My Greatest Gift

God does work in mysterious ways. Or, at least I’ve come to realize that even when you think God is playing hooky from your life, He really is there taking care of things. Sometimes it just takes a while to realize – sometimes after the fact – that He is there all along.

Here we are in 1990, not long after we met --
me (the one with all the hair) and Ed,
the man I would eventually marry.
Notice how smitten I am!

I admit that of late, there are times that I wonder where God is. Is He there for me, protecting me, helping me as I had asked? While I may feel completely alone, I just have to believe that He’s there, and that His plan for me is in the works. After all, He has revealed Himself to me many times. Why would I doubt Him now?

One particular instance that resonates is when God led me to my church, Gloria Dei Lutheran Church, and then later to my husband. That little gesture from God is one that I consider my greatest gift.

When I joined my congregation more than 22 years ago, I must say that even I was bewildered by my choice. I lived in Ohio, so why did I choose a church in Northern Kentucky, a good 20 miles away from where I lived? There were plenty of other churches close by to choose from. But after visiting several churches, my gut just told me that God wanted me to be at Gloria Dei.

It was a time in my life where I really needed spiritual uplifting. I thought I was getting old (yeah, I was 24), I didn’t have a steady job and I was in the midst of breaking up with a long-term boyfriend. I felt there was no stability in my life whatsoever, so I looked to church to provide that.

So I joined Gloria Dei and trekked the extra distance for some time. In the meantime, I broke up with my boyfriend and didn’t look back, and within a year I finally landed the steady job. And then came the big event. About a year after joining the church, I met my husband, Ed.  Not through church, but through a friend who introduced us.

I was immediately taken with this kind, wonderful, witty, hard-working man. He was a man who still lived at home because he was taking care of his elderly father. And he was a man who could fix things! I felt I had hit the jackpot there!

As we dated I knew within just a few weeks that he was the man I wanted to marry. I guess it took him a little longer to decide he wanted to marry me. Nevertheless, two years and four months into our courtship he gave me the most wonderful gift for Christmas. He gave me his heart – one overflowing with undying love. (And the sparkly diamond ring that he gave me was pretty nice too!) Yes, to know that he wanted to spend his life with me was undoubtedly one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received.

But it dawned on me that my husband’s commitment was part of an even greater gift – one that God had given to me. Why had God called me to a church such a far distance from where I lived? Because He knew that is the area where I would eventually end up. While I initially lived 20 miles away, Ed only lived about three miles away, in Kentucky. Once we were engaged, I moved to Kentucky to be closer to him and when we got married we settled there into our first home (with the father-in-law, who lived with us until he passed away).

God called me to Gloria Dei because He knew the man I hadn’t yet met but would eventually marry was waiting for me there – practically in the church’s backyard! Ed ended up joining the church too, and to this day we are still members there.

What a wonderful Christmas it was that year – 1992. I not only had the heart of the man I loved, but also the realization that God was so instrumental in bringing us together. They are priceless gifts that continue to be fruitful to this day, after more than 17 years of marriage and three children together.

Today, I occasionally ponder, “Where are you, God?” It’s during those times that I remember 22 years ago, when I was young woman who was jobless, uncertain and alone. I kept faith and God took care of me then. Perhaps I should say, “I know you’re there, God – even if I don’t always feel it.” So I’ll just continue to keep faith, pray that someday God will once again reveal the big picture to me, and know that even when I feel alone, as long as I keep God in my life I am never alone.

Doing the Duckman

The coveted prize.

How many people can say that they trained for a triathlon in only three days? Okay, it was only a mini-triathlon, but to a middle-aged, out-of-shape. far-from-svelte dame with a desk job even the most mini of triathlons might as well be the friggin’ Olympics.

I was totally not up for it, but my husband twisted my arm. We were on vacation last year (July 2010) in Vermont, at a family resort near the Canadian border called the Tyler Place. We had vacationed there three previous times, so when it came to the schedule of the week’s activities, we knew the drill. 

Mid-week at the resort brought with it one of the more highly touted events – the notorious Duckman Triathlon. Obviously, I felt a need to test my mettle. So after three years standing on the sidelines, I decided to take a shot at it.

Mind you, my goal was simply to finish – not to place anywhere near the top. Or in the middle, or even next to last. I didn’t care if I finished dead last. Just as long as I finished. That, to me, was a sufficient goal.

The Big Event

So my rigorous training commenced exactly three days before the event. I faced a one-third mile swim, an eight-mile bike ride, and a 1.2 mile run. Could I do it? Well, things didn’t look so good on my first day of “training” when I joined my husband for a jog on the running course. It only took a few steps for my bad knee to feel the shock of the pavement, sharp pain inching up my knee every time my foot went thundering down. “That’s right,” I remembered.” I dislocated that knee years ago. That’s the one that sounds like it has gravel in it every time I go up and down stairs.” And now I was trying to run on it? Get real! Okay, the run was largely out for me. I would have to make it a speed walk instead.

While the running part was definitely detrimental to my efforts, the swim and the biking parts didn’t make me quite so nervous. I had already swum the course a couple of times, so I at least knew I could do it. Bring on the competition!

Wednesday of that week was Duckman Day. It was a beautiful sunny day with record Vermont temperatures – about 95 degrees that day. Unlike Kentucky, though, the humidity wasn’t bad, so the heat didn’t bother me. Let’s get it on.

Me tumbling up to the dock after the swim.

I showed up in my Speedo swimsuit eager to start the first leg of the competition – the swim. The event coordinators marked my arm with a number, I took one last pull off of my water bottle, and then jumped in the lake. The starting horn was about to blow!

As I started to swim, I realized then that the competition was fierce. Lots of feet in my face to begin with. But alas, it didn’t take long for the swimmers in front to pull ahead and for me to fall behind. “Don’t worry about them,” I thought. “Pace yourself. Just worry about yourself.” I must say, when you’re in it for speed, a third-mile swim seems much longer than when you’re casually swimming it for “practice.” Nevertheless, I finished. When I finally pulled myself up onto the dock, I was exhausted, discombobulated, out of breath. As I prepared for the second leg of the event – the bike trip – it took me a few moments to get my bearings back. A true marathoner would never waste such precious time. Good thing I was content being a novice.

And then the bike portion began. It was an easy enough jaunt – from Highgate Springs to Swanton and back. And it was all flat road. Easy breezy.  The biking was actually somewhat relaxing. I was already near the back of the pack, so I wasn’t under pressure to snatch a top spot to the finish line. So I enjoyed the Vermont country and became one with myself. And the cows. Did I mention the road to Swanton was lined with dairy farms? Let’s just say I got a full whiff of those farms on that 95-degree day. Nothing like the sweet aroma of manure on a hot day to get you pumped. It was one thing to get past the farms and finally get to Swanton. But then I had to turn around and again ride through the manure zone on the return trip. I think this must have been an intentional part of the Duckman event.

Finishing my bike ride.

As I made the turnaround at Swanton and headed back for Highgate Springs, I spotted a kid behind me, gaining on me.  As he passed me he turned to me and said in the sweetest voice, “Hi Mom.” Then he whizzed away. It was my 10-year-old son. He had been the last one in the pack and now he had passed me up. I was now running dead last.

No big deal, I thought. So what if I was last? I’ll wear it like a badge of honor. I trudged on through the final stretch of the bike race and made it back to tackle the part of the triathlon I dreaded most – the run. After wasting more precious time to get my bearings once again after the bike ride (and grab a gulp or two out of my water bottle), I embarked upon the last leg – and using a bad leg, at that. I didn’t even pretend that I was going to run. I just started out speed walking as fast as I could.  And walk is what I did for about 90 percent of the course. But then when the final stretch came – the part where you head down the straightaway toward the toilet paper ribbon that your supporters have ready for you to run through – I finally ran. I ran slow, and with a limp to accommodate my weak knee, but I ran.  It was maybe an eighth of a mile, but that eighth of a mile might as well have been five miles to me.

My husband breaking
through his toilet paper
ribbon. (I wasn't too
far behind.)

But I limped along, determined to break through that toilet paper ribbon. I had come so far. Yes I was the last one. But that didn’t matter. I had to finish, and that’s all I had to do. And as I broke through my toilet paper ribbon, I was exhilarated. What a victory for me. I had completed my first triathlon, and had done so being completely out of shape! Pure willpower had helped me to get to the finish line!

And what was my first thought once I crossed the finish line? Simple. “Where’s my duck?”

Lessons from the Duck

You see, I didn’t get the bragging rights that come with placing high in the standings. But I did get the same prize as everyone else. A little keychain rubber ducky. One might think that such a trinket would be at the bottom of my kids’ toy box by now. But no. That ducky is my trophy – proof of my accomplishment that day. It is prominently displayed in the most esteemed of locations – my china hutch.  I treasure the little guy. So nobody better mess with my duck.

It isn’t the actual physical item, really, but what it represents.  Sometimes in life true accomplishments are few and far between. As I think back on the past year, I would say that finishing that triathlon definitely ranks toward the top of my recent accomplishments. I figure it took guts for me to set out to do something that I had never done before without any real certainty that I could do it. And it took all the courage I could muster to do it even though I knew I would probably finish last. All in all, I did what I set out to do – I finished. That means I didn’t quit, even when the odds were against me.

Perhaps it provides a good life lesson – to persevere even when the odds are against you. Of course, a week at the Tyler Place is different from life in the outside world. In the real world, not everybody gets a prize for finishing near the bottom.  Still, the duck reminds me that the only way one truly fails is to never try. So in that sense, my shot at the triathlon was a success.  All I know is that finishing the event enlivened me in a way that I hadn’t experienced in some time.

Thus, I’m proud to say that I did the Duckman.  And I have the duck to prove it. So what will my little duck serve to do? Inspire me to face my fears and set out on even more new experiences? Assure me that I can’t succeed unless I try? Or will it simply go “Quack quack” (or “squeak squeak”) when I roll it and squeeze it in my hands? I guess it depends on how I choose to use it.

For now, though, I think I’ll just relish my accomplishment and cherish my duck. And know that if I was able to do the Duckman with the odds against me, I’m probably capable of doing much more.

Thanks, Ducky, for the boost in confidence. For that, I promise not to relegate you to the toy box. In fact, I think I’ll plan to keep you within my sights for a long time to come.

In Honor of Naomi

When I woke up this morning, I wondered if today might be the day. I dreamed about my grandfather last night. He’s long gone from this world, having passed in 2003. I can’t say that I’ve ever really dreamed about him. But last night I did.

I can’t really describe the dream, only to say he was descending. And I was right beside him, going down slowly, as if a parachute was harnessed to my body.

Normally, I wouldn’t have thought much about it. But as I awoke today, I wondered if my dream somehow signified that after all these years, my grandfather returned to this earth for just a short time to retrieve the soul mate that he so adored – my grandmother, Naomi. Of course, it could have just been a stupid dream.

But then later on in the morning I received the news that my grandmother, after suffering a massive stroke 12 days ago, died around mid-morning.

My grandmother, Naomi, latching her antique pearls onto me
(the blushing and somewhat dazed bride) in 1994.

There’s nothing like the death of a loved one to spark a flood of memories. As might be the typical reaction, upon hearing the news I reminisced. I thought of the times I visited her as a girl. I remembered that her tap water always tasted like it came out of a tin can (northern Michigan well water, you know). I remember hitting tennis balls up against the garage door of her house, which was a treat to me because I didn’t have anywhere at my own house to hit tennis balls. (So maybe she gets credit for my passion for the game!) I remember traveling to Michigan for the big celebration when my grandparents reached their 50^th wedding anniversary. I remember my wedding day when, donned in my wedding dress, she adorned my neck with her antique pearls. And I remember the day when she first held my firstborn child.

Mind you, my grandmother was not perfect. But then none of us are. In fact, she was known to have a stubborn streak at times. And (God bless her soul) her grilled cheese sandwiches were not exactly to die for (perhaps just a tad well done). But given any minor flaws she may have had, one could never doubt her fierce love and loyalty for her family

So what was my reaction when I learned of her passing this morning? Beyond the initial melancholy, I couldn’t help but rejoice that her suffering has ended. And then, I celebrated her life by spending time with my own family. How convenient that my husband just happened to take the day off from work today. Today became family day. It was much needed, given that so much of my time the past few weeks had been spent on finishing my final graduate school class. Having finished the class as of two days ago, it was time to chill out a little and appreciate what is really important in life. First it was the driving range, then a little miniature golf. Then out to dinner. And tomorrow we leave for a weekend camping trip. Am I thrilled about spending a weekend tent camping in the sweltering heat? Honestly, no. A Hilton or a Holiday Inn sounds better. But I am looking forward to the time with my husband and three boys. They are, after all, first and foremost in my life.  I would like to think that my grandmother helped to foster those family values.

So as I bond with my own children this weekend, I will think of my grandmother and honor her life. I will relish the fact that she led a good and full life. I will respect and appreciate the love and loyalty that she shared with my grandfather during their 64 years of marriage. And I will remember that her death this morning was not my loss. Instead, the life she lived and the love that she shared while she was here was my gain. I am part of who I am because of her.

And now her time on this earth has come to an end. It is a time for her to journey elsewhere. My guess is that my grandfather was there to meet her as she passed. I envision him taking her little fingers into his massive hands and saying, “C’mon Naomi. We’re going for a ride.” And then he shepherded her on the miraculous ascent into Eternal Life.

They are together again, Naomi and Emerson, living in the midst of God in heavenly paradise.

Something tells me Grandma is just fine. I think right now she would say there’s no need to grieve, no need to mourn.

She is at peace. So simply rejoice.

A Diamond in the Stuff

“I’ll be with y’all in just a few minutes,” said Jenny from her way-too- tiny kitchen. “I’m diabetic. I have to eat when I take my medicine.” No problem – that was my reply.

It was really more of a dazed response, as I was still trying to get a handle on what I had just walked into – a hoarder’s dwelling.

 I found myself inside this woman’s apartment as part of the church mission trip that I took part in last week. I was one of four adults accompanying 25 youth to the Winning Our World (WOW) Urban Ministry program in Knoxville, Tennessee. It’s a spectacular program, really. Each day we were assigned to affiliated agencies or organizations – such as the Salvation Army, Knoxville Area Rescue Ministries or area nursing homes – to offer up either some companionship or some elbow grease, depending on the needs of the organization. Those assignments rotated. My first day there the luck of the draw was on my side. I delivered meals on wheels in the morning and did crafts with nursing home residents in the afternoon. No sweat there. But at some point I feared that an assignment would come where I would be pushed out of my comfort zone.  That time came on Wednesday – the day I was assigned with a few others to go clean Jenny’s apartment.

The manager of the property, a subsidized housing complex, informed us that Jenny was on “probation” because she was having trouble keeping her unit up to par. Thus, she needed our help.

When I entered the small efficiency apartment, I saw stuff – mountains of stuff. So much stuff that I didn’t know where I could possibly start. With stuff piled high on all the surfaces, dusting was out. One young lady in my group made her way to the bathroom with the intention of cleaning there.  She set out to clean the toilet and the sink, but the bathtub was out. It was piled to the hilt with dirty clothes. Jenny explained that she used the bathtub to do her laundry.

I and one other boy in my group grabbed brooms and just started sweeping parts of the narrow path that snaked through the apartment. It was about the only part of the floor we could see. As I was sweeping my way toward the kitchen, I spotted a diploma sitting on one of Jenny’s shelves. She had received some sort of schooling as a med tech long ago. Okay, so she had some education. How in the world did she get here?

Jenny finished eating in the kitchen and came out into the main apartment area to join us – not an easy task for her, I would suspect, given her size. Morbidly obese, she volunteered the fact that she weighed 425 pounds.  I guess it was something that she was able to move around at all. She settled herself into a chair in her living area while I worked my way to the kitchen that she had just left.

Okay, I’ll work on the kitchen, I thought. I swept what floor that I could in the kitchen area. Then I started looking for what else might need to be taken to task. I noticed the top of the refrigerator. It was covered with a layer of dirt. Ah-ha! There’s a surface I can clean! I started to take things off the top of the refrigerator so that I would be able to wipe it off.

That’s when I saw them – cockroaches. They crawled up the wall in back of the refrigerator. They crawled under the cabinet over the refrigerator. On occasion one or two would scurry across the top of the refrigerator. That’s when I realized that what I was trying to clean off the top of the refrigerator wasn’t dirt, but cockroach droppings. Yuch! With each wipe of the surface, I prayed, “Please Jesus, don’t let one of those cockroaches crawl over my hand.”

I swatted and stomped the roaches that I encountered and went about wiping down the refrigerator top. I figured if I accomplished nothing else, the top of Jenny’s refrigerator would be clean (and sanitary) by the time I left.

I suppose my reaction to all of this could have disgust. It was true that I couldn’t even begin to fathom how this woman could allow herself to live in such filth. I could have chalked it up to her lacking smarts or simply being indifferent to her situation. But that would have been the easy assumption.

As I conversed with Jenny, I quickly concluded that she wasn’t stupid. She was friendly, intelligent and knowledgeable on a wide range of topics. She was articulate and could talk about anything from music to professional sports. She was sweet and took an interest in the lives of those around her. In fact, she was intrigued about our roles as Christian mission volunteers and how far from out of town we had traveled that week to serve. Jenny was especially interested in this, as she herself was a devout Christian.

As we got to know Jenny in that short couple of hours, I realized that I was more perplexed than disgusted with her situation. I wondered how on earth somebody as bright and personable as she could have possibly ever ended up in this situation. Was it the physical strain from the obesity and associated health problems that hindered her capacity for keeping house? Or maybe there were emotional issues . How I wish I had a couple of days to just sit down and talk to her. I wanted to know her story.

But alas, there was no time to learn her story beyond the pleasantries of that couple of hours. We did manage to get part of her bathroom clean. Some of the floor got swept. A few things were wrapped up and loaded into crates and boxes (just to make room for the new television that she anticipated that she was going to get). And then there was the top of that refrigerator, which I left in pristine condition. Unfortunately, it would only be a matter of time before the cockroaches will crap it up again. But on that day, it looked nice.

As the time came for us to leave, Jenny asked me to reach into the refrigerator and pull out four bottles of chilled bottled water. There were four of us working in her apartment, and Jenny had chilled those just for us – a token of her appreciation.  She especially wanted us to have them because she felt bad that her air conditioning was out and that we had to work in her apartment without air conditioning. We graciously accepted her gift.

As we were packing up our stuff to leave, Jenny did make one request. “May we pray together?” Of course, we all replied. We bowed our heads and let Jenny take the lead.

Jenny’s prayer was beautiful. She prayed for us, our mission work, the young people in the group who were learning the value of giving to others, and for safe travels back home for all of us. At no time during the prayer did she even mention herself. Nothing self-serving there. And the prayer’s intensity was evidence of Jenny’s overwhelming faith – a faith that intrigued me.

If I were in her situation, would I have such faith? Or would I be bitter? I imagine myself with virtually nothing, living in squalor, struggling to battle obesity and chronic disease in unsanitary conditions with God knows what kinds of critters crawling throughout my residence. Yes, this is pretty much Jenny’s predicament. Yet she has not turned her back on God. Instead, her faith is as strong as any I’ve seen. What keeps her going, I wonder?

I’ve often asserted that we learn to love God during the most difficult times in our lives. That is, after all, when we need Him more than ever. Maybe Jenny’s hard times have formed her faith. Maybe her faith is all she has.

Bottom line is I really liked Jenny. I still wonder how things will turn out for her. I’ll never know, but I at least know that God is with her. Even more important, she knows that God is with her.

As I reflect on the experience, I admit that I wasn’t prepared to walk into that apartment, and I was unsettled by what I saw.  But amidst all the dirt, cockroaches and countless piles of junk, I found a beautiful diamond. A diamond in the rough? Maybe it’s better to say a diamond in the stuff – lots of stuff. But it was a diamond nonetheless. And it was Jenny.

Shattered

It was just my luck. There I was, about a year ago, sitting in my office at work, minding my own business, typing away on my computer. Then from out of nowhere, lightning struck. Not literally, but at the moment it sure felt like something happened. Not even lightning, I guess, as one can see lightning.

I heard a loud crack and looked down. Right before my eyes, the tempered-glass computer table that I was sitting at spontaneously shattered. No reason, really. Nothing had fallen on the table. I had not hit the table with my fists or with a hammer (then I could understand why it might shatter). The table literally just imploded before my eyes. And as the glass fell from the metal frame of the table, there went my notebook computer along with it. Fortunately, the computer survived with just a few nicks and scratches. But in the wake of this little mini-disaster I was left with thousands of tempered glass pieces, all peppering my office floor. Co-workers who heard the loud crack and then the thundering crash that followed came to my door to see if I was okay. Yes, I was physically okay. But I know I spent the next few minutes with a puzzled look on my face – eyes wide, mouth open, and wondering, “What just happened?”

In the end I chalked it up as just a freak accident. That was a shame, because I had just purchased that computer table for my office and I really liked it. It was modern and cute. But obviously, it was also flawed. Eventually, I was able to get a refund from the manufacturer so I could buy a new table (from now on I’m staying away from tempered glass). But obviously the manufacturer could not help me with the immediate task at hand – cleaning up the mess.

I worked from home the next day, just because I didn’t want to deal with the mess. But then the day after that, I came into the office with dust pan and vacuum in hand, prepared to do some clean-up. It took me at least a couple of hours to get it all cleaned up. And all of those thousands of pieces ended up in my trash can. I figured from there on, the cleaning staff could deal with it. But I have to say, there was something appealing about all that glass in my trash can. It was sparkly, and shiny. I seemed to be drawn to it, though I couldn’t explain why. As a result, I ended up picking a few pieces out of the heap and keeping them. Perhaps I wanted a souvenir of my little experience? Could be. I ended up putting the pieces in my desk and not giving much thought to them after that.

Fast forward a few months. I’m now cleaning out my office because I’ve lost my job. As I was clearing my desk out, I come upon those pieces of glass. What do I do with them? Just with everything else, I packed them up and took them home. Now they are in my desk at home.

On occasion, I’ll get the glass out and look at it. It’s after having done this a few times that I’ve finally realized why these chunks mesmerize me. It’s because in their broken state, I see beauty within them that was not visible when the glass was whole. A whole piece of tempered glass is simply a clear piece of glass. But when it breaks, beautiful mosaic patterns form within the pieces. The tempered glass showed me that there is beauty in brokenness. And that sometimes it is necessary to be broken first before certain beauty can shine through.

Why does this matter to me? I’m hoping this concept applies to life, as well. So many times in my life I’ve felt broken, or flawed. But then, haven’t we all? Maybe it’s part of the master plan to have times when our lives seem shattered. Maybe it’s during those times that we find beauty in life, and in ourselves, that we didn’t know existed.

For instance, when my job went away I was heartbroken. I identified so much with my work that I was left wondering who I was once I left.  Over the course of time, it’s been up to me to find my way back into my own identity. Who am I? Well, I’m a mother who has had the good fortune to be a little more involved in her children’s lives this past year. And I’m a wife who has a wonderful and supportive husband. And hopefully a good friend, though I do need to work on reconnecting with old friends and becoming more social. Plus I’m a person of faith who has had a little more time to give to my church of late.

Having said that, I can’t say that I’ve completely found my way back into my own identity. Far from it. That journey is still taking place. But the shattered glass, which I think I once viewed as a symbol of my own shattered life, now means something else. As I check out the jagged edges and the beauty of the patterns, I realize that this shattered glass symbolizes adversity. Adversity has the potential to toughen us up and make us stronger. But most of all, it has the potential to reveal the greater depths of our inner beauty.

I think I’ll keep those chunks of glass for a while longer. To me, they represent hope. They give me hope. And ultimately, I’m confident that it’s hope that will sustain me.

Walrus Time and Memories of Ms. Karen

I saw it in a little shop while on vacation in Icy Strait Point, Alaska – five years ago – and I had to have it. It was a hand-carved figurine. Specifically, a little marble walrus with tusks and all. For such a small item it seemed a tad expensive – about $50. But hey, it was hand-carved. And cute.

But that’s not why I bought the walrus. My purchase was far more reminiscent than that. As soon as I saw this little fella it took me back to my childhood – fifth grade, exactly. I remember that in fifth grade – and in sixth grade too, because I had the same teachers – when the class would congregate we would not refer to this time as “gathering time” or “group time.” No, class gatherings were known as “Walrus Time.”

Why was it called Walrus Time? Alice in Wonderland inspired the name. Namely, it came from Lewis Carroll’s epic book Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There. Remember Walrus, and the Carpenter, and those poor unfortunate oysters? The one famous stanza in the poem goes like this:

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,

“To talk of many things.

Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –

Of cabbages – and kings –

And why the sea is boiling hot –

And whether pigs have wings.”

For those unfamiliar with the story, Walrus and Carpenter turned out to be antagonists instead of friends, having tricked a mess of oysters into becoming their next meal. But that’s beside the point. The stanza by itself hints at the value of good conversation.

Hence, the time to talk, the time to discuss, the time to laugh, the time to scold (this one reserved for the teachers, of course) or the time to share all fell within the confines of “Walrus Time.”

Actually, memories of Walrus Time in of itself do not make me sentimental. It’s the memories of who was there. That would be my favorite teacher, who we called Ms. Karen.

She would be my teacher for two years, during fifth and sixth grade. She was young – only a mere 30 years old or so when I entered into the fifth grade. And she was a woman who was genuinely – if not painfully – human. She was passionate and compassionate, yet fallible and flawed. Her temper was fierce. More than once she scared me with her rage in the classroom. Her emotions often overwhelmed her to the point of tears – particularly when her students disappointed her or fell short of expectations. Perhaps her standards for us were so high because she cared so deeply. I do believe her mission in life was to make sure that we all reached our fullest potential, or at least had the best life possible.

While her moods were intense, the endless devotion she demonstrated to her profession and to her students was enough for me to look past the occasional outbursts. After all, I was one of those students who reaped the benefits.



Ms. Karen and me, around 1976.
By the way, I still have the shirt!



Her encouragement led me to become involved in the community children’s theater. Her “you can do it” attitude gave me the confidence to explore my own creativity through writing stories and poetry. And it was her belief in me that ultimately made me the county spelling bee champ. The spelling bee, in particular, was a multi-year effort. The first year I finished fourth; the second year I finished third; and the third year – my eighth grade year – I emerged victorious.

I remember that night. Ms. Karen was no longer my teacher and had not been for almost two years. But she was there that night – there to watch me finish what I had started. How fulfilled I felt! I had worked so hard for so long and finally achieved my goal. And Ms. Karen was so proud of me. Did I do it for me? Yes. But I did it for her, too.

Sometimes I wondered if maybe in some small way Ms. Karen would push her students so that she could live vicariously through them. I did not know the details of her life, but I did know that her life had not been without pain. I vaguely remember her alluding to difficult times when she was young, one being that her father was an alcoholic. I really didn’t know much more than that. But it was enough for me to sense that in some ways she may have been a tragic figure. Or maybe she was just a survivor who had missed life opportunities due to her own unfortunate circumstances. Perhaps her students’ achievements became her own. I’m sure that’s a small consolation for lost opportunities.

One year was particularly painful for her. She was no longer my teacher, but I still greatly valued her counsel. In December 1977 I went to visit Ms. Karen in the hospital. She was sick, but I wasn’t quite sure what ailed her. It was a Saturday afternoon. I was in the process of preparing an essay for a contest sponsored by the local Daughters of the American Revolution. I wanted to visit my favorite teacher, but also I wanted to bounce some ideas off of her about my essay. When I entered the room I found her with the nurse, visibly upset and tears streaming down her face. What was wrong, I wondered. Whatever it was it didn’t matter, as her spirits quickly elevated once I got there. It wasn’t long before she was spouting so many ideas off for my essay, so fast, that I could barely write them down!

I won the essay contest. And she went to another hospital. It was a special hospital several hours away. By this time her condition had been diagnosed. Today it is referred to as bipolar disorder. At that time people called it manic depression.

Fortunately, treatment seemed to be effective and lithium stabilized her moods. She continued teaching and we stayed close. Through my high school years we would see each other on occasion, maybe do lunch or dinner. A few times after I started driving I would just show up unannounced at her house. She would welcome me and we would chat into the night. As Walrus would put it, we “would talk of many things.” Maybe not shoes or ships or sealing wax. But instead of our futures, and of relationships. And many other things. I even recall her describing her world of bipolar when she detailed some of the delusions she had when she was sick.

On the day I received my letter of acceptance into college, I went straight to McDonald’s – where I knew she would be working at her second job – to show her the letter. And that summer after I graduated I worked with her at McDonald’s.

And then I went away to college. That’s when we lost touch. Shortly after I graduated college, I bumped into her during one of my visits home. She hugged me tight and whispered into my ear, “Call me.” I told her I would.

But I didn’t. Yet I thought about her. And one day a feeling came over me that I should write her a letter – one that expressed how much she meant to me. I wanted to let her know how much of an impact she had made in my life. Yes, I was going to write her that letter. Sometime. At some point, I thought, I would get around to it.

But I never got around to writing that letter. And not long after I found out that I would never have that chance. Some 20 years or so ago, during a routine telephone conversation my mother broke the news to me. Ms. Karen was dead. It was an overdose. Was it accidental? Was it intentional? I don’t know. I don’t care. But oh, how I wish I would have written that letter.

When I lost my job a few months back, I remember that the things that gave me the most strength to get through that first week were the heartfelt notes that I received from my coworkers. Such small gestures, yet so powerful.

Karen deserved that powerful gesture from me. If she was in pain, perhaps I could have eased it. At the very least, I could have touched her with my words for just a few minutes. I just wanted her to know that her life had been worth it, because she had made a difference in at least one person’s life – mine. But she didn’t hear that from me, because I didn’t have the time.

As I near the age that she was when she passed away, I find myself reflecting more about her, the relationship we had and the impact she made in my life. And I think often about the letter I never wrote, the closure I never got. I don’t know whether she was buried or cremated. I never saw her obituary. And I really have very little that shows that she ever existed or was part of my life. A couple of class pictures. A very grainy black and white photo of the two of us on a field trip. A couple of “good luck” bookmarks that she gave me prior to my spelling bees. And a Webster’s word guide – one that she gave me after my first spelling bee, with my name engraved on it. On the inside front page is written a simple sentiment – “I love you. Ms. Karen. March 17, 1977.”

And then there’s the little marble Walrus. She didn’t give it to me, but it sits on my desk. And every time I look at the little guy I think of her and pleasant memories of Walrus Times past. In what has been a time of transition for me, I wish Karen was here now to tell me “You can do it.” When I look at the Walrus, I feel that in some transcendental way she is with me, cheering me on, boosting my confidence and assuring me that success is mine for the taking.

Karen, I never had the chance to say goodbye. But please know that I say hello to you every day. Though you have been gone for so long, you remain in my heart and will forever. Someday when I reach the hereafter we’ll get together, you and I, and we’ll catch up. We will chat like we once did, into the night.

And it will be Walrus Time once again.

Up in Smoke

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 came into being before I was born. And even though I was born a little later on in the 1960s, I obviously don’t recall the struggle of those who fought for equal rights during that crucial time in this country’s history.

Part of Civil Rights Act dealt with the federal government’s right to regulate interstate commerce in order to guarantee every individual’s equal rights under the fourteenth amendment. This gave the government license to enforce anti-discrimination laws in places of “public accommodation.” This applied to not only government facilities, but also to privately owned businesses.

I can only imagine what some Southern business owners thought of that. I’m guessing they feared it might mean the death of their businesses. Perhaps some would claim not to be bigots themselves, but would argue that if they were to allow non-whites to patronize their businesses then the “regulars” (e.g., the white people) would stop coming. I don’t doubt that many resented the government interference. I would guess that many claimed that these were their businesses and that they could operate them any way they desired.

So what happened to these business owners’ rights? Not that business owners don’t have rights. But in this case they were trumped by a need to serve the greater good – equal rights for all. It was simply the right thing to do.

This game of trumps actually happens all the time. Take food establishments. Government regulations prohibit them from serving rare hamburgers due to food safety issues. It seems if we lived in a totally libertarian society, a restaurant owner would be allowed to serve his food off the floor if he liked – as it’s his business. But again, the government regulates how food is prepared in food establishments not to deny the owners of their rights to run their businesses how they please, but to preserve the best interest (and safety) of the public.

I could argue that the government interferes too much in my life as well. For instance, I own a home. I should be allowed to put two or three junk cars up on cement blocks in my back yard, right? After all, it’s my property. But damn – the dad-blasted interfering government (in this case local government enforcing local zoning laws) tells me I can’t. Apparently the greater good here is the interests of my neighbors. If I junk up my yard it brings their property values down. Plus, they shouldn’t have to look at my eyesore of a back yard. So I do have rights, within limits. But if exercising my rights adversely impacts the greater good, then my rights are trumped. As they should be.

These points that I make bring me to my real reason for this post. This week the neighboring county, Kenton County, became the first area in Northern Kentucky to put into effect clean-air laws (or as those against them would call them, smoking bans). So with a few exceptions, all of the restaurants and businesses in Kenton County are now smoke-free. I say good for Kenton County for having the courage to make the hard choice in what became (but shouldn’t have become) such a controversial issue.

Initially the other two Northern Kentucky counties were also on board with the clean-air laws. Campbell County actually passed a comprehensive law in late December that would have gone into effect last week. Unfortunately it was overturned by a newly elected fiscal court earlier this year. And the county in which I live, Boone County, dropped out of the discussions the middle of last year. Apparently there was not enough support from the fiscal court to go forward with any clean-air laws here in Boone County.

To me it would be a no-brainer to institute clean-air laws, especially with what we know now about the effects of smoking and second-hand smoke. Also, even in Kentucky – the state with the highest rate of adult smokers – there are still approximately 75 percent of us who don’t smoke. So wouldn’t it be in the best interest of the majority to go ahead with these clean-air laws? Even Lexington and Louisville have them. But the politicians say no. And the reason: business owners’ rights. (Unless you ask the vocal public minority. They may say the issue is smokers’ rights.)

While many (of both politicians and business owners) may say that they themselves don’t smoke, they are concerned that to institute a “smoking ban” would keep the “regulars” (in this case, smokers) away, thus hurting business.

Perhaps there are those that feel it’s inappropriate for me to draw parallels between this law and the dictates of the Civil Rights Act. But I do spot some similarities. Just with Civil Rights, business owners do have rights. But there is a greater good here. We’re talking about a public health issue. It’s not about stepping on business owners’ rights. And it’s not a measure to force the 25 percent of people who are smokers to give up their cigarettes. Rather, it’s a measure to allow the rest of us (again, that’s the other 75 percent of us) to be able to breathe clean air instead of toxic pollutants. Where do the rights of nonsmokers come into this discussion?

The other side argues that nonsmokers don’t have to frequent places that allow smoking and that they have the choice to go to non-smoking establishments. The problem is that I have to physically travel to a place to find out if it allows smoking or not. What about children who accompany their parents into such places? Do they get to choose whether or not they want to be there?

To business owners who fear their businesses might perish due to such clean-air laws, I would say hey, you’re probably missing out on reaching a pretty significant clientele due to your smoking policies. That would be many of us within the 75 percent of nonsmokers. As for me, my husband and I will probably do a lot more eating out in Kenton County. I don’t doubt there are others like us who will do the same.

And to the business owners who worry that their base of Ohio customers will leave them (as Ohio is a nonsmoking state and the smokers come across the river to smoke) I would say hey, Ohio hasn’t been smoke-free that long – only since 2006. Where did your customers come from before 2006? Just start thinking of all the new non-smoking customers that you’re going to get when you go smoke-free.

As for me, I have to believe that I’m part of the silent majority on this one. Are my views snobby, or pious? Some might think that.  I would respond that even the silent majority should be heard every once in a while. I don’t disrespect those who choose to smoke. But why should the choice for me be one of patronizing a public facility or jeopardizing my health?  Honestly, even if I was a smoker I think I would feel this way. I may have the right to ruin my own body by consuming the all-fried sampler platter at the local hangout. But I would never have the right to put somebody else’s health at risk.

I’m calling trump on this one. The greater good (public health) should trump business owners’ rights. The politicians should recognize that and act to protect the majority. However, at least here, the argument appears to have ended up in smoke. Except for in Kenton County. At least for now.

Some day, though, I’m confident that the big, bad “gub-mint” will intervene (or interfere, as those who are against big government might think) throughout the rest of Northern Kentucky. Not today, maybe. But when it does happen, rest assured, the actions will be justified.

Why? Because of the greater good.  And it will simply be the right thing to do.

Listening for God

Am I a person of faith? Well I guess it depends on what day you ask me. I always say that I am. I go to church. I taught Sunday school. I’ve taken part in my share of pot luck dinners (an act of true faith, as you never know what you’re going to get on those occasions). But there have been times, I concede, that I found myself merely going through the motions.

In fact, a few years ago I was so much in the cycle of going through the motions that I didn’t even want to go to church anymore. I found myself overcome with vast amounts of guilt because I didn’t feel “spiritual” enough when I was in church. It was a time in my life when emptiness trumped all other feelings I may have had. I couldn’t get into the whole religiosity thing. As a result, sitting in church turned out to be a weekly struggle to prevent the tears from flowing. I wanted so desperately to feel the Holy Spirit inside of me. And because I couldn’t, I deemed myself a hypocrite – one not worthy to be sitting in a place of worship. I eventually shared these feelings with my pastor, who assured me that it was normal to feel the way I did during various times in my life. Most of all, she told me I was not a hypocrite. She knew, she said, because true hypocrites don’t get upset (like I did) about being hypocrites.

That thought comforted me, and with that I was able to resign myself to the fact that the Spirit was within me, but buried beneath all of the stresses of life.

And those stresses were numerous, going beyond the rat race of juggling a family and work. There were extended family members who needed care. There was graduate school. And the job was one where I was constantly swamped. And to beat all, health problems started to creep into the picture, no doubt because my busy life had adversely impacted my immune system. There were the ruptured discs in my neck in late 2009; then a couple of rounds of the flu in early 2010, followed by a two-month bronchitis-type affliction that I couldn’t shake to save my life. By last summer after surviving a three-week intercession graduate course (in health communication, believe it or not), my primary goal was to regain my health and emotional well-being (as I was completely burned out). Taking up yoga helped some with that. But I admit it never occurred to me to look to God to help me make things better. Being the lukewarm fan of faith that I am, I don’t normally think of God first.

It wasn’t until last August when I decided that I might want to strengthen my relationship with God. (And, of course, like any lukewarm fan, it was because I needed something.) It was last August when my job abruptly went away and I suddenly found myself unemployed. Wow, how scared was I then? Initially, I worried about so many things – supporting my children, keeping a roof over our head and getting another job. I was collecting unemployment benefits, but what would happen if the unemployment runs out and I’m still not employed? Essentially, I freaked out. But as I calmed down and tried to apply some logic to what had happened, I decided everything happens for a reason. God simply had another plan. Could it be I was supposed to spend more time with my children? Do a better job at keeping up with the laundry? Or was I just meant to do something else? It was up to me to just be patient and wait until God revealed His plan to me.  

I also decided that these trying times were meant to be. After all, isn’t that when we truly fall in love with God – when we really need Him? Perhaps God wanted me to fall in love with him again, much like when I was a little girl and would write letters to Him while I sat in my bedroom closet. I remember I would share my deepest feelings with Him and when I signed those letters it wasn’t enough to sign my name. I wanted to make sure He knew who was writing to Him. I would not only sign my name (Lisa), but my planet (Earth), my country (U.S.A.), state, city and neighborhood. You’d think since those letters never left my bedroom closet that He would know they were from me. But I included the rest of the information just in case.

One thing that I really hated about being jobless was when I had to pare back our financial contributions to the church. My husband and I had always considered ourselves “joyful givers.” (This was in spite of being a lukewarm fan of faith.) I hated to pull the plug like that. Particularly painful to me was reneging on a three- year pledge to help fund a major renovation and additional wing to the building. As the three-year period wrapped up last month (when everyone was supposed to have their pledges paid) we were still in the hole, even though we would put a little bit toward the pledge whenever we could. But hey, you can’t draw blood from a turnip, right?

This brings me to a sermon that my pastor preached just a few weeks ago. She talked about how God never promised that we wouldn’t suffer or have bad things happen to us. Instead, God just promises that we don’t have to suffer alone. She also talked about how God is always watching and often uses other people to help us. She cited a time when she was collecting donations one Sunday on behalf of a woman who was about to have her heat turned off because of a delinquent bill. Throughout the day the pastor collected an astounding $1,840. And the next day when a member of the church went with the woman to pay her bill, how much was the bill? Exactly $1,847.

Coincidence or God-incidence? My pastor would say the latter. Since I am the lukewarm fan, I would say it could have been either.

But then the other day something happened that made me wonder if there could be something to these God-incidences. I have this credit card, you see. It’s one that I’ve had for probably 10 years. And it’s one where you earn a few cents here, a few cents there for each purchase you make. I don’t use it much, but normally I put big dollar purchases on it – such as vacation expenses – just for convenience’s sake. A couple of weeks ago I logged on to my rewards account and noticed I could send a written request to be sent a check for the rewards I had earned. Okay, sounds good. I mailed a request. And last week they sent me an email confirming my request and that they would be sending me a check in the mail.

And how much will the check be? My eyes widened when I saw the amount -- $940.96.

It’s money I didn’t know I had – popping out from nowhere. I instantly thought about the pledge that we had fallen short on at the church – the one where we still owed $910. It was as if God was saying to me right then and there, “Okay, you didn’t have the money. Here it is. You know what it’s for.” And knowing God’s sense of humor He probably said, “Oh, here’s an extra $30 so you guys can go get a bite to eat after you pay off your pledge.”

Coincidence? Or God-incidence? This time I lean toward the latter. I think the heat has just gone up a notch beyond my usual lukewarm setting. And yes, I know where that money is going.

For some reason, I see it as a sign that God will continue to be with me and show me the way. I still am not completely sure what my mission is or what real purpose I have on this earth. But I think I’m past the really thick fog. Perhaps I’ve wandered into a little lighter fog– one where I can at least spot some fuzzy outlines on the horizon. What’s the plan, God? I still don’t know. But I can be patient as long as I know there is a plan.

On His time, though. Not mine.

You tell me when, God. And in the meantime, I’ll keep the faith.

Of Multiple Mounds – No, Mountains – of Laundry

When I was single laundry day came but once every two to three weeks. I would wash everything in three loads – including my towels and sheets – and be done with it for another good long time. I didn’t have a regular night for doing laundry, though my penchant (and I use that term sarcastically) for doing it did usually fall on Mondays or Tuesdays. Fact is, I hated doing my laundry and usually only did it when the gauge ran low. You see, I had a gauge – sort of like a gas gauge in a car, but this one involved clothes.

Underwear, actually. When I came to the point that I was out of clean underwear, it was time to do laundry. Needless to say, I had lots of underwear. Why did I have so much underwear? Well, I do know that there were times when I was out of clean underwear that I would go out and buy new underwear just so I could put off doing my laundry for a couple more days.

In my defense, there were many reasons why doing laundry as a single person was a drag. I was single, living in an apartment and had no laundry facilities of my own. That meant I had to haul my laundry somewhere else (even if it was to the laundry room down in the lobby, or at the clubhouse, depending on which apartment I lived in at the time). Then I would have to make sure I had enough change for the machines. Certainly machines take paper money by now, don’t they? Hell, I would think one could use a credit or debit card to operate a pay machine these days. (I wouldn’t know, because it’s been so long since I’ve paid to do laundry, thank God.)

But as much of a drag as laundry was as a single person, it’s 100 times that as a married woman with three kids. It’s not only a drag, it’s a drag-me-down. In fact, laundry seems to be a major part of my life. One would deduce that when one gets married, the laundry load might double. And once two people get settled and have a child, the laundry load might increase by a third.

But it doesn’t work that way. As the children arrive, laundry loads don’t increase proportionally, but exponentially. I haven’t quite figured it out, but it’s the reality. Fortunately, I have a high-capacity front-load washer and dryer set – almost a necessity with a spouse and three children. (I used to have the traditional kind, but we burned those out after the third child arrived. Guess they couldn’t handle that last exponential hike.)

As I write this, I have one load in the washer, one in the dryer,  two loads in baskets waiting to be folded, one load folded that needs to be put away, and three loads still sitting on the basement floor that need to be washed. Within the day I should get through the whole process of getting all the current laundry up to date.

But it’s never up to date because as I’m washing, drying and folding, more dirty laundry is being created. As of now, the hampers upstairs are spilling over, their contents waiting for their turn to hit the basement floor.

And hit the basement floor they will – hard. Just about the time I get the floor cleared and I’m feeling content because the laundry is done, that is when the mountain returns. Taking the dirty laundry from the hampers downstairs to the laundry room is among a few of the chores that we give to our boys so they can earn their allowances. I will give them credit for actually getting the contents from the second floor to the basement, but they are severely lacking on their presentation skills. In other words, they dump all the hampers all into one pile without sorting it or anything (to be fair, sorting of laundry is not on their list, though I’m thinking it should be). So it’s up to me chisel into that mountain and segment it down into the various mounds – whites, towels, sheets, husband’s work clothes, kids colored clothes, mine and husband’s colored clothes, etc.

How much longer must I endure this state of laundry limbo? Will things ever go back to the way they were? And why can’t the kids do their own laundry, anyway? For that matter, why do they have to use a different towel every time they take a shower (or sometimes two) each day? Why do those towels always end up wet and gross on the floor instead of hanging up on the rack? These are questions for which I will undoubtedly never receive answers.

I’m confident that as my nest starts to empty in the next few years, the laundry will ease up. But wait. That means the only way I can do less laundry is for my precious children to leave me? I don’t know if I can handle the thought of that right now.

So maybe that’s why God gives me so much laundry – to remind me to appreciate the time I have with my children now before they grow up and leave home.

Okay, God. Good one. But that might be a stretch. After all, how can I take time to appreciate them when I’m so busy doing laundry? But just in case that’s the message He is sending me, I’ll try to look at laundry in a different way. And when my children finally leave and I have to deal with that…well, I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

But for now, I’ve got a mountain to tackle. A mountain of…you guessed it.

Crock Pot Paradise

“Guard the soup, Luke,” I instructed my son as we recently transported a full pot of homemade chicken noodle soup to a church supper – an event hosted by the youth. (In other words, the moms did all the cooking.)

My dutiful middle son, bless his heart, did as he was told. But it was a struggle. I at least had the forethought to take my husband’s truck that night. I knew the soup was bound to slosh around a little, and I certainly didn’t want it all over my car! My Crock Pot has been faithful through the years – more than 20 years, I should say. But traveling with hot liquid concoctions is not its strong point.

“Arrrrrrrrgh!” My son screamed as I crossed yet another crack in the road. (I never realized there were so many until such time where we had to steady the soup in its vessel.) With the Crock Pot sitting firmly on the floor of the truck, Luke had straddled his feet on each side of it to keep it steady. As he was to find out, that wasn’t the best move on his part.  I hit the crack (or maybe it was a pothole, or whatever where so many of them pop up on the road over the winter). Then Luke let out an agonizing moan as the hot, steaming broth splashed and then trickled its way down his leg and into his shoe. From that point on, I think I didn’t go more than 30 miles an hour the rest of the trip. I stayed on the old road to avoid getting on the interstate. I didn’t dare go too fast, as I figured speed would lead to bigger splashes. Poor Luke ended up with a big blister on his ankle, at least a second-degree burn. Still, he was a sport. He spent the rest of the trip with his foot holding down the lid, with his ankles well away from the splash zone.

After arriving to the church and working with the other moms to help set up the spread (soup and salad night, it was), I found that I was not the only mom who had dealt with an adverse experience in transporting soup that evening. We were all complaining.

And then I spotted it – the mother of all slow cookers. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed it. We all did. We gathered around it. We salivated over it. We coveted. Pretty pitiful sight, actually. How much mediocrity does one have to have in one’s life to get excited over something like a slow cooker?

 What was it that our fellow mom had and we did not ? The Hamilton Beach 6-Quart Stay or Go slow cooker. What a beauty. It’s designed to travel and ideal for potlucks. Features on it include a secured lid with canister-style clips and a gasket for spill-resistant travel (it seals!); full grip handles; a lid rest that comes in handy when serving up the chow; and even a serving spoon that clips onto the lid handle. Now that’s my kind of Crock Pot! (At the risk of getting off point, I must note that this is not really a Crock Pot since it is a Hamilton Beach brand. As a writer and editor and a stickler for style, I must clarify that Crock Pot is a brand of slow cooker. However, the term Crock Pot is slowly going the way of some of its more well-known predecessors, such as Frisbee, Kleenex and Xerox. I did use the term in the title of this blog, but only for alliteration’s sake. There. Now see how anal I can be?)

Now back to the Crock Pot (uh, I mean slow cooker). All assurances that the story ends happily. In other words, yes I rushed out to Target (where our friend says she got hers) and bought one. Something tells me I wasn’t the only one, as I grabbed the last one. And let me say when I had it in my possession, I was more ecstatic than Ralphie’s dad was when receiving his “major award.” (If you haven’t seen the movie “A Christmas Story,” you’ll have to watch it to get that one.)

Today I made my first meal. Not soup, but a delectable pot roast that I put on to cook at 9 a.m. this morning. It cooked on high for about five hours, then low for about another five, and the rest of the time it was set on the “warm” setting. (Yes, it has a warm setting!) My husband was happy. I was happy. And most of all, my son with the burnt foot was happy.

My dutiful middle son Luke, holding the
newest addition to our family

Okay, maybe not my son. Actually, no. He would have much rather had pizza than pot roast. And as long as I don’t force him to haul hot soup between his legs, I don’t think he cares about my choice of slow cooker.

But it makes for a smooth end to this post. My old cooker injured my son, so as a mother it was my duty to retire it.

Yes, I see the logic now.  I had to buy that new slow cooker. For my son Luke.

Because I love him.

Falling Victim to the Coupon Queen

It inevitably happens anytime I have to choose a line in the grocery store, at the bank, at the fast food place or anywhere else: I choose the wrong one. Last Friday was no exception.

I had just posted my last blog where I had mentioned that there was nothing better than a good goetta sandwich on rye. And guess what? I started salivating for goetta reubens and decided that’s what I wanted for dinner that night. My son was at his baseball practice until 7:30, so I figured before picking him up I would run to the supermarket near the high school to purchase the necessary items to make for a premium goetta reuben. Of course, there was the Glier’s Goetta, along with a loaf of Busken Bakery rye bread, some really fancy gourmet sauerkraut from the deli section, good quality Swiss cheese, and to top it off – Pine Club Thousand Island salad dressing (direct from the renowned Pine Club steakhouse in Dayton, Ohio, located only a block and a half from my apartment when I was a poor college student at the University of Dayton. Too bad I couldn’t afford to patronize the place when I lived there. Anyhow, the Thousand Island is to die for. I hear the steaks are good too.)

So where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve loaded my items in my cart, along with three bottles of two-liter soft drinks (which my boys inhale, but only on the weekends because being the good parent that I am they’re not allowed soft drinks during the week) and a gallon of milk. Check-out time. I could try to go through the self-check out, but I felt I was just over the border of what the sign requests at the self-check: “small orders only.” I’ve had my share of being pissed off at those self-absorbed inconsiderates who try to get away with purchasing a couple of weeks’ worth of groceries at the “small orders only” self check. So being the considerate person that I am, I headed for a regular check-out line. “Why, there’s one,” I say to myself, noting only one person there. And she doesn’t seem to have that much stuff. Hence, my choice was made.

I position myself direction behind her and quickly unload the edibles, noting my watch and the fact that I’m now running a little late picking up my son. Hopefully I’ll be able to get out of here quick. By the time my items are on the belt, the other woman’s items had all been scanned. So far, so good.

Then my heart sank. Out they came.

Coupons. Lots of coupons. Dozens of coupons. And one by one, the cashier scans them just as she would scan each individual grocery item. I’m not exactly sure how she pulled this off because I don’t know how the extreme coupon game works, but I’m pretty sure she had more coupons than items. What’s up with that?

Problem was, I was stuck. While I was unloading my items on the belt, others positioned themselves behind me. Fortunately, they were able to get away. They saw the endless quantities of coupons emanating from this woman’s very being. They waited impatiently for a short time. And then, in the most discrete way, they were able to quietly sneak off and book it to another register. But my stuff was already on the belt. What was I to do? How could I pack up my items and head to another register without appearing awkward? So I waited. And waited. The cashier finished scanning the coupons, and as soon as she did, Coupon Queen would pull out more. And when it was finally over, there was a question as to whether they had all been scanned. Perhaps a couple had been stuck together . So a recount took place. In the meantime, I envied my fellow shoppers as they breezed through the other lines. Damn! In total, six people went through at the register next to me while I was waiting for the one woman in front of me to get done and get out. I stood there at least 20 minutes. The only consolation was the realization that I would be at least 30 minutes late picking up my son – payback for all the times he had kept me waiting. And even better, I had an excuse.

When Coupon Queen concluded her transaction and departed, I slowly sauntered up to the cashier as she began to scan my items. It didn’t take her long to run my stuff past the laser.  After all, I didn’t have much. Then she asked me the explosive question.

“Do you have any coupons today?”

My response was only four words, but I believe it took me a good 20 seconds to utter them, as at this point every fiber of my being was trying to keep my cool.

Slowly and deliberatively I replied. “Whhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyy n-n-nooooooo. I don’t.”

She must have noticed the glare on my face and when she did, a look of empathy suddenly appeared. She sensed how I felt (I'm guessing she could relate), and nodded as if she knew what had just happened was just plain wrong. Then she explained.

“Um, a lot of people these days seem to be taking up coupons as a hobby,” she said. I probed. She implied the coupons are the latest craze and that people are getting all crazy about then. Coupon clubs are popping up all over the place, and people are actually paying for them. For instance, a person may pay a nickel for a certain dollar-off coupon.

When you think about it, I guess it makes sense – especially in today’s economy. If the coupons were the right ones, I guess I would pay pennies on the dollar to save big bucks also.

Mind you, I’m not against coupons. I love them. And I consider myself quite the bargain shopper. Entertainment coupons are great, though we don’t get out like we used to. Still, pay $20 for the book, use a couple of the hundreds of coupons (mostly for restaurants and recreation) and you’ve paid for the book.

And don’t get me started on Kohl’s. I won’t even go into the store if I don’t have a coupon. Kohl’s constantly sends me coupons for at least 15 percent off. And sometimes I will hit the mother lode and be lucky enough to score a 30 percent off coupon. Even better, these coupons are good for not only regularly priced merchandise, but also clearance items. I’m addicted to Kohl’s.  When I step foot into that store (with my coupons) I’m like a horny dog chasing a bitch in heat. Get out of my way – where are those 70- and 80-percent off racks?

Here’s what I’m saying: I love a bargain too. And I know it’s not just about money, but it’s the thrill of the search. I know the euphoria of finding treasures amongst a bunch of crap and then not having to pay much for them. To this day I’m still wearing a couple of pairs of $7 Dockers that I found off those racks. A couple of weeks ago I wore my fully lined wool pants and jacket. The whole suit was about $18. Just this week I found 80-percent off sales at Macy’s. Plus I had a 20-percent off coupon. Plus since it had been so long since I’d used my Macy’s credit card they opened another account for me and gave me another 15-percent off. I came out of there with a $5 cardigan, a $6 skirt and a couple of other things that were originally much more expensive but set me back less than $10 for each piece. So that was 80-percent off, plus another 35 percent off of that. I’m still high from that shopping trip.

My take is that coupons are good. Extreme “couponism” (my word, which I just made up) is bad. Fortunately, I haven’t been stricken by that bug, and I don’t think I will be. Going after all those coupons is just not worth my time. I would rather the coupons came to me.

I concede, however, that perhaps those who are coupon-consumed cannot control themselves. That’s why it’s time for the stores to step up. Hey grocery stores, how about giving those coupon queens their own dedicated checkout lines? For instance, every purchase at most checkouts would be subject to a 10-coupon limit, with the exception of just a couple of aisles which are reserved for the extreme coupon cronies. Let them all keep each other waiting. Then maybe they will realize how pissed off the rest of us get when they pull out their massive piles of supermarket Monopoly money.

For the record, Coupon Queen had 39 coupons, though it seemed like a couple of hundred. I asked the cashier, who knew the exact number. Remember – she was the one who had to recount them. (And if you just happened to use exactly 39 coupons at a grocery store last Friday night and there was only one woman behind you, no -- it wasn’t you.) And my son who I was supposed to pick up at 7:30 didn't make it into the confines of my car until 8:00. He was mad, but oddly enough I didn't care.

All in all, coupons are good in moderation. (I pity the woman who tries to pilfer my Kohl’s coupons from my mailbox.) But the current extreme coupon craze poses a serious threat to society. Tempers will flare. People could get hurt.  Innocent victims will suffer. Kids will be traumatized and feel abandoned as they are left waiting to be picked up from their sports practices. It must stop.

Coupon queens, enjoy your reign now. I assure you it won’t last. You’ve turned a good thing bad and it is up to the masses to make it right again. Just try to keep abusing your coupon privileges. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of us will surely topple you.