Some people are good at remembering the people who cross their paths.
I am not. I want to remember when we met, how we met, why we met. I want to map the relationship to help me recall.
I rarely want to let go of anyone, even those who want to go, who should go, who should have gone.
It is hard for me to clean out my Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn and all the other placesI hooked up with folks. I have address books from college, from first jobs, from other lives.
I am Twittering again, or trying to is perhaps a more accurate statement. I see who has stuck around there and I remember vividly why they are there. Seeing their name reminds me of conversations once deemed important. There are 1,000 or so names there today, following me on Twitter
Yet if I were asked to name 1,000 people I know right now I don't think I could. I need the prompts of the social media tools, my new address books.
I want to hold onto "old friends" even as I struggle with choosing a topic that will be worthy of a tweet.
I want to yell about the senseless beating of a teenager, the anguish of parents, the outrage of what the law allows.
I want to share the joy of a couple on their wedding day, the absurdity of picking up 24-packs when 12-packs are ordered and the exhaustion that creeps in to steal all motion from legs that stop listening to my brain.
Instead, I watch people whitewash their pasts. I wait. I wait. I stop.
My best efforts to ensure my little girl would not live in a sea of pink were useless. She loves pink. She lives pink. She wants pink.
I am reminded of her love for pink right now as I sit in the midst of pink flowers, pink glitter, pink paper, pink .... Well you get the idea. She is hundreds of miles away. I am in crafting, creating small pieces of pink for her upcoming wedding.
I wanted her to live in a world without stereotypes. But I knew pink was her color of choice early on just by looking at her toys or the clothes she picked out.
At least my effort to ensure she would know she could be anyone or anything she wanted to be turned out better. Right?
Certainly, you need to be a strong woman to move to another state permanently.
Certainly, you need to be a thinking woman to succeed in business -- she's a store manager in Tennessee.
Certainly, you need to be a wise woman to know sometimes you need to start over. She now volunteers at a hospital and will go back to college this fall for a few classes needed before embarking on a venture to become a physician's assistant.
First, though, there's a pink and aqua wedding in Tennessee. Pink bridesmaids' dresses. Pink bouquets. Pink glitter, pink ribbons, pink this and pink that. Even the white wedding cake will showcase some pink -- in the form of the pink cancer ribbons.
After the wedding, she'll go to school and work.
After the wedding, I'll donate any and all pink flowers, fabric, ribbon and other craft leftovers to help an area breast cancer walking group raise money.
After the wedding, I'll try to figure out why I ever thought pink wasn't a good color for girls.
Surprise. Some still check this area to see what's new and what's spilling out through my fingers.
Sadly, perhaps, I've take another vacation from writing, from reading most blog posts, status updates and Twitter.
Saddest of all is I've lost interest in newspapers. Instead I get my news from the TV, from the Internet, and from friends and family.
The newspapers pile up because I still cannot stop subscribing. I cannot throw out an unread newspaper.
For awhile, I was checking the advertising inserts carefully. But then I realized I wasn't going to head to the stores for the bargains unless I had a need. And do I need an ad to tell me I need something? That makes it easier to throw out the ads unread.
I pick up the newspaper each day it is delivered. I start to read it and then get stopped by another activity, or worse by an unanswered question in the story. Take a short piece about a film at local place. The writer explains the details are on the website. My questions: Which website? The film's? The place where it is being shown? The one where the article is?
The surprise is how little of the what is in the newspaper is relevant to the day the newspaper comes out.
Perhaps though this interest was just dormant while I worked on preparing a body worthy of the new mechanical knee inserted in my flesh.
This week I spent a whole morning hunting through Facebook, catching up on family and friends.
The big splash on TV on another big study on breast cancer and the upcoming pinking of everything reminded that most don't know my daughter continues to show no signs of cancer returning.
A search for some information for an obituary for my stepdad uncovered the death of editor Ben Burns and a reminder of his dedication to a multicultural cadre of journalists covering a multicultural world.
Both deaths remind me I've never acknowledged the passing of one of the greatest news people I've ever known. Dave Poniers deserves more from me. But his death came too fast after the deaths of two who influenced my early days in Flint, especially post-divorce.
Yes, life is moving too fast not to stop and share what's inside and outside
Surprise II: This was written months ago and I thought published then.
The 51-year-old started covering the pro football team in 1985 while working at the Oakland Press. He began covering the Lions for Booth Newspapers in 1997, according to the article.
Kowalski (aka "Killer") is also the Lions insider to WDFN-AM Detroit, WJBK-TV,Detroit, WRIF-FM Detroit, and The Sporting News.
More coverage and reactions is being added online on the Mlive.com Lions page.
and national sports sites also are reporting on his death.
Over on his Twitter stream, one of his last Tweets:
TomKowalski36Tom KowalskiOK fellas, here we go ... Sleep well, I'll most likely kill you in the morning ... 17 hours ago
The Booth Newspaper chain includes the Ann Arbor News, Bay City Times, Flint Journal, Grand Rapids Press, Jackson Citizen Patriot, Kalamazoo Gazette, Muskegon Chronicle, and Saginaw News. Booth is part of Advance Publications.
It is so hard to live in the moment, to appreciate what we have right now, to know that what is here is enough, is right, is perfect for what this moment is.
It is so much easier to wish for tomorrow, that phantom time that will let us live our life the way we want to, not the way our kids mold our days and nights, not the way our parents shape what happens with questions and love, not the way the should tasks fill much of the 24/7 schedule.
Sometimes the only way I get through the periods of pain is by focusing on what will -- OK may -- be possible another time.
Yet the pain - in my body, or my mind or my heart - clearly calls me back to the moment. That pain shouts deal with me NOW.
Sometimes the rythmatic actions of online games can mask the frightening accumulation of pains.
Sometimes the warmth of conversation can melt the icy coat of hurt.
Sometimes catching the happiness that crosses the faces of those lost in the now is enough, is inspiring, is a call to action.
Can I create moments modeled by Jimmy Fallon who often giggles with the delight of the results of the right guest at the right time?
Does a grin cross my face and sparkle my eyes just like Keith Urban on a morning TV show performing "You Look Good in My Shirt?"
Do I ever get lost like the child who disappears into a bucket of Legos, box of crayons or a body-swallwoing mud puddle..
But, mostly I wait in the clutter of tomorrow.
I wait for that day when there will be time to read the books that are no longer grouped by subject and those books that wait in boxes for their turn on the shelves.
I wait for the right pattern, the right mood, the right idea to turn the yards of fabric, the boxes of embellishments and the bolts of ribbon into the beautiful objects that I see in my mind. I start many projects, finish few.
I wait for the space, the right tools, the day when the words and memories flow to deal with the photos aching for a place in an album that is completed with the who, what, when, where and why.
My contact list, my Rolodex, my addressbooks are filled with names and details such as birthdays and anniversaries. I am still overwhelmed by perfection and let the personal celebrations slide by with no acknowledgement from me, with no purchased card let alone one of the many cards I've put together or could put together. Next year, I tell myself.
So much waits for that moment when it is their turn to step into the moment and out of tomorrow.
About this blog Yes, I'm still alive. Yes, the above explains some of the reasons that no posts appeared for such a long time. Yes, it has been a rough time because the thoughts remain even when I lose the ability to recognize and repeat the right words at the right time. I am dreaming more and moving less. I am trying new medications, new practices, new habits to try to return the multiple sclerosis to the stage that allowed me to work hard, to write right, to move freely and frequently. Let's see what happens.
No time for comment but I thought some of you would be interested in this Editor & Publisher article:
Newark 'Star-Ledger' Offers New Round of Buyouts
While the Garden State's largest daily is not revealing how many buyouts are being sought, Publisher Richard Vezza wrote in a letter to employees that based on its performance over the first seven months of the year, the paper is projected to lose $10 million in 2010.
The Star-Ledger is part of the Advance Publications network, sometimes called Newhouse newspapers.
I smile everytime I watch this video of a "It's a Dad's life," marveling at how expectations of what dads do, should do, will do has changed over the years.
We've moved dad's role from main money man to one more involved with every aspect of their children's lives. I cringe everytime I hear a father say he's babysitting his kids, a line I have never heard a mother say. I envy dads who play daily with their kids, who drive them places and never require a DNA check.
Jealous, of course
Summer is when I miss my dad the most. We built some pretty good memories around Christmas too. Mostly though, we postponed.
We started postponing when I first discovered the earring that was not my mother's. Someday, he would say, I would understand why.
We continued as I struggled to understand why he forgot to come get the five of us for bowling or sledding or whatever dad-time outing was planned. Someday, he would say, I would understand why you work when you can, why there was so little to say, why it was hard to for him to be around.
The first divorce
That divorce way back in the 1960s made our family unusual in the neighborhood, our schools, and especially our church. It changed our childhood as we became the first family to have a mom who worked, who celebrated Christmas twice, who skipped most events requiring a dad.
Someday, he said we would be closer, someday when I was older.
Once I had my driver's license, it was easier for us to meet him at his house on the lake. In winter, the trip almost always meant a new scratch on the car when I hit the tree at the bottom of the hill. In summer, there were boat rides, barbecues and chats by the grill.
Mismatched visions
He did not understand why I went to college or why I continued after marrying that nice young man. He expected I'd used my cooking, sewing, household skills for my own family, not knowing how tired I was of that life.
Still, he sent what he could. His campus visits almost always included a football game, a nice dinner out and a little extra cash slipped into my pocket. He was at the wedding. He was dad-proud at graduation.
Years later, he said he was sorry for telling me to stay married, sharing he was afraid I would follow his lead of multiple marriages and divorces and not recognizing the abuse, my cry for help, my need for my dad.
Birth breaks barrier
We repeated years of silence as I slipped into single life, wild life and then a new married life. Wisely, we let the birth of my daughter wipe out the barriers that led to month after month of no contact.
Christmas became fun again as he and my stepmother spoiled the grandchildren. Summers meant pontoon boat rides, grilled steaks, and water things like splashing and fishing.
Pattern continues
Mostly though we continued our postponing tradition.
Some day, but not this year, we would decorate the pantoon and participate in the Fourth of July water parade that took place in his "backyard."
Some time, but not now, we would look through photos and try to match memories and names and he would tell me stories of his growing up.
Some winter, but not right now, he would help replace the kitchen cabinets in the "new house." He had recognized the cabinets the first time he visited. They were cabinets from the company he worked at from high school until the end.
We postponed fishing trips, visits and calls.
Mismatched visions
I miss my dad right now because he would be taking me out on the deck for a private chat and a what-for. He spoke plainly and hated my ideas of what I thought life and love and work should be. He'd help me shake the blues, finding the rightness of now.
He thought the buyout was a great idea, giving me time to do nothing, to do crafts, to relax. He thought I deserved an easy ending to counter the hard start. He thought maybe nothingness would ease the pains of multiple sclerosis.
Mostly though, he thought we would have more time together. Instead, he postponed sharing symptoms with doctors, he postponed treatments but he couldn't postpone death.
Not so surprising is how my dad's death is linked to the grandchild that reopened our grill gabs, dad-daughter dreaming and predictable postponements. He died from cancer on the day my daughter started her cancer treatments.
I'm struggling with a proposed class on social media that might be offered in March. It's frustrating to try to predict what web site, tool, or technique will be hot in seven months.
It's equally frustrating because I don't know how I'll be today much less seven months from now.
In fact, I'm frustrated that I'm not keeping promises that I've made to myself or to others. Even knowing that there is no way that I would know what multiple sclerosis would deliver, I'm still frustrated.
I want to walk easily. I want to talk easily. Oh what the heck, I want to write and I know that is never something done easily.
I know the randomness of multiple sclerosis with its symptoms that come and go makes planning or promising useless. It seems there are more bad days then good ones, more times of the year when I know the best I'm going to do is make it to the recliner.
Precious tears
Plus, I know I'm frustrating my family and friends who want to help. I'm not surprised that as I'm writing I hear Rob Thomas explain the story behind Her Diamonds on the Rachel Ray show. (video below) The song is about a couple dealing with the effects of an autoimmune disease like multiple sclerosis.- His wife has another autoimmune disease. From Thomas' online bio:
"Her Diamonds” was written “about a couple dealing with that on a day-to-day basis. There’s an incredible amount of sadness that comes with something like that."
There's incredible frustration too. The song Her Diamonds starts with a woman laying back down in frustration with a familiar line of "I just can't win for losing." Then:
And I don't know what I'm supposed to do.
But if she feels bad then I do too so I let her be
And she says ooh I can't take no more
Her tears like diamonds on the floor
And her diamonds bring me down
Cause I can't help her now
Yet, there's the reminder that we all face hard times. From that bio:
"There are moments where I think I flirted with a thinner personal line than I’ve ever done before, but, really, I’m writing a song about how people deal with hard times, and that hard time is universal, that hard time can be anything.”
In fact, what I thought I was writing about today was something inspirational for a friend facing hard times. That started with a video of disco-dancing cows (below)because how can you not smile when watching that.
Just dance
I wanted to credit the oft-quoted phrase of dance like nobody is watching. Perhaps I should credit William Watson Purkey, who closed speeches with:
"You've gotta' dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth”
But I liked how Crystal Boyd's inspiring piece, which uses the phrase as a title, writes of the importance of not waiting until the kids are older, the mortgage paid, the time is just right)
Then Rob Thomas popped up on the TV screen and I realized the hard times are here as well as there. I'd like to make it easier for all, but I don't know what I need much less what I want that is possible.
For now, I'll go tackle the improbable task of predicting what I'll teach about social media in seven months. You watch the videos, OK?
Yep, that is my daughter licking a dumpster, a most unusual stunt for a germ-fearing kid.
She challenged her crew to make it a 4k day to see her lick the outside of the collector of trash. Had they sold 5k worth of pizza, bread sticks and drinks she would have licked the inside. Fortunately, they were $50 short of that last goal.
I'm still not sure who came up with the payoff. But even with less then two months at her new store, I am sure the crew knows how important cleanliness is to her. I'm sure they have scrubbed every surface, noticed the newly painted ceiling and learned the health department standards are minimum suggestions.
This is the daughter who sends unsused silverware that sat on the table during a meal to the dishwasher. This is the daughter who always checks the best used date on every box and bottle before consuming. This is the daughter who carries antibacterial cleansers everywhere and says "Purell is my friend."
Perhaps she's always had that cleanliness streak but I did not notice it until she came back home to successfully fight breast cancer. All of us stepped up the cleanliness madness, wiping surfaces constantly, degerming everything she touched and using hand sanitizer as if it were a lotion guaranteed to give us smooth skin.
That cleanliness obsession makes this motivating action even more surprising. Still she gave her word, never expecting the crew would make it the store's best day of the year.
Not surprising she did clean the spot first.
"lol I did it but I still scrubbed like crazy! Still gross lol. But the loophole was the purell they never said I couldn't lmao!"
A friend online labeled that action "deception by omission." Her response:
"lol hey they never said I couldn't! It was still disgusting :)"
Even as I cringe, I'm proud of my daughter finding creative, non-monetary ways to motivate people working with and for her.
Even as I beg her to look for a safer payoff next time, I celebrate this one step that shows cancer is loosening its grip on her life.
Even as I worry about my mistakes as a parent, I recognize the successes illustrated in this stunt - the importance of promises, the benefits of working together, and the neccessity of being prepared.
Today I understand even better that the apple does not fall far from the tree.
---
I've written about my daughter's cancer crusade, including the challenge of hair, chemo and TV shows that make me cry.
The first glance today at my Facebook feed finds so much more then FarmVille, FrontierVille, and other mindless chatter that replaces the workplace coffee pot and/or water cooler.
The casual mutterings loosen up my fingers, my brain before I step into another major challenge of dealing with the three layers of government, one nursing home, a man with Alzheimer's, a confused spouse (the man's, not mine) and an overstressed grandmother frustrated by juggling too many grandkids, a mother with fading abilities, a long-distance wedding and, well, life. (Just writing that tells me why my lower back hurts.)
Via a Blackberry and straight into my stream comes:
"Beauty fades, but dumb lasts forever"
Perhaps it is the age of the sharer that makes her feel that way. She'll learn that you fix dumb with an education - in school, via books (or is that reading), and life experience. You fix beauty by cultivating the good or helping the community learn what real beauty is - the glow of motherhood, the spark of new love, the warmth of old love.
Comics change
Then, there's the viewpoint that ComicCon has changed as movie studios came into an event where geeks once reigned.
"Comic-con sure has changed. Went a couple times with my kids and it was fun. I liked all the unusual, but devotedly geeky people who knew about Green Lantern and Captain America when they were still 2-D. This year the studios took over and it feels as fake and polished as Hollywood. I miss the geeks."
Indeed, the definition of news, comic books and collecting is changing. A piece on some national news broadcast looks at how comic books are moving from paper to digital. Within 60 seconds, there is:
Reflection about the benefits of seeing the characters in crisp, bright colors immediately in a form that the young - the traditional starter comic audience - prefer. Bits over paper.
Moaning about how electronic delivery means the destruction of investing in comics as having a first-edition version of Superman loaded on your iPad won't ever increase in value like the coveted first paper editions in perfect condition in perfect environment will (or is that did?)
Prediction of the loss of community created by enthusiasts who bonded at local comic stores while waiting for a new shipment of comics on paper. (Or is that a prediction of another business doomed to die unless it finds a new niche?)
Back to the July 22-25 ComicCon in San Diego.The simple status update reminds me of what I like about Facebook - its ability to let me know a little bit more of people in my community. I watch as people press the like button on Facebook, leave a few words, and reveal just a tiny piece of information that helps define the uniqueness of each.
Hint of the news
One reply leaves me wanting to know more:
"geeks must still be there ,,, how else would someone have been stabbed with a pen (pocket protectors are now holsters.)"
CNN shows us video of the stabber handcuffed and escorted out and share quotes on why the convention folks must find a way to comfortably shoehorn in enough people to make a profit without risking multiple meltdowns that lead to pen stabbings and other horrors.
Back to work. Back to unraveling the bureacracy that uses registered mail to deliver a notice of change for skilled nursing care on the same day the change takes place and a mere 24 hours after the deadline to protest.
We watched the plant blossom, a small green tomato grow bigger, a green tomato turn red, and finally we released it from our garden, brought it inside, washed it and brought it to the dinner table:
"Had the first tomato out of my first garden yesterday. It was really good. Nothing like a vine ripe tomato."
That was a Facebook posting from a friend that I could have written.
A backyard- or porch-grown tomato shares such a different taste from those from the Flint Farmers' Market, Whole Foods, the local grocery store.
We've been munching on the cherry tomatoes from the yard but nothing compares to the just-picked big ones.
I love tomatoes even when they don't love me back. So I enjoyed three big slices and (almost) gladly suffered through the migraine.
I wish I understood why the canned tomatoes or the market tomatoes don't trigger a headache. Heck, I wish I would remember about the garden effect BEFORE I ate the tomato.
Yet, I know I'd still eat that first one. And I know that I'll keep eating them - maybe just a smaller portion until I find the magical, safe quantity. Or maybe a dose of Benadryl before eating?
I'm thankful my husband planted and cared/s for the minigarden.
I'm thankful for one more sign it is summer (despite the back-to-school sales that are sprouting up in my community.)
FarmVille is serious business for some folks. One guy, known best as the FarmVille Lawn Jockey, was among the first to bring the power of databases and spreadsheets to the game first popular on Facebook. Looks like he will leave with cash for his hardwork.
The creator, who started playing too late to get the short-lived lawn jockey (it was taken away when some complained it was racist), calculated which crop to plant to earn the most points and the most funds. He looked at which animals were the best to keep around to raise funds, even calculating how many animals fit on each precious square.
The site kept growing - offering easy to use tools for others to blog about the game, to keep track of their successes, and to communicate with other FarmVille fans.
But his attention is turning elsewhere and his site is up for auction over on Flippa. Already 10 bids are in and his minimum reserve of $500 has been met.
He could have just abandoned the site, but confessed: "I'm pretty busy with all kinds of other stuff and I really would like someone else who has the time to grow this site to its full potential."
I can't wait to see what the other stuff is, what someone pays and how they develop the site.
Sun, water and kids of all ages creates a perfect summer day.
I stand out at any outdoor outing from June through mid-September. Just look for the woman covered from head to toe and in the shade, my attempt to avoid the damaging rays of the sun.
Some of my prescriptions carry warnings about exposure to the sun. Plus, as someone who overindulged in the sun as a child and teenager and has already had some sun-related skin issues, I don't like to tempt fate.
I prefer the clothing method over sunscreen when I can for many reasons, including I often forget to reapply sunscreen and I don't like the feel of it on my skin. Today, my husband shared a link that reinforces some of my ideas: Does sunscreen cause cancer?
More is not better as most sunscreens rated above SPF 55 offer 1-2% more sunburn rays than an SPF 30 rated sunscreen. They offer a false sense of protection.
Sunscreen loses its effectiveness so replace it when the expiration date pases.
Check the ingredients as some are known to "cause cancer. (I've got "cause cancer" in quotes as I'm not convinced we really know why some of us get cancer and some don't.)
Look for sunscreens with avobenzone, Mexoryl, titanium dioxide, and zinc for UVA coverage. The Environmental Working Group recommends these sunscreens. Alba Botanical and Beyond Coastal top the lists.
Limit time out in the sun between 10 am and 4 pm and stay in the shade.
The best sunscreen is the kind you wear. Outdoor clothing manufacturers are producing SPF-rated clothing to keep you comfortable and sunburn free.
If you already have sunscreen check a nifty little database :to see how yours is rated.
Every day, someone learns how rare they are, how unique. Sometimes that rarity is the happenstance of having a disease few do. Tyler Fehsenfeld has Duchenne muscular dystrophy, a disease only about 15,000 boys have.
It's the type of diagnosis that leaves little hope for the sufferer, family and friends. It is the type of diagnosis that often makes us turn inward, focusing on finding the best options for our connection.
But, sometimes, a family is energized by joining with other families for support. They work together, using their connections, to raise money for a better life for those with the disease, for research for a cure, for somthing that will make a difference.
So Tyler is lucky. His grandfather, the publisher of Michigan's largest daily, home-delivered newspaper, and grandmother sponsored something wonderful recently.
An event orgazined around the local premiere of "The Twilight Saga: Eclipse" raised funds for research on the disease. The movie's opening on June 29 was a chance to learn more about the disease and do good while having fun.
A June 30th update from Dan Gaydou:
"Generous friends continue to come through for the PPMD cause. As of this afternoon, the total raised is $139,840; $3,120 more just since last night. Thank you everyone for your support and God bless you."
The Grand Rapids Press published an article online that will help you learn why I called Tyler a boy with a big heart, a boy who may never celebrate a 30th birthday. The western Michigan news operation followed up with "Mission of 'Twilight:Eclipse' movie premier party was clear: End Duchenne (You'll find a video, photograph and more about the event, organized by Anessa Fehsenfeld, Tyler's mom.)
Gaydou asked his Facebook friends to help promote that event in hopes that many would attend the premiere.
(Sorry, I'm late - it is one of the posts I forgot to publish. But you still can contribute and at least be aware of the disease. You can donate online or send a check payable to Parent Project Muscular Dystophy to Dan Gaydou at 155 Michigan NW, Grand Rapids 49503.).
The boy's father once was the Newspaper In Education coordinator at The Flint Journal.
The family has tried many things. In 2006, the family rocketed into the spotlight when the federal government delayed delivery of Deflazacort, a medicine approved in other countries but not in the United States. A U.S. specialist had prescribed the drug.
"I'm choosing to give this drug to my son that a doctor says he needs, and my country says he can't have it," Anessa Fehsenfeld is quoted The Grand Rapids Press in an April 5, 2006, article. "As if the diagnosis isn't bad enough, and then you have this to deal with."
The options for treatment are few. The Internet has helped many parents to connect, including the Parent Project Muscular Dystrophy site which offers ideas, hope, support and more.
Still, it takes funds for that and for research. That's where events like Run for Our Boys and this western Michigan fund-raiser give help and increase the amount of hope.
I am drinking so much green tea you would think I would turn green!
Alas, it seems my holiday tradition continues since I woke up with a throat that feels as if I have swallowed razor blades the last 24 hours. I WILL be fine by Sunday (hear that body, I WILL).
Meanwhile, maybe you will have better luck with this supposedly magical potion.
Sometimes even wearing my glasses is not enough help to see the most wonderful stories. Lucky for me I know people who share so that I know more about epsilepsy and indoor kite flying. (Look before you laugh.)
It is a co-worker connection that led to the sharing of this video clip (below) over on Facebook and in Free From Editors.
You don't need that hook because this clip stands on its own. Watch it for the story. Watch it to see a mother's love. Watch it to see how one moment, this moment, matters.
I confess that I noted the co-worker connection and almost moved on without clicking because America's Got Talent is not one of the TV shows I value. Blame that prejudice on reading the fine print too may times, uncovering the scams or "real story" too often.
I clicked because I wanted to see how Tim Doran has fared since he left his job at The Flint Journal (see below the video). The story of why his son, a high school student, has perfected the art of indoor kite flying, yanked tears out of me. The gracefulness of the kite flying surprised me, calmed me, enveloped me in quietness.
And then there's the music that his son chose to play while making the kite dance across the stage in Oregon. Sarah McLachlan's Angel, first recorded in1997 and covered by many, only emphasizes the story that many will miss because, like me, they don't watch these types of television shows.
How can you not relate to lines like this:
"... There’s always one reason
To feel not good enough"
As always, I find it interesting to see what unfolds with a find like that. It moved through Facebook rapidly, found its way into at least six blog posts, and now the video is on the front page of the Epilepsy Foundation's web site. and discussed in its forums.
Not bad for a piece of fluff.
Tim, who worked at The Flint Journal in Michigan, lists became managing editor of The Bulletin in 2003 on his LinkedIn profile. Bend, Oregon. Staff sheet now lists the 1988 University of Missouri-Columbia graduate as business reporter for the newspaper printed by the Western News Company and I didn't see a managing editor's job listed. Follow his business news tweets on NewsInBender.
A web search shows that he's stayed active in pushing for the freedom of information, including a stint on the board of Open Oregon and active in the Sunshine Week push.
So how many of my friends in the US took part in the holiday tradition of filling their tanks on Wednesday BEFORE the traditional raising of gas prices that seems to ALWAYS come just before the start of a three-day weekend?
I forgot but that is OK because I'm not traveling. Nope. I am staying home and having folks over.
I'm almost done with food preparations so I won't have to cook (he-he) and I'm about to lay in a stock of paper products even though my husband already believes I must have lost the brain cells that remind you exactly how to load and unload a dishwasher so he does it 99% of the time (he-he).
Ah, summertime and the living is easy.
Note: This post began its life on FarmVille, when I "found" fuel while plowing and shared with farming friends. Why should they have all the fun of reading my posts, eh?
I remember being shocked that anyone still needed a reminder to finish an entire prescription of antibiotics.
It was beyond believability that a multiple sclerosis patient would ignore the opportunity to postpone relapses to avoid nightly injections.
Don't get me started on the rant about following the instructions on a prescription - you know, the ones that suggest eating certain foods render the drug useless or dangerous.
It always was easier to understand why some chose to eat rather then buy medicine. Even with insurance some drugs require an impossible hefty payment in days of layoffs, leaky roofs and lingering financial obligations to feed your famly.
I remember being baffled at the weariness on my aunt's face as she sat at the kitchen table and worked her way through a shoebox of pill bottles. These were the pills that kept her disease under control, that enabled her to walk with less pain, that might give her more time here with us.
I loved her puffy face. I adored her cane, so useful for pushing items and fun to twirl. I liked her long, floaty dresses that spelled freedom so much better then miniskirts or shifts or polyester pants.
But now, with the wisdom that comes with age and experience, I understand so much better why some days the puffiness, the cane, and the dresses were/are burdens, obstacles and sacrifices.
I understand the weariness of working your way through bottle after bottle of prescribed medications. I understand why the possibility of promises in the pills may not be worth the side effects or even the time that it takes to take them, to order them, to pay for them.
Is it really necessary to self inflict the sharpness of the needle on a night when staying awake is preferable to sharing a mattress moved by another body? Why would one dose make a difference? Show me the research.
Can one grapefruit really hurt? How can it be bad to try to calm the burning sensation with the dryness of Saltines an hour before food is allowed? Why should one more tall glass of water be necessary in a body already retaining enough to require a bigger shoe size most days?
If I stop taking the medications, can I pretend that everything is all right? Just for tonight? Just for awhile? Just forever?
What if I apologize to all those I judged for choosing medicine vacations? Does that earn me the right to hide all the bottles, donate the blue box of Copaxone to someone or stop ordering the endless supply of symptom suppressors?
If I promise to never "yell" or critique the medical habits of others can I slide on some of my own?
Summer heat tends to worsen my multiple sclerosis symptoms so I know that is why I am not recovering as fast as I once did. I will not listen to the whisper that I've recovered as far as I will and this is the new stage of remitting. I have too many miles to cover, too many things to read, too many quilts ... well, you get the idea that there is much to do on my list of musts.
Daugther's chalk drawing of the dog hangs in our living room.
It is a work day so that means I am home alone. Really alone. As in the dog that has lived in this house almost as long as our family is gone.
The disappearance was not unexpected. I think it hurt my husband that four hours home from a conference I still had not mentioned her absense.
I'm more then OK with Amy's leaving as it was painful to see her stumble, to ache, to get so little pleasure from life, to play tag vigorously and then move slower with no grace.
The lack of a dog means I move around less because I don't need to open and close the door a zillion times for a dog whose bladder and/or memory was bad.
The lack of a dog means I can leave all interior doors open, the toilet seat lid up, and food on any counter or space that I want.
The lack of a dog means no one eagerly eats what I drop, licks my laptop or knocks over my piles.
The lack of a dog means I don't need to leave on a light at night, trip over water or food bowl or sleep lightly so I heard the scratching request to go out and not make my husband get up.
The lack of a dog eliminates the need to sweep up the hair, may reduce the number of required allergy shots and might save the household a few bucks in vet bills, food, medicines, lodging, etc.
What was good about the dog was the delight it provided my husband and daughter over the years. They loved the dog from the day they picked her up from the Genesee County Humane Society. They played with the dog, provided for the dog and trained the dog.
The dog was a reason for dad and daughter to play outside, to walk outside, to talk.
Amy's exploring gains her collar of trash can lid
The dog helped ease the transition from city to suburbs for my daughter when we moved in the midst of a middle-school year.
The move was sparked by anger that her school (or the local newspaper) did not see the setting of her hair on fire in a classroom as a big deal.
The move meant we finally had a back yard bigger then a sandbox, removing the excuse for not having a dog. The dog helped as we adjusted to a lifestyle without museums, the library and friends within walking distance.
The dog helped ease the transition of losing our daughter twice now to a community 624 miles away for my husband.
The first time she left for a household that already had a dog and so left "her dog."
The second time she left it was clear "her dog" was her dad's dog now. Plus, the move would be tough on the rapidly aging dog who already seemed to forget where she was or what she did. Besides, our daughter had another dog of her own.
This dog was the third in my life. I barely remember the first - an Irish settler that lived outdoors. The best thing about the second dog was its litter financed a dishwasher for my family. That was almost enough to forgive her for throwing up in my shoes.
Waking up early and slowly today let me uncover some thoughts, some smiles and some tears before throwing off the covers.
Like most days, I reached first for my iPhone to check on the time, to check for messages, to check what's new via Facebook.
Unlike most days, I skipped over to the Safari application and visited a few blogs. Although each blog delivered delights and insights, I also recognized the pleasure of reading the blogs in their native environments. It is the design, the completeness - blog post with comments - and the focus that delivers the punch of pleasure sometimes hidden when you read through a feed.
Or maybe it is the slowness, the appreciation of the steps taken to get to a specific spot on the Internet and the ability to move from post to post and indulge in a feast on one topic or one writer.
Blog inspiration
There were three that feed an addiction and have inspired my blogging - FarmVille Freaks, FarmVille Fanatic, and FarmVilleFeed. There was one - Free From Editors - that made me cry and delivered a reminder that my blogging is changing. There was one - Louis Gray - that reminded me some people talk about authentic conversations while others have them.
Happy and growing
I still smile when I remember how happy the bloggers were when Zynga, the FarmVille creator, recognized them by distributing giftable items to them.
It has been inspiring to watch them learn to credit the blog that had the information first and to give Zynga the credit for images.
Equally interesting is watching the designs grow. One frequently ends posts with questions that inspire comments or use multiple-choice questions to garner interest in options. The categories change as do how the information is presented.
I knew that!
I can't type in a web address without thinking about Free From Editors, a blog by a former colleague who will never forgive newspapers for giving away content for free on the Internet.
Reading Free From Editors also reminded me how I am once again scattering my shares/likes/finds across the Internet and how Facebook is helping me connect with more things. The reminder came in his post on Connor Doran, the son of another former colleague.
I'd shared the video on Facebook on Sunday, meant to write about here and well, you know how that went. I do have a post pending, just waiting for an answer to a question. Stay tuned.
Walking the talk
I'm running into the phrase "authentic conversations" on a regular basis. The disappointment comes with those who limit being authentic to words, not action. I am rarely disappointed with Louis Gray, who models an admirable openness, delivers good information and always pushes items onto my to-do list.
Today's reading added three actionable items and a watch reminder:
As I said, I'm rarely disappointed by the return on investment when I spend time at LouisGray.com His post on The art of being pragmatic in a world of fanboys is just part of a series he offers on where he is coming from and what he is doing online. I admire him for not only thinking about it, but sharing his insights.
Quick sidetrack: Jesse Stay's blog post on Who Are the Mormons? yesterday reminded me of Gray's openess. It also made me think about why Gray and Stay are at the top of my bloggers to read list.
Welcome to this collection of thoughts. The focus has changed with most posts now on quilting, embroidery, and crafting. The change comes as my life changes -- an exit from the formal, full-time workforce, an entrance into grandparenting, and an acknowledgement that all things eventually end. I still will write sometimes about other aspects of my life, like multiple schlerosis, freelance work and the Internet,. Mary Ann Chick Whiteside, aka mcwflint
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