito and spend all day in that very cool, very pretty, artist town. Its much bigger and commercially now as I understand it, but in 1968, it was awesome. Again, my mom must have been clueless.

I babysat for two families in the apartment complex. The first family was a single mom with a 10 year old boy and 5 year old twin boys. I was 13 mind you. She had me stay in the apartment with them for one whole weekend. I flushed my “feminine product” and stopped up the toilet. Had to call the building maintenance...after calling my mom. What was this woman thinking. I am pretty sure she was as clueless as my own mother. 3 days with three boys? All day? I was 13 for crying out loud. I remember hot dogs and cereal...and terror.

The other family, Hal and Judy Pressman. Two children, very sweet. I babysat for them around the holidays that year. I made popcorn for the kids and had to move the menorah back on the counter while pouring the melted butter on the big bowl of popcorn I had for the three of us. Out to the living room and enjoy the television. Less than 1/2 hour later....smoke. I pushed the candles back too far and the cabinets were in flames. Another call to my mom!

I had a good time in San Francisco. Micki became pretty well...gee, teen-agerish in San Francisco and there were troubled times ahead for my mom and dad and their first girl. It was going to get kinda ugly and I was going to observe, Cindi style.

So, St. Paul Minnesota

Dang it was cold there. When we arrived in Minnesota, with my brother who was home from Viet Jungle Nam, it was 17 below zero. I was in 8th grade and since we never went outside, I could not tell you much about Minnesota. The boys played hockey. I got some of the cutest shoes I have ever owned at Sears in a big mall in Minneapolis. They had a buckle. I had a really cool sweater and skirt set in kind of a butterscotch tweed..with my cool new shoes, I was too cute. Then one day my period started in the middle of the school day and there was that horrible stain in the back of my butterscotch tweed skirt. I died of mortification. Right there. Died.

Put yourself in my cool shoes for just one minute. Here we go in to third person for a short dream sequence. New girl. Cute in her trendy mini skirt and sweater and to-die-for buckled shoes. Oh, her period has started and now, along with staring at her for her southern accent and new kid-ness, we get to laugh about THAT over lunch. Ugh. That may actually be why I don’t remember much about Minnesota. Selective amnesia.

Fortunately for me, we moved to San Francisco shortly after. We weren’t taking the mobile home. Sold it or something in fact. We would be living in an apartment, in Corte Madera, Marin County. We were going to be groovy by golly. I am sure my mom was freaked out. We had already lived through race riots in Alabama in 1964 in a dirty, run down park in a small town called Demopolis. Heard the news, saw the “whites only” signs, the back of the bus, separate wash room, separate drinking fountain horror that was the United States of America. Lets not forget the hurricane in 1965. But this, well, this was 1968 baby...summer of love had already attacked San Francisco California the previous year.

Launch.

I am going to digress a little here and throw this picture out for you. This is my mom and dad in one of our mobile homes. Isn't my Dad handsome? You can see why my mom fell for him. Why she was willing to leave the town she had known all her life and take to the road like some big adventure. My dad liked her from the minute he laid eyes on her, with her dark auburn hair and clear blue eyes. He called her "Chauncey" in the early days because of her Irish heritage. She didn't know how to make fried chicken or gravy when they met but it became two of her best known treats. This is Christmas, 1956. Micki in the middle and my what a look she wears. Kevin, fat and sweet, with his bright red hair and baby blues...and me, a bit older than my granddaughter is now.

I look at this picture and can remember my mom in those clothes. The pants were lime green. She always wore those little embroidered slippers. I see the family resemblance there as although their coloring is much different, I see so much of my youngest child in her.

Seeing this picture, coming across it today, made my heart sing. I hope we don't stop taking pictures although I fear many families have all but stopped. I'm guilty of it, too. I guess what I really mean is I hope we don't stop printing pictures....this and a cup of coffee took over my morning. It was good.

Diamonds and pearls

After the job my dad was on in New Orleans was complete (which was actually a bridge in Chalmette, outside of NO. A town totally destroyed by the hurricanes in August 2005) we were on our way to Hendersonville, North Carolina. Now, Hendersonville is not far from Asheville and snuggled between the Smokeys and the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The park we lived in was friendly and there was a subdivision across the street that had many kids our age. My sister Micki had both feet into her teens and was taking them full steam ahead; I was teetering on the rim. Kevin was still a boy, playful and adventurous. In the subdivision across the street, placed there for our sole amusement, were teenage boys.....ooooooohhhhhhh.

We spent a lot of time on the road that ran between the park and the subdivision. Skateboards were still very popular and this road was a steep incline. We used to get at the top and skateboard down. There was a particular group of boys that hung out there at the top of the incline - they were daring and fun.

One boy had a brother with disabilities which I now recognize as being Cerebral Palsy...or CP. One evening as we were climbing back up the hill to go home we approached the boys walking towards us. For some reason I put my hands up, and the boy with CP took my hands and in typical boy behavior, started to turn them downward and to the side, twisting them. He was as stunned as I was when he heard my fingers snap. Letting go of my hands, we all stared at my now twisted fingers. He ran, I screamed, my sister punched his brother and Kevin...well, I’m sure he thought that was the coolest thing ever, to see my fingers laying this way and that. We walked home, me crying my eyes out and holding my mangled right hand in my mangled left, staring at the mess.

My mom was not pleased, my dad less so. This meant a trip to the emergency room and I had no business out there with those boys anyhow. We got to the hospital, Xrays were taken, fingers were straightened and splints applied, my left hand was not as bad as the right, the fingers having just dislocated, with the fingers moved back into place in the ER. The right hand had some breaks, and required splinting. Then the worse news. The doctor advised the perfect physical therapy in three weeks would be to do the nightly dishes. I don’t remember seeing the boy after that very much. It did a number on me though and I developed a fear for a while of people with disabilities, which I am happy to report was short-lived.

East Flat Rock Junior High, what a fun year we had there. Soon we were off to St. Paul, Minnesota. My brother, Darrell, was home on leave from the army and made the drive with us in January, 1967. I remember the Blue Ridge Parkway, which is always a beautiful route, and the views are spectacular. If you have ever been on that highway, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, GO. The trees that crisp January day were covered in ice and snow, the sun was sparkling ~ like being in a forest of diamonds and pearls.

Betsey's a comin'

I attended sixth grade in New Orleans, or just outside of New Orleans, at Trist Junior High School. It must have been a “middle” school as Micki was also there and was a year ahead of me.

I don’t have a lot of memories of my time there except that I named as my “favorite teacher”, if asked, Karl Bakken. One of many, many teachers I had as you can imagine, averaging two schools a year. I think my first grade year I had, between moves and other reasons, nine different teachers. For some reason, Mr. Bakken stood out. I do remember him dressing up as a superhero for a biology lesson. I also remember his form of punishment, for a rowdy classroom of sixth graders, was to have us stand beside our desks. Can teachers even do that kind of thing now?

Sometimes after lunch, which always included red beans and rice, we would get to mill around outside in the humid New Orleans air. It was a time of social discovery as girls stood in circles with their arms folded across their developing chests and boys ran, pushed and tried to deal with their own social inadequacies. It was during one of these fresh air experiences, windy and hot, that I looked up to see a figure scurrying across the parking lot, chiffon scarf whipping around her freshly teased hair-do....my mother. She was in a hurry, came to me quickly, embarrassingly so, and told me we were going home. She was in quite a state, that’s for sure.

There was a hurricane coming, and a big one at that. We lived in a trailer, which does not stand up well to tornadoes and hurricanes. Mom got us all home, packed, secured what she could which included putting masking tape on the mirrors in a big “X” pattern and taping cabinet doors shut. You have to remember that this house rolled...so we knew how to secure things down. We were quickly out and went downtown to a hotel, which we hoped would offer more security and safety that the aluminum box we knew as home.

The hurricane was big, and named Betsey. It was 1965, and it lasted throughout the evening and night. We were in a hotel room with another family we knew well in the room next door. We watched the blowing and the rain, and the debris flying through the air from our opened hotel room doorway on the third or fourth floor. Two boys skateboarded down the exterior walkway, back and forth, their speed encouraged by the strong winds. The next morning, the damage was apparent as street signs, shingles, glass and panels lay all around the hotel grounds. My dad went to check on the trailer and came back reporting that although the park took quite a lashing, the trailer came through pretty well, shifting off its support blocks only because the trailer next door rammed in to ours. There was a dent in the front corner, but otherwise, things were not bad. Not like some of the other homes in the park, which were completely destroyed, and the insides, those belongings that made these trailers “homes”, scattered throughout.

The next few days passed without electricity and eating what we could keep in a cooler with lots of ice. It took a few days for the city to recover and for us to be allowed back to our home. The pool at the hotel was filled with debris that blew in during the storm so we couldn’t swim. I do remember my brother Kevin somehow managed to “fall in” to the pool and came to the hotel room grinning and wet. If there is water, a boy will be wet.

I remember watching over the balcony one evening as a big, long, black limousine drove slowly down the streets. People told me it was the President, which would have been Lyndon Johnson, surveying the damages. That made an impression and I can still see that overhead shot from the hotel balcony of that limo turning the corner to go around the block and continue its surveillance. I didn’t ever picture people inside that car. I am trying to imagine it now and don’t know if its my imagination or memory from a news story that displays there for me.

I don’t know how long it was before we were allowed back home. I do remember that after a couple days my parents took pity on our poor souls and moved us to a hotel that had the power back on and a clean pool. The hurricane refugees that we once were had suddenly turned in to vacationers.

My memory.

Last week I posted a beginning. A beginning to explore some of my past, and to write it down. To throw it out there, let it plop down on the floor and then, to poke it with a stick. It might be interesting, and it might be dull. Dull dull.

I have one really clear memory of my sister and I when we were little. She was riding the tricycle, and I was standing on the back. That was typical. I was either standing on the back of her tricycle or on the back of Kevin’s. I don’t remember that I had my own tricycle. Micki had one because she was oldest. Kevin had one because he was the boy. I didn’t have one because, well, I don’t really know except that I didn’t. At least, not in this memory or else I wouldn’t have been standing on the back, while Micki pedaled.

We wore dresses a lot. I remember it being hot, that the park we were then living in had parched dirt roads. It was in California, I think, although I am not clear on where it was. I have a vivid memory of looking down and watching our shadow as I stood up and Micki was seated in front of me, my dress blowing out behind me. It was windy, too, and when we got back to the trailer the awning that attached to the top of the trailer and was secured by poles stuck in the ground had blown loose. It now laid across the top of the trailer. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

I will tell you that I remember being the middle kid. The middle kid between my mom and dad’s first child together and their baby boy...red haired and freckled boy. I was sweet, cute, spoiled to a degree. But, I was still the middle. My situation was hopeless! I don’t know if I ever got a tricycle but I can tell you I was 10 before I got my first bike. It was purple. Micki had hers for years, and Kevin, well....again, being a boy he got his bike when he was about 2 weeks old. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

There is an old movie of me crying my eyeballs out as Kevin and Micki danced together in our living room. I am probably 5 or 6. Apparently, neither would dance with me and I was quite distraught. I’ve seen that movie many times during my life and can not believe I cared that much, but like I said, I was spoiled to a degree. I fancied myself to be a ballerina, often wearing my petticoat over my clothes as if it were a tutu. I am sure that is why I was so upset, because I was the dancer! Or part of why they were being so darned mean to me, ganging up on me. Or, at least, that’s my memory.

My memories are scattered and are not like the memories of other people I have known. I have no repeat, kind of seared in to your brain memories you get from doing the same thing every day of your childhood. Like the street names, or store names or the hallways of schools. Or who use to live in a house on the corner of such and such street. People who had the same best friend for their entire lives. I’ve always been fascinated by those memories that other people can pull back to the surface. We moved about every 9 months, so there was not a lot of time to sear memories into the ol’ noggin. I do have snippets. Polio shots, and being lined up to get a sugar cube with vaccine in it, beaches, petrified wood, some sort of dinosaur park. My grandpa’s watermelon stand, Mt. Rushmore. Or, at least that’s my memory.

Oh, the places I've been...

I have a list of about 100 places I would like to see. I have a list of at least that many places I have been. I have often shared a little of my history with people but will post it here again for those of you who may not know...

My dad was a superintendent for American Bridge, division of United States Steel, and wherever a bridge was needed, we went. This meant a lot of traveling across these great 50 states, and living in close quarters. Grew up in a trailer..that’s right, trailer..not a mobile home, although it most certainly was that, not a modular home. A trailer. In trailer parks. Sometimes just over the tracks...often not pretty but usually fun, with lots of kids and adventures.

I was raised with my older sister, Micki, and my younger brother, Kevin. We had good times. There were just the five of us most of the time. We also had half siblings as mom and dad had each been married before and had two children each. Of course my dad’s kids were with their mom so we didn’t see them much as we traveled and lived far from them, but, we loved them. My mom’s kids also lived with our grandparents, my mom’s parents. Never really knew why and it matters not at this point. We loved them, too. Bunny, Jerry, Glenn and Darrell.

There are habits I developed as a kid that I carry forward into this current life. The whole sit back and observe thing. I will talk to anyone, and love learning something from a stranger, or finding out how we are connected. I like those characteristics...but there are a couple I developed I am not fond of and am spending my adult life trying to shake. I size people up. Too quickly, and often incorrectly. I do talk to anyone but it is often uncomfortable to look them square in the eye...forced extrovert from an introvert. And, I move on quickly. Friendship falters? Okay, move on. I don’t work hard to save them as there are, or at least was true in my past, more friendships down the road.

“I don’t drink, cuss or chew, or run with women who do...” an old pastor friend of mine once said. In the next chapter of my book, I’m going to be working on those other bad habits I've developed. Do you have habits you would like to change? Join me. Its never too late to be a better version of yourself.

Its true what they say, one of the worst things about working from home is the discipline it takes to stick to the plan. To keep the paperwork organized and the business running smoothly.

I had to take several steps to establish myself as an independent contractor in order to begin working with the clients I now provide services. The first, to have a business name. Now this is not something that I had ever considered in my “previous life” but I went with my name. Some people include something like “virtual services” in their business name or phrases that hold special meaning to them. My feeling is that should I ever need to advertise, I’m easy to find by my name rather than something clever...I’m already in the phone book. I just went basic. For those of you who know me, that probably isn’t surprising.

I also had to get the standard office equipment and tools. I have upgraded two computers, have a separate telephone line and a few other pieces and parts to prepare this to be a well-oiled machine. And don’t forget my way cute labeler. Bottom line, yes, there was start up money.

Handling the paperwork has been a challenge. Managing my schedule, instead of it managing me, has also been a bit of work. When I am done with what I have scheduled for the day, I walk away from it. That’s difficult and has often had me racing from one errand to another as I try to juggle my free time. Its been two years but I am finally starting to feel like I am in a flow, and am top of the pile instead of piled on.

I know a lot of young mothers and others would like to work from home, believing it to be an answer, and it can be, but it isn’t easy and it won’t work for everyone. The idea that you can do it all, put in a quick half hour here or there, just doesn’t work out. It takes the time investment, the time management, that all “jobs” take. I also have no small children to think about and no barking dogs. That's a home office killer.

It takes dedication and flexibility and it takes being able to say no.

That’s been a hard one for me. Saying no, my plate is full. No, that’s not something that I can take on right now. No, you are nice and I see you are in a bind, but that doesn’t mean I can allow myself to be in a bind. No, I just don’t want to. No, I realize that to some it must mean that I have all the free time in the world because I work from home, but I am a professional business owner and have a commitment and contracts to meet.

Simple fix

I was given a lovely colored glass vase from my son and his girlfriend, made by a local artist neighbor of theirs. I love that vase and could hardly wait to see the sunlight through it as it held a small bouquet of flowers. As soon as the holiday decorations were put away the vase became the go to container for a few bouquets over the last few weeks, all of which I have picked up here or there while out running errands. Flowers have brought color to a long winter, and everyone in the house enjoys seeing the deep purple glass reflect on the shiny oak finish of the dining room table.

I gave up on the “rosey” idea of receiving flowers years ago. Not that I didn’t drop plenty of hints and many descriptions of the kinds of flowers I like. I realized I was wasting an awful lot of time and a dose of emotion waiting on flowers. Its funny how when you are growing up, things just hit you. Why wait for a gift of flowers? If I want flowers, and I have five dollars, I’m getting flowers. I don’t really see it as giving myself a “gift” nor do I have any “loves me, loves me not” attachment to it. I like flowers on the table, that's pretty much what it is. Sometimes we wait for others to do something it is perfectly fine to do ourselves. As a young wife, I waited on flowers. As a young husband, he just didn’t get why, although he did understand he best not drag an iron, a skillet or a vacuum cleaner in and call it a “gift”. As an old wife, if I want flowers, they are on the table. Simple fix.

Rolling.

So, its started. It was barely noticeable at first. About a year ago, a check out person at Kroger called me “honey”. It gave me pause, but I rolled with it. The next week or so, and since then, I’ve had some nice smiles and some more “honey” comments. Alright, that’s friendly. I’m a southerner from years back, I can take a “honey” now and then.

Then, I started to notice a little extra smiling here and there. Some extra “Oh, excuse me” every once in a while. Okay, gee, return to courtesy. That's nice. I'll roll with that, too.

Yesterday, it dawned on me there was more to the change in my co-shopper's behavior after a young woman, coming out of a check out lane, again at Kroger, made an obvious and definite stop and pulled back on her cart. Smiling at me, in a mildly exaggerated manner, she just stood there while I smiled back and moved ahead. As I walked, briskly I might add, with a spring in my step, to my car it hit me! “Oh my word! The huge purse, glasses sliding down my nose, the chicken neck, the disheveled grey hair! She thinks I’m a little old lady!”

At first, I thought I would cry. I do that! I defer to little old ladies! I wait, I motion them on, I help them find their car in the parking lot! OH.MY.WORD.

Then I thought, what the heck...I’ll roll with it.

Have you ever known anyone who is walking around with a little rain cloud over their head? You know the one where it causes it to rain on just them? I have had some bad days and even some not so great weeks and months in my life. I’ve had a my own personal rain cloud at times.

I’ve got a friend who took a nasty tumble and screwed up a knee, an ankle, a foot...but considering the distance she travelled in that short amount of time, and the lack of spring in the concrete floor, we’re celebrating. Her fall was just a shower in what was already a rainy period for her. Remember when that book came out a few years ago and it was later discovered the alleged autobiography was really fiction? My friend's book will read like fiction, maybe even a comedy at times, but will be her truth.

How you handle a rainy day, a rainy month or, as in my friends case, a rainy year, is as individual as you are. There are theories and therapies, medication and meditation, soul searching and self reflection...prayer and plea. Its like a banquet, isn’t it? A little of this, and less of that. A main dish, with some sides.

Let me drive.

Ah, to be flexible.

And no, this is not a post about New Year’s Resolution #39...to get in better shape. I’m talking about turning on a dime, changing the view, changing the mood, changing ideas, changing goals. But, I’m talking about controlled flexibility.

Is that an oxymoron? I looked up a list of oxymorons and there were some favorites listed - easy labor, adult children, harmless lie, head butt. Head butt? Now that made me giggle. But, controlled flexibility didn’t make the list.

I’ll share a story my dad told once after driving home from an extended trip with one of my older brothers. Dad was asleep in the passenger seat and was awakened by the rumble strip noise, you know the one. Terror, right? My brother had also drifted to sleep and drove off the road. Things had to change, and fast. Dad looked over at him and calmly said, “Well, drive us outta this one, son.”

These days sort of remind me of that story. I'm not an economist but it seems like things have been a bit too flexible, and we're working towards some control. Personally, I'm working on controlled flexibility. Flexible enough to change direction, and make a new plan, tweak it when it needs it. But I also want to be controlled enough to work that plan, to get back on track, ready and willing, to drive outta this one.

Learning

Right as the gasoline prices started to rise to outrageous heights about two years ago, I was offered a position at a very prestigious university. Impressed? Not to instruct anything mind you, but to work in one of the offices. It was going to be part time, to get my foot in the door until something full time became available. However, gas was hovering at $4 per gallon, its 30 miles one way and it was every morning. That just didn’t calculate out to be a good move. I don’t really regret that decision but I do sometimes wonder, what if.

I love young people and being on the campus, even in one of the office buildings, gave me a real buzz. The people I talked with were smart, engaging, obviously loved being in their jobs and at their campus. It was a very good feeling. I had several interviews there for a couple of opportunities and each time, the candidate selected was a friend of a friend, or a co-worker from a previous job from someone on the interview committee. I was in three cases, candidate number 2. The maid of honor, the runner up, second fiddle, the also ran, the vice president, the sidekick...you get the picture. Until that last opportunity, when out of the blue, they called and without an interview said “We’d like you to consider this part time position we have opening up. We think you’re perfect for it...” and I had to fiscally and frugally decline.

The funny thing is, in the two years that I have been working from home I’ve probably learned more than I would have at that very prestigious college campus. Oh, I may have missed a football game or tailgate as a result but, I have learned much. For example, although I was pretty “computer savvy” during my working days outside of my home I am now running two cpus, dual monitors, log in to some pretty high tech applications for my work, talk to people a good part of my day troubleshooting their computer, device or networking issues. I can talk intelligently about RAM and DDR, the benefit of a solid state drive and shared cache not to mention quad-cores versus higher processing speeds. Sometimes I sell them a do-hickey or gadget or two.

I know our capacity for learning never stops and there is no end of things to be learned, no matter where you are.

Out of the basement.

Like a lot of you, I am trying to get my office organized and preparing for filing my taxes and that kind of thing. I decided to get a labeler so I can be even more organized -looking. I don’t profess to actually be organized but the labeler might help, and its way fun and cute.

When I decided to begin working from home, my first office was located in the basement. I am sure a lot of home offices are located in basements, and I don’t want to sound like I don’t think its a great space. But, I spent the last 13 years in a building without windows in our office. I decided shortly after being home, and after realizing that I was going to be okay with my new found career, that I needed windows. Upstairs to the guest room I went.

It took a little muscle, and some rearranging of “stuff” but I really enjoy my office/guest room. I have more plans but for the time being, its just about as good as it can get. I never really pictured myself working from home and there have been adjustments for sure. It is less money...hence the no frills as described in an earlier post. But, that’s balanced out by spending less money on a day to day basis, on who knows what. Particularly in gas and can I get an Amen.

It is less people interaction, though, and that’s not always what suits me best. I enjoy hearing special stories that people will share if you only take the time to ask, to listen. What is VERY cool is that for one of my contracts, I talk to people from all around the U.S. and Canada, sometimes Europe. I have had some excellent conversations and have learned some really interesting things. For example, I talked to a guy one night who lived in the Canadian Arctic in a town that was spelled with a lot of “N”s and “U”s. Do you know how north that is? How many of us have talked to a guy in the Canadian Arctic? I can’t imagine a situation I would have been in prior to 2008 that would have put me in touch with someone in the Canadian Arctic! Crazy. Read up on that slice of the globe - I took the time and learned some very interesting facts and characteristics. Like for example, that region has caused Canada to become one of the top 3 diamond producers in the world. Who knew?

Frills...

Still a pretty chilly day here and as I look out my window I am thinking of hot chocolate, which then makes me think of this yummy coffee recipe I recently came across. I love coffee. I drink mine black..no frills. However, once in a while I like a frills coffee and “Dulce de Leche Coffee” is plenty frilly. I might have to try a cup later today. Definitely an after dinner or afternoon coffee....they say its suppose to be a late day drink because of the Kahlua.

LIke a lot of households, we cut back on many frills and thrills in 2009. I hope we can revisit some of those treats in 2010 but we’ll see. One thing I miss a LOT is going out to dinner. Now, I don’t mean run over to the nearest fast food or chain restaurant near the mall, I mean go out for a meal. I’m talking fancy place. I love a good meal out at a nice place. We didn’t go often, usually when traveling or visiting, but I miss it.

I like vodka martinis when I go out for a nice meal. Now this is something that I came to kind of late in life. While waiting for a table one night at a fairly fancy place, I just thought, “Well, I’ll see what all the fuss is about.” Went for two bleu cheese stuffed olives and the rest can be written in stone, folks. I’m an occasional martini drinker.

For those of you who know me, you know I like to observe. Hang back, get the vibe, size it up. You can’t do that if you’re, how shall we say, hammered, so I’m not much on throwing caution to the wind and getting out of control with my martini. But, if I can sit at a bar, interact a bit with a bartender and observe, and then move on to a nice meal, well, that’s my kind of evening. I discovered eating at the bar, too, because a bartender suggested we stay put, and enjoy our meal right there. Not all places encourage it, but if they do, that’s where I will eat. Bartenders appear to have a little more time to spend talking with you. After all, you are right in their face. I prefer it, I think, because it puts you more at eye level rather than having to look up to the server. Short person complex? Maybe, but I think the experience, the exchange, is different. If the bartender is young, energetic and engaging, I love it. If they are older, calm and wise, I love it.

It can get fairly expensive though, can’t it? I wish going out to eat at a nice place could cost less, so I could go more often. When this weather breaks, I’m going out for a nice meal. I hope you will, too.

To get this going...a little about why...

For one day in the fall of 2008, and again in 2009, there have been bluebirds in my yard. Just one day. I live with woods on one side of my house and a recreational lake on the other side. I have a wonderfully fantastic view out my window, and see many birds and wildlife. However, bluebirds do not come here...this is not an open field! Which, I have learned, is more their typical haunt. I have lived on this same piece of land for over 30 years ~ in the fall of 2008 my window revealed those swift, little, bright bluebirds for the first time.

Not just one bluebird either. Probably 100. Everywhere. Fast, swooping, flitting...on the ground, in the trees, in the air. I stood watching for several minutes. Then, I tried to get a picture..they were just too fast. I fled from window to window - I went outside, I went back inside. I went outside. Who do I call? How long will they stay? Will you please just stay there for one second while I get this picture? Digital cameras, especially cheap ones, have very slow shutters I learned. Too slow for the bluebird, that's for sure. "Oh my!" and "Oh goodness!!" "OH MY!" I couldn't believe it. I was stunned and thrilled. It just made me happy. While I did not break out into "Zippity Do Dah" I felt like I could.

My life has brought many surprises, as I am sure everyone's has. Some of my surprises were painful and harsh, and some, like the bluebirds, thrilling and totally unexpected. I am so grateful I was home to see them. If my life had not taken a harsh and painful turn, I wouldn't have been here to see those thrilling and unexpected little bluebirds. I decided to undertake a blog that, I hope, is fun to read for everyone but also as a connection for women and men working out of their homes, whether it be as a stay-at-home mom or dad, or customer service rep, technical support technician, graphic designer, web developer, journalist, editor, programmer, real estate agent, life coach, caregiver or a domestic engineer and the list goes on. People like me that need a bit of a connection but so enjoy being able to see the view their window offers. So I'm looking out...thank you for looking in.