HOPE AND CERTAINTY
HOPE AND CERTAINTY
On my first day as a freshman at Boston University, I received a phone call from my sister. She had called to say that our beloved Uncle Irv, who had lived next door to us all our lives, had suddenly died. He was jogging in the park, and he suddenly collapsed and never regained consciousness. We were all in a state of shock, but later when I reflected on it, I could find some sort of an explanation. Although only in his late forties, our uncle had been a heart patient already. He walked around with nitroglycerin in his pocket. We all told ourselves that there was a “reason”.
Then yesterday I received another call from my sister. Our cousin’s husband had collapsed and died while jogging – “Just like Uncle Irv”! I exclaimed. But I found out later that Doug, only 57, had been in top condition – that in fact he was a marathon runner. It made no sense to me or to anyone else. So this time, the shock of the sudden loss was combined with the shock of having absolutely no idea as to why this had happened.
My husband and I are what some might call health fanatics. We walk in the hills every day. We are vegetarians. We take supplements religiously. I take yoga. We both hope to live to a ripe old age. But when something like this happens, it makes us realize how very little control (if any) we have over our lives. There is some other force at work that doesn’t care one fig whether we walk, run, or sit in front of the TV all day eating bon-bons. And while we can raise our odds for a healthy life, there are too many variables we simply can’t control.
It makes me think, more than ever, how precious and fragile our lives really are. All I can do is treat each day as a gift. We get caught up in so many details, that sometimes it’s hard to remember the “big picture”. But that’s human nature. It’s too hard to stay in touch with our vulnerability. After all, a little denial is a healthy thing.
As for living to be centenarians – We have every reason to hope. Art and I have “good peasant stock” in our favor and strong spirits. But whatever the future may hold for us, I will try to remember to enjoy the here and now. That’s the only thing that is certain.
© 2005, Robin Munson
SUNDAY AT THE BIG BOX STORE
SUNDAY AT THE BIG BOX STORE
I played hooky yesterday from just about everything. I forced myself to do a couple of loads of laundry just so I wouldn’t sit up all night chastising myself for general sloth.
Among other wild goose chases yesterday, Art and I went to a “big box” home improvement store. We didn’t find most of what we wanted. Isn’t that always the way)? But we had a couple of very small items. Rather than wait in the line that went out the door and around the block for the (human) cashier, we decided to try the automated cashier.
Have you ever done this? Perhaps this is an innovation that has not hit your hometown yet. Just wait.
You still stand in line, of course, but the line is shorter. We found out why.
A disembodied voice that seems to emanate from the heavens welcomes you. In our case, it welcomed us in Spanish. We looked at the computer screen, and sure enough, all the written instructions were in Spanish. Now, I speak a little Spanish, so I probably could have struggled my way through it – but Art doesn’t speak Spanish, and besides, even if we could have figured it all out, there were about five people waiting behind us, and we were very afraid of their reaction if they were kept waiting in line for half an hour while we tried to translate.
Art called over to the young woman who was seated in a kind of catbird perch about ten feet away. She was kind of the overseer for the whole operation. He asked her if she would please change the machine to English, since no matter what he did, he couldn’t seem to knock it out of Spanish mode. She said she couldn’t do that, so Art struggled with the thing for another two or three minutes while the people behind us rolled their eyes, tapped their toes, hummed, and swore under their breath. Art called out to the young woman again, and this time she said, “Okay”. A few seconds later, the machine greeted us in English so that we could start all over again.
It asked us to scan our item. Art scanned the item. Then it said, “Place the item in the bagging area”, and Art had already started to scan the next item, but the machine refused to scan the next item until the first item was in the bag. Somehow, in the confusion of the moment, Art mistakenly scanned the first item twice. He had to call out to the young overseer again, and she started the whole process over.
Finally, Art was able to successfully scan the first item, drop it in the bag, and scan the second item, then drop it in the bag. (I can’t figure out how the darn thing knows whether or not you have bagged your item). Finally, we were able to walk out of the store, receipt in hand. Of course, we had to stop at the door for a security check. Then we were on our way.
Looking back to the first line which we had eschewed for the automated line, I noticed that we would have been long gone already, had we opted to go that way.
I don’t know about you, but for Art and me, I think we’ll stick with the old fashioned kind of cashier. And maybe next time we’ll skip the “big box” concept altogether and go to our local hardware store. At least there we don’t have to dodge the forklifts.
© 2005, Robin Munson
WHY BLOG?
WHY BLOG?
Yesterday I received an anonymous comment on my blog. I am not sure, but I think it was taking me to task for “doing private things in public places”. I have asked myself, too, why I share so much of my personal history with perfect strangers. Here is what I have come up with.
It is my belief that we are all much more alike than we are different. The personal is the universal. I learned this when we lived in Nashville and I was learning to write country songs. If you listen to a country station, you will notice that a lot of the songs are extremely specific and personal in nature. A few titles that come to mind are, “How Can I Help You to Say Goodbye”, “That’s Not My Truck”, “I’m Looking For Something In Red”, “Don’t Take The Girl”, “She’s In Love With the Boy” . . .It’s not hard to think of good examples. The human condition is spelled out loud and clear in every one of these songs. That’s why they work. When you listen to songs like these, and many others, you feel as if someone has been reading your mail.
And how does it make you feel when you hear a song that fits your own situation like a key fits a lock? Well, speaking strictly for myself, it makes me feel good. Even if the emotion of the song is heartbreakingly sad, it feels good to know that I’m not alone, to know that somewhere out there is at least one person (the writer) who understands. This is not a small thing. And if the writer was skilled enough to include personal details such as the name of the best friend who moved to another town, or his daddy’s watch that he gave to the mugger in exchange for his girlfriend’s life, or the phrase ‘hayseed plowboy’ which an angry father used to describe his daughter’s boyfriend, so much the better! That gives the whole story an authenticity that reassures me the writer wasn’t just making the whole thing up.
One of the worst feelings in the world is the feeling of isolation. It’s become a cliché that whenever they’re interviewing the neighbor of someone who turns out to be a serial killer, the neighbor says something like, “Well, you never would have known. He was kind of a loner – Never said ‘boo’ to anyone!”
All of our mythology, our classic drama, our movies, our “sit coms”, even the comic strips in the paper, are ways of connecting us to our larger human family. Life can be scary and lonely. Life can be bewildering and overwhelming. Life can be tragic and unfair. Life can be hilarious and touching. So when we find out that someone else is having the same kind of life that we are, we feel better for it. We feel supported.
And for the writer, the effect is the same, only in reverse. I reach out to my audience and immediately feel connected. I like knowing that somewhere out there in the world, someone is reading my little story and nodding their head in recognition, or chuckling, or sighing, or even just thinking, “Well, I didn’t feel that way when I was in that situation”! It really doesn’t matter, because all of it is connection. And for me – That’s what it’s all about.
© 2005, Robin Munson
A LIFE’S JOURNEY THROUGH MAGAZINES
A LIFE’S JOURNEY THROUGH MAGAZINES
As I get older and older, I have noticed my change in habits when it comes to magazines.
Of course in my teens, like most girls of my era my age, I was partial to “Seventeen Magazine”. I wanted to look just like Christie Brinkley, and I thought that if that wish could magically be fulfilled, I would be happy, get straight A’s in school, and would be married to the captain of the football team by the time I was twenty-one. It didn’t seem to matter in my fantasy world that I looked nothing at all like Ms. Brinkley. I failed to see that I was 5’3”, had curly brown hair, brown eyes, short knees, and a curvaceous figure, which would not be reduced to model dimensions. No matter what I did, I would never look like Ms. Brinkley. Furthermore, I would never have straight A’s, and I didn’t even like football. Who was I kidding? So I gave up “Seventeen”.
In my twenties, I was partial to “Cosmopolitan”. I saw myself as the quintessential “single girl”. Helen Gurley Brown was my guru. I figured, “Okay. I’ll never be Christie Brinkley, but I’m a modern, liberated, young woman.” So I read and filled out all the questionnaires with True/False statements such as, “I am good at getting what I want in bed” (or something like that). “Yes!” I declared. “I am good at that!” Well, no. Not really. And while I also dutifully read “Time” and “Newsweek” as part of my liberated woman program, after a while (around when I hit my thirties) I began to ask myself if this was all I wanted to do – Turn myself into some kind of a she-male sexual predator in order to snag some poor unsuspecting man. (After all, we must remember that Helen Gurley-Brown started out as Helen Gurley). “No, that’s not quite me”, I concluded. So I stopped reading Cosmo.
In my early thirties, I went back to graduate school. I got about a ten-year hiatus from all but professional journals. I saw myself as a “serious” woman striving to create a “meaningful career” in the helping professions. I liked seeing myself that way. In fact, I was largely successful in that role for a time, and it was very refreshing to focus on somebody other than myself.
In my late thirties I met and married Art. Soon I had decided that I needed to go back to writing music, so for another ten years or so, magazines were not on my short list. Even bridal magazines were out, since this was not a first marriage for either of us, and it just seemed weird to think of myself as a “young bride”.
In my forties I began to see myself, perhaps for the first time, as mortal. I began to understand in my heart that I was “middle aged”, meaning that I was roughly halfway through this life. So I began perusing “Prevention” magazine. “Yes”, thought I, “I may be middle-aged, but I’m a YOUNG middle-aged woman. I think young. I act young. I eat and sleep young. And with the help of a couple dozen supplements, by God, I’ll STAY YOUNG!”
Now in my fifties, I have to say that I am in transition. I still take the supplements and I try to stay active. My antennae go up every time a health guru gets on television with the latest news on “anti-aging”. But I can feel a shift. Now when I’m in the grocery store and my eyes wander over to the magazine rack next to the cash register, they only glance at “Prevention”. Then I tell myself, “I’ve seen it all before. ‘Eat sensibly, exercise, and don’t smoke’”. That pretty much sums it up. Then I notice my gaze drifting to “Country Cottage” or “Real Simple” or perhaps even “Woman’s Day”. I am drawn to articles about organizing the home, getting the most for my money in the supermarket, or twelve healthy meals you can whip up in no time. Even “Consumer Reports” beckons. Who am I now?
Maybe you can’t really define a person by their magazine of choice, but it says a lot about us – especially about our stage of life. (AARP Magazine is now a staple in our home)! Next time you’re visiting someone for the first time, check out the selection on the coffee table. You’ll get the picture.
© 2005, Robin Munson
SOMETHING TO PONDER
I’ve heard that work expands to fill the time available (or something like that – Remind me to get a Bartlett’s Book of Quotations so that I don’t mangle these axioms and I can tell you who said it).
Anyway, this morning was a case in point. Because Thursdays are mostly taken up by my time with my mother, I wanted to get up extra early so that I could get my routine done before going to Mom’s. So I was up before dawn cooking breakfast and feeding the cat. By six thirty, breakfast was over and I was washing dishes. So far, so good. But then, it happened. I was wiping off the stove and the counters, and I noticed some grime. Not your everyday grime, mind you, but some serious, built-up, greasy grime, and it was all over the top of the stove.
Now, I’m not Martha Stewart or Betty Crocker, but there is a limit to just how much of this stuff I can stand. So I took apart the stove, piece by piece, and began scrubbing from the inside out. Suddenly, it was an hour later, and all my lovely extra time had evaporated.
My big philosophical question for the day is this: Was the stove scrubbing a serious and important task that is part of my larger effort to keep my home free of chaos and clutter? Or (and this is my own sneaking suspicion) was the stove scrubbing merely a distraction to keep me from completing my writing?
I guess the only possible answer is – It depends.
First question: Am I a serious writer? In order to know the answer to that question, you would have to define “serious writer”. If the answer is: “a writer who makes a serious amount of money as a writer”, then I would have to say, alas, no. If the answer is: “anyone who takes themselves seriously as a writer”, I’m afraid the answer would again have to be, no. If the answer is: “anyone who writes something of weight or import”, I would have to say that I’m not the one to judge that. But if the answer is, “Anyone who writes every day” – I qualify.
Second question: Does cleaning matter? In order to know the answer to that question, you would have to define “cleaning”. Is cleaning merely mindless routine that must be repeated every day in as little time as possible? (In which case, it matters very little, indeed). Or. Is cleaning a way to unclutter our surroundings in order to unclutter our minds and free us for more creative tasks? Or is the act of cleaning in and of itself therapeutic and necessary to our well-being? I have to say that I have been all over the map myself with these questions, and I don’t really know the answer. (Sigh).
Well, if nothing else, this morning’s exercise at the stove gave me something to ponder – and it gave you something to read. Let’s just leave it at that.
© Robin Munson, 2005
SMALL INDULGENCES
SMALL INDULGENCES
I used to walk through the flower section of the grocery store with longing in my heart. I would drag myself past all those beautiful bouquets of roses, daisies, daffodils, irises, tulips, freesias, lavender, heather, baby’s breath, eucalyptus, gladioli, and lilies. My nose would take in the gorgeous aromas and I would hold in my breath half way through the store, trying to retain the fragrance for as long as I could. I would smile at the clever and often unexpected combinations of flowers and greens. I would actually, literally, feast my senses on these displays, yet I would never pick up a bunch of flowers to buy for my home.
I was too pragmatic. Everything had to “serve a purpose”. I reasoned with myself that if I had lived without cut flowers for this long, I could certainly live without cut flowers for another week. Thus, I saved myself the princely sum of four or five dollars a week. I would congratulate myself for avoiding temptation yet again.
Of course, if you don’t meet your needs one way, you meet them in some other way. I would make up for my lack of flowers by indulging in frivolous food. Yes, food is a necessity, I would reason, so it’s okay to spend money on food. So I would buy crackers, cookies, chips, pies, cakes and scones. I would often look inside my grocery cart and feel that I must be the child of some negligent parents who’ve gone off on vacation and left shopping to the four year-old. Never mind that I was spending a fortune on these largely unhealthy “treats”. Never mind that the unhealthy “treats” were going directly to my derriere. Never mind that sugar is about the unhealthiest thing I can eat – and I was taking in a lot of sugar.
Some time in the past year or so, I read in one of Dr. Andrew Weil’s weekly health reports that he recommends buying flowers for yourself at least once a week. (You can look up Dr. Weil on line – He’s a very wise health adviser, in my opinion). I had never heard of a doctor recommending flower therapy before (not that he called it “flower therapy”). I brushed off the advice as if it were an annoying gnat. But the idea kept flying back in my face every time I went past the flower display at Trader Joe’s.
One day there was a gorgeous display of purplish-blue irises. I tried to walk past them, but they beckoned me back. I stood and admired them for a couple of minutes. They were so fresh, so happy looking. I checked the price; $4.99. I did a mental calculation. I could spare $4.99 this week. I reached out and grasped the gorgeous flowers holding them briefly to my heart before carefully placing them in the top section of the cart. I imagined them at home in the center of our kitchen table drenched in diffused sunlight.
The flowers did not disappoint. It was like having our own living Van Gogh right in our own home. They lasted about five days, and I was very sad when they drooped beyond redemption, but then, I reasoned, there would be more irises. And there were – the next time I went to the store. And for the last couple of weeks there have been daffodils! Daffodils, the most humble of the spring flowers, are also the most cheerful. They are blindingly bright yellow and give off a faint but sweet fragrance. They have temporarily replaced the irises on our table. If you have not had breakfast with a bunch of daffodils, you have not had breakfast!
Oh, I still indulge in those “treats” – maybe a little bit less, though. The flowers fill a place in my heart that cannot be filled by any food.
I advise you to allow yourself this small indulgence when you can, whether you prefer calla lilies, roses, or mums. I don’t know what it does precisely for the immune system or the lymphatic system or the digestive system, but I have a feeling it does something powerful for the mind and the spirit.
© 2005, Robin Munson
WHY I CAN NEVER REMEMBER ANYTHING
WHY I CAN NEVER REMEMBER ANYTHING
My husband and I take a walk through our neighborhood every day. That’s how we keep ourselves from falling apart.
Yesterday during our walk, I saw that a neighbor had some beautiful orange tulips in bloom. Immediately, my “inner D.J.” (as my sister refers to this mechanism) starting playing “When You Wore a Tulip”. I didn’t just hear one line of the song; I heard the entire song as sung by my mother and father in the car when we were on road trips. I remembered every single lyric, every harmony, and the vaudeville-type ending. Art and I are perfectly suited. You see, he has the same affliction. Carelessly, I began singing, “When you wore a tulip – A big yellow tulip – And I wore a big red rose. . .” Well, then Art was stuck with it.
Moving along, we happened to see someone’s classic 60s Mustang convertible parked on the side of the road. Immediately, the band started up, “Mustang Sally – Guess you better slow-ow-ow your Mustang down”. Once more, every lyric, every horn stab on the original record.
That is, until we walked past a house with a small dog yapping in the window as we walked by. You guessed it (if you’re old enough to remember) – the first song I ever learned as a little girl – Patty Paige’s “How Much Is That Doggy In The Window” (“the one with the wagg-e-ly ta-ai-ail? How much is that doggy in the window [arf-arf] – I do hope that doggy’s for sale!”).
It doesn’t seem to matter how good or even lucid the song is – I tend to record them indelibly in my brain forever and ever. The memory of songs spans decades, outlasts friendships and heartbreaks, and is undisturbed even by tragedies, catastrophes, and major illnesses. At 54, I can still remember songs I learned on my mother’s knee at the age of three. (“Three little fishies in the itty-bitty pool. . .”). If not in their entirety, certainly in essence. (“ . . .’Swim said the mama fishy, swim if you can’, and they swam, swam, swam all over the dam!”). See what I mean?
I’ve got countless other ones. Most of them vintage 50s and 60s songs that were burned into my psyche forever. To my horror, whenever the news anchors start talking about Arab-Israeli relations, my inner D.J. spins the very un-p.c., “Ahab the A-rab”. When I walk past an open ladder I hear, “James! James! Hold the ladder steady . . .” When it rains I hear, “I’m singin’ in the rain, just singin in the rain . . .” When the sun comes out I hear, “Here comes the sun (doo-ba-doo-ba) – Here comes the sun, and I say – It’s alright . . .” When I hear, “It’s alright”, I think, “Don’t think twice, it’s alright”. And so it goes until the needle gets stuck on one song and that can last for days on end!
So – Don’t ask me about the capitol of Montana. Don’t ask me the date of the Louisiana Purchase. Because, “ . . .Who knows where or when?”
© 2005, Robin Munson
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