Webster’s Dictionary has a multitude of definitions on the subjects I write about; but what I’m writing about today is the quality of a person’s empirical character. I am a person watcher. I enjoy the comings and goings of people at the park when I take my daughter up to play. People, as a general rule, fascinate me. I am taken in by the vastness of variety of people around us each and every day.
When I was growing up in the -- pretty much -- middle class neighborhood of Arizona, there wasn’t such a thing as race, at least not that I was aware of. There were all types of people who lived in my neighborhood. The Catholic family that lived on the other corner who had the nine children, the Hispanic family whose mother kept all the furniture covered in plastic, and the regular run of the mill ‘white protestant groups,’ like my own.
I guess it wasn’t until my parents divorced that I realized that people could be segregated, not only by race, but by a standard of living. If you got divorced, you were branded with a scarlet letter -- and not only the people who got the divorce, but the children also. That was “not what normal families did” in my neighborhood, they didn’t get divorced. That was my first taste of prejudice, and my first insights into the character of people as a whole.
As I grew up, I watch ‘clicks’ form in school, just another form of prejudice. Jocks, Nerds, Cheerleaders, and the Dope Heads all worked within their own tiers of hierarchy. Being branded with a scarlet letter here just meant you didn’t belong to a certain group, but it was painful for those who didn’t fit into any group. I was the nerd who played tennis, so I had a cross platform of branding. And to think I waited until I was 30 to get a tattoo -- I had already been branded, they just weren’t noticeable.
To be continued…
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Derby Day
May 1, 2010 -- it’s Derby day for those of you who aren’t aware and for shame if you didn’t.
The race, the drinks (known as the mint julep), the stew (burgoo), and lord, the hats!
Hats are synonymous with the race.
Hats of every shape and size (large mostly) and ornately trimmed are the winning spectacle of the Run for the Roses.
When Millionaires row opened in the 1950’s, hats were the signature of stature in the area, and the bigger the hat the more bucks you had. Now it has become one of the best loved trademarks of the auspicious day at Church Hill Downs.
Hunter S. Thompson (surprisingly, a family friend) wrote a little ditty you can view on the website of the Kentucky Derby. It’s a tough piece to digest if you have any stomach problems, but it gives an unaltered view of what can and usually does happen on the infield of the Derby itself. It’s a rather riotous bunch in Kentucky when they are running their favorite race.
It’s almost post time; I have stew cooking and need to crush the ice for the juleps. Ya’ll get your hats on and join us for some stew and cheese grits and singing of Ole Kentucky Home.
The race, the drinks (known as the mint julep), the stew (burgoo), and lord, the hats!
Hats are synonymous with the race.
Hats of every shape and size (large mostly) and ornately trimmed are the winning spectacle of the Run for the Roses.
When Millionaires row opened in the 1950’s, hats were the signature of stature in the area, and the bigger the hat the more bucks you had. Now it has become one of the best loved trademarks of the auspicious day at Church Hill Downs.
Hunter S. Thompson (surprisingly, a family friend) wrote a little ditty you can view on the website of the Kentucky Derby. It’s a tough piece to digest if you have any stomach problems, but it gives an unaltered view of what can and usually does happen on the infield of the Derby itself. It’s a rather riotous bunch in Kentucky when they are running their favorite race.
It’s almost post time; I have stew cooking and need to crush the ice for the juleps. Ya’ll get your hats on and join us for some stew and cheese grits and singing of Ole Kentucky Home.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Winter Blahs
Winter -- bleak, stark, and white. At least this winter was a white one. I found myself shoveling more snow than I have in all winters combined (even those in Minnesota). Winter isn’t a good time for me, I believe I was a bear in a previous life, hibernation sets in and I am ill-equipped to produce more than guttural noises at the approach of friends and neighbors. I am cold and unhappy, there is no sun to boost my mood and it shows (outwardly as well as inwardly).This weekend has produced temperatures into the 50’s (which for Pittsburgh is shorts weather) and an abundance of sunshine. My mood is improving exponentially with the coming of spring.
Monday, November 2, 2009
November Novel Nuts
This is my November Novel -- A 50,000 word exercise used to help those of us who would like to write but don't ever seem to find the time to write. (I don't seem to be able to ever find enough time to write)
This story is one that has been creeping around in my head -- so here you go, follow along as the month progresses -- Lets see if i can do it.
GIVE ME DEATH -- By T.S. Smith
Prologue
The shrill whistle blew marking the end of another day. Dirt and grime covered every inch of exposed skin and clothing the young man wore. His Dickies were more gray silt than tan with the debris. His white hard hat puffed a plumb of rubble into the air as he tapped it roughly against his leg. He wiped his brow with a dirty red work rag that left behind a gash of moist dirt in its wake. He replaced the hat -- tapping it home on his head, gathered his lunch pail and tattered jacket into his free hand.
His pace was resigned -- almost reluctant to leave the shelter of the giant crane’s cabin; he slowly placed his gloved hands and steel-toed boots on the long metal ladder, descending the thirty-odd steps to the ground below.
He lifted his time card out of the rack containing fifty duplicate time cards. The only discerning difference was the T. Thomas printed at the top of his. He slid the card into the time clock flinching as the clock stamped the time and bit a chunk out of the side of the beige benign surface. He slid it back into the rack where its home would be until the next workday.
T. Thomas turned and walked through the steel meshed gates to the sidewalk beyond then slowly trotted down the street toward home, head bent counting the separations in the sidewalk to himself. There were two hundred and twelve separations until he reached home. Tomorrow there would be two hundred and twelve separations in the sidewalk on his way back.
GIVE ME DEATH
By T.S. Smith
Have you ever given much thought to your own death? Not that I think about you dying, well not much, at least. However, I do think an awful lot about myself dying -- it’s an obsession really. I also obsess about the death of those around me -- those who are close to me -- those who I really wish would die. Not you of course, you’re fine in your perfect world, but mine isn’t quite as nice as yours is. Let me illustrate….
My name is Tom T. Thomas, or in reality, my birth certificate is emblazoned with the name Thomas Thomas Thomas. I didn’t have the most creative parents. I had to change my first name to Tom in grade school just to keep the bullies off my back -- if I’d only knew then what I know now I would have let them beat me to a bloody pulp before puberty reared its ugly head.
My mother -- who held me bound in purgatory for nine months, felt little need to touch me after giving birth. She felt her job was adequately finished. Most of the care I received in the early years came from my grandmother -- luckily enough she died choking to death on a chicken bone along with the dog. We buried them together to save my father from having to dig another hole. I didn’t cry at the funeral. To be honest I was happy to see my grandmother die, she was a miserable woman and would have likely made a top three spot on my list of people who should die.
She always smelled of a week old ashtray and flowers mixed, it was a revolting aroma. Her lips had a permanent divot where the Lucky Strike cigarette sat with an inch long ash dangling precariously waiting to drop on my body as she dressed or bathed me. She also wore the reddest lipstick and nail polish -- a color that’s only natural with arterial bleeding. Her skin was always pasty white except for those areas nicotine had painted yellow. The contrast between the red and pasty white lead me to believe she was a vampire -- and my dreams were darker those nights she tucked me into bed. My last waking visions of those blood red lips wrinkled with age, lowering over my face to kiss me goodnight -- still gives me nightmares.
My father on the other hand was a wonderful man. He loved having a son to carry on the family name -- even if that name was obviously so common. When he came home from work in the evenings he would tossle my hair and ask, “How was your day?” I nodded dutifully, even though I was unable to articulate the horrors I lived every waking moment he wasn’t in the house. On the weekends my life was bearable. My father would take me to the park, or fishing, or just sit and read the paper to me depending on how miserable the weather was outside.
It was one of those beautiful sunny days at the park that the only bright spot in my life was extinguished.
Walking along the tree lined lane of the park my father reached up and grabbed his left arm as if someone had suddenly hit him. I watched his face in horror as the pain gripped his chest and he was -- in seconds -- laying face first in the grass, dead. I cried that day.
This story is one that has been creeping around in my head -- so here you go, follow along as the month progresses -- Lets see if i can do it.
GIVE ME DEATH -- By T.S. Smith
Prologue
The shrill whistle blew marking the end of another day. Dirt and grime covered every inch of exposed skin and clothing the young man wore. His Dickies were more gray silt than tan with the debris. His white hard hat puffed a plumb of rubble into the air as he tapped it roughly against his leg. He wiped his brow with a dirty red work rag that left behind a gash of moist dirt in its wake. He replaced the hat -- tapping it home on his head, gathered his lunch pail and tattered jacket into his free hand.
His pace was resigned -- almost reluctant to leave the shelter of the giant crane’s cabin; he slowly placed his gloved hands and steel-toed boots on the long metal ladder, descending the thirty-odd steps to the ground below.
He lifted his time card out of the rack containing fifty duplicate time cards. The only discerning difference was the T. Thomas printed at the top of his. He slid the card into the time clock flinching as the clock stamped the time and bit a chunk out of the side of the beige benign surface. He slid it back into the rack where its home would be until the next workday.
T. Thomas turned and walked through the steel meshed gates to the sidewalk beyond then slowly trotted down the street toward home, head bent counting the separations in the sidewalk to himself. There were two hundred and twelve separations until he reached home. Tomorrow there would be two hundred and twelve separations in the sidewalk on his way back.
GIVE ME DEATH
By T.S. Smith
Have you ever given much thought to your own death? Not that I think about you dying, well not much, at least. However, I do think an awful lot about myself dying -- it’s an obsession really. I also obsess about the death of those around me -- those who are close to me -- those who I really wish would die. Not you of course, you’re fine in your perfect world, but mine isn’t quite as nice as yours is. Let me illustrate….
My name is Tom T. Thomas, or in reality, my birth certificate is emblazoned with the name Thomas Thomas Thomas. I didn’t have the most creative parents. I had to change my first name to Tom in grade school just to keep the bullies off my back -- if I’d only knew then what I know now I would have let them beat me to a bloody pulp before puberty reared its ugly head.
My mother -- who held me bound in purgatory for nine months, felt little need to touch me after giving birth. She felt her job was adequately finished. Most of the care I received in the early years came from my grandmother -- luckily enough she died choking to death on a chicken bone along with the dog. We buried them together to save my father from having to dig another hole. I didn’t cry at the funeral. To be honest I was happy to see my grandmother die, she was a miserable woman and would have likely made a top three spot on my list of people who should die.
She always smelled of a week old ashtray and flowers mixed, it was a revolting aroma. Her lips had a permanent divot where the Lucky Strike cigarette sat with an inch long ash dangling precariously waiting to drop on my body as she dressed or bathed me. She also wore the reddest lipstick and nail polish -- a color that’s only natural with arterial bleeding. Her skin was always pasty white except for those areas nicotine had painted yellow. The contrast between the red and pasty white lead me to believe she was a vampire -- and my dreams were darker those nights she tucked me into bed. My last waking visions of those blood red lips wrinkled with age, lowering over my face to kiss me goodnight -- still gives me nightmares.
My father on the other hand was a wonderful man. He loved having a son to carry on the family name -- even if that name was obviously so common. When he came home from work in the evenings he would tossle my hair and ask, “How was your day?” I nodded dutifully, even though I was unable to articulate the horrors I lived every waking moment he wasn’t in the house. On the weekends my life was bearable. My father would take me to the park, or fishing, or just sit and read the paper to me depending on how miserable the weather was outside.
It was one of those beautiful sunny days at the park that the only bright spot in my life was extinguished.
Walking along the tree lined lane of the park my father reached up and grabbed his left arm as if someone had suddenly hit him. I watched his face in horror as the pain gripped his chest and he was -- in seconds -- laying face first in the grass, dead. I cried that day.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Healing Hearts
My friend and coworker is learning first hand what it’s like to help heal a heart. Death, I’m afraid, touches us all at one point or another and how we deal with grief is unique to each of us. Psychologists like to classify grief in a group of stages.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
SHOCK & DENIAL
PAIN & GUILT
ANGER & BARGAINING
DEPRESSION, REFLECTION, LONELINESS
THE UPWARD TURN
RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH
ACCEPTANCE & HOPE
Many of us have heard of these stages, but if you haven’t been through it yourself, you can’t begin to imagine how difficult it can be.
I lost my mother-in-law a few years back to a rather unusual accident.
During the September 2004 flood in my town, we lived in a war zone of destruction. Neighbors’ roofs were lying in yard three houses away. The fence that once surrounded my home was swept away by the raging waters. This left the six-foot drop-off into the creek accessible to anyone not paying attention to where you were walking.
We, Kevin and I, received a phone call that horrific morning at 3:00 am. My nephew had driven by the house and noticed Mary Catherine’s car parked in the street, still running, lights still on and the door locked. He tried getting into her house but the doors to the house were locked. That’s when we got the call. Kevin called his brothers and they all met at the house looking for their mother. Luckily, or unluckily they found her. She had walked off the six-foot drop off at the rear of the house. She was conscience for the short term but dropped into a coma when she was taken to the hospital only waking up shortly stating she was ready to see her mother before passing away.
I can’t even begin to imagine the grief that rocked this family -- my daughter was completely knocked off her axis by the trauma. I loved Mary, but I wasn’t attached to her like my husband and daughter were. This was my first time, as an adult, dealing with grief on this scale. I was besides myself trying to help a five year old little girl come to terms with her grandmother dying. We made it through. It has taken 5 years for her to come to terms with that loss.
While I worked through this trying time with my daughter I tried to remember what it was like loosing my grandmother. I was close to the same age as my own daughter, but I didn’t have the kind of relationship with my grandmother that she had with hers. Mary was like her second mother -- I only saw my grandmother occasionally. Mary spent every second of her day with my daughter -- it was something she loved. Man she loved her grandchildren. My grandmother was suffering with cancer (something I wasn’t aware of at the time). I loved my grandmother, but I didn’t depend on her for a portion of my everyday happiness. My daughter was tightly bonded to her grandmother -- those two were like Frick and Frack -- one wasn’t far away from the other.
This one episode in my life showed me how little I had entrusted my happiness to someone else. While I watched, helpless to do anything about it, my daughter suffered because she was so amazingly close to someone else.
Her heart is healed now and she will go on to bond her happiness with others in her life. This is a good thing. Time does heal wounds -- just remember the stronger the bond the deeper the wound and the longer it takes to heal.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Practiced at the Art of Procrastination
The road to hell isn’t paved with good intentions; it’s paved with the bodies of procrastinators. Those who don’t procrastinate are driving the steamrollers.My to-do list has become quite extensive this past week. The holidays tend to do this to women. The house needs a holiday cleaning, cookie recipes need baked, and I don’t even want to figure out what box I packed the Christmas decorations in last year. We were flooded twice in the past few years so much of what I once had is now floating somewhere in the Atlantic. If you notice a fake Christmas tree, it’s probably mine.
So with the never ending list of my own, we add to that -- Halloween parties at work and school (plus the opportunity to TP the local haunted tree up the street from my house -- not to worry, it’s a yearly event graciously accepted by the owners of said tree), Thanksgiving, a music recital (thrown in for good measure), Christmas parties at work and school, New Years Eve parties (amateur night, I tend to stay in for those), and then the Monster’s Birthday. Three months crammed full of stuff to do. I’m starting to feel my age and the ever-present devil sitting on my shoulder whispering into my ear, “Procrastinate.”
To be honest, I don’t know how some women do it because I sure as hell can’t keep up with the PTA, wannabe Martha Stewart, school moms. I’m quite happy just being able to get out of bed in the morning, have enough energy to shower and head off to work. (Mind you, my work starts when most of you all go to bed. I sleep during the day, which is a whole other set of problems that lends itself to procrastination.)
Of course, the older I get, the faster time essentially flies by, so that being said -- those same three months will fill all of about 50 minutes in age related time. “And what does that mean?” you ask. Well that means, I will run around like a chicken with its head cut off for several weeks during which the prospective D’days will arrive and I will possibly be able to enjoy a combined total of 50 minutes of the festivities. So instead of being a crazed lunatic this year I decided to prioritize those things that needed to be done thinking I would have more time to enjoy the holidays.
“How’s it going?” you ask. Well, I’m getting to it…
Saturday, October 10, 2009
“M” Kind of Day
Monday, an expletive to most, madness for me on the Full “M”oon “M”adness “M”onday. It was my “M” kind of day. Do you ever have those? Days that seem to stick out in your memory better then some, more abstract then others.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
I have those kinds of days.
Numbers do that to me also.
I am a 222 person, that number does something to me every time I see it.
Just a reflection on something -- I am a counter, a bit of OCPD embedded in my psyche. It isn’t a bad thing. I believe a small amount of Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder is a good thing for some people. My OCPD has become less noticeable in my life. After having children, it’s difficult to keep up with the routines we demand from ourselves. I try to repress mine as much as possible. I still find myself wanting to yank the towels out of my husband’s hands when he isn’t folding them correctly, but I suppress it -- realizing that it doesn’t really matter.
I have a friend who is another member of the OCPD Family. I used to watch him with wonder as he worked. Everything in its place, the same way each time, everyday. I asked him about it one day, years ago. He said that, “I do this so I know where things are without worry of finding them. Just one less thing on my list to deal with. I have much more important things to do with my time.” I have to agree with him. I tend to put things in the same place each day so I have no worries about where they will be when I need them, but I didn’t realize I did it until someone else cleaned my house.
That day, it was many years ago, the women who cleaned my house decided that symmetrical alignment of objects was her preference. So she put everything symmetrically on the shelves, the mantel, and the bookcases. When I walked in the door, I was suddenly struck with horror. Things weren’t as I left them. My house had changed and it made me profoundly uneasy. This was when I realized I had OCPD. I immediately went through the house putting everything to rights. It wasn’t until it was finished that I could sit down. There was a flash of insight in that moment; this wasn’t the first time I had felt disturbed by things being out of place. I remembered as a child that I used to line the insides of my drawers where my clothes went. I had taken a ruler and marked out the insides so that each thing had its place. It was order in my chaos, and it started when I was very young.
Mine (My OCPD) isn’t as profound as others are. I know how debilitating this disorder can become. For many they are unable to finish tasks because they believe, “Their idea of perfection,” isn’t being met. I still catch myself in the same situations, taking over tasks from others because they aren’t doing what I would consider a, “Good Job.” I try not to do this often; it makes working with others difficult. I seriously try not to do it with my children. They have enough to deal with now a day without their mother trying to turn them into little perfectionists.
They (my children) have taught me a lot about the need for less perfection. Go ahead, toss your clothes on the floor, don’t wear matching clothes, forks and spoons can go on any side of the plates.
They are great teachers.
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