Running Scared

A few weeks ago, my daughter Annie mentioned a local 5K run that was coming up.  She said, "It's at the end of September" and I replied, "That sounds like fun."

I am still not convinced that I actually said that as I am not aware of ever thinking running in a 5K would be fun. The only time I recall running on purpose was when I was in my early 20s and chased a would-be  burglar out of my Hallmark store on Congress Avenue in Austin, Texas. Since running after a drug-crazed robber is not a very intelligent decision, I suppose I've associated running with dangerous activities ever since. 

For the last few months, however, Annie and I have been walking...walking...in an effort to get some exercise and have a few calories left over at the end of the day for our glasses of wine per our fitness app.  Annie straps  Luca in the stroller, walks over to get me and we take various routes so as to eventually end up at Starbuck's for tea or Adam's grocery store for milk or veggies. As far as I could see, there was no reason to change this routine at all and I thought we were all very happy with it. But then,  Annie began running a little bit here and there. I stayed with Luca pushing the stroller and she would run ahead and double back, catch up with us and run ahead some more. All along the way she would exhort, "Come on, Gramma! Run a little bit!"I pretended I didn't hear her.

Then, one day, I trotted a bit. Annie had purchased one of those weird looking jogging strollers and it made me feel like I could possibly pick up the pace. A little. It wasn't horrible and Annie still literally ran circles around me, and I began to feel slightly more healthy. Then Annie got the brilliant idea of running--with Luca in the stroller -- in a 5K the next town over.  For some reason (and this is the reason I began to wonder if she was actually my child) she was incredibly successful at it wanted to do another one. Hence the above-mentioned 5K discussion. And we signed up.

Now of course I needed actual running clothes. (Although, I didn't plan on running very much. I was going to maintain my usual job of wheeling Luca around the course. Thank god.) If I was going to be a part of a field of runners, I had to at least wear something other than my 20-year-old bicycle shorts and a large sleeveless white tunic. I needed to go to Marshall's. Annie has been picking up her adorable and colorful running clothes there with major success. I assumed I would have a similar experience, but after about 30 minutes of walking around and around the racks of polyester netted tanks and teeny little shorts, I came home with one pair of black and gray shorts. Actually, it looked like a little tennis skirt and I was pleased it would hide my, well, you know, anything. (And I posted the 30 minutes of walking to my fitness app.)

The problem was that even though it looked on the hanger like it would fit me, it really didn't when I got home. Back to Marshall's I went to return the skirt and pick up the next larger size. But, there weren't any. Not the style I wanted anyway. In fact, there were very few shorts, skirts or skorts in my size at all. Did a bunch of Large women decide to run that week? At that moment, a woman pardoned herself past me and headed to the fitting rooms. There, hanging from her arm, were about seven pairs of Large running shorts, including the pair I wanted! I hovered near the fitting room for a few minutes and then felt self-conscious so I moved over to Fall Sweaters and hovered there. Finally, the lady come out...and modeled each pair for her husband. (I personally prefer the privacy of a closed dressing room--or my home--to a public mirror when trying on Large running shorts.) Stalking her for my shorts might take some time.

Believe it or not, when she finally came out, she took the whole bunch with her. I went to ask the Fitting Room lady if she had left any behind and sadly, she had decided against only the purple ones. I was left with only an exchange for credit and no shorts. Of course this means I'll have to trek out again for appropriate running attire. Now that I'm signed up to run, it's a requirement. At least I was able to use the Marshall's credit for a new fanny pack. Fanny packs are necessary running equipment since I need to bring my phone with me with all my apps on it. And I need to bring my glasses with me because I can't read my apps without them. And I need tissues because apparently when I run, so does my nose.

I'm not even really going to run, anyway. But it will be good to be properly outfitted. 

Wrong is the new Right

Okay, okay, I'll stop. Nothing is the new anything. Except Orange. Orange is still the new Black. Thank god.

When one is trying to motivate herself to get back into a more regular writing schedule, she may occasionally dig back into her old work to fortify her confidence and give her some ideas. (I'll stop with the third person, now, too. It gets old, doesn't it? And confusing.) 

The current trend in business these days, if you believe TED, seems to be about how Failure is the new Success. (whoops! It's just too darn easy!) Learning from failure, teaching from failure, etc. It reminded me of an essay I wrote years ago about being wrong. I submitted it to NPR's This I Believe segment and it is posted still on their website - here. I wrote about being singled out as someone who could be counted on to put my foot in my mouth and say the wrong thing. Regularly. This is not something that many of you are just now discovering.  But go ahead...click on the link. Read for yourself. I'll wait....

Done? Good. The thing about being wrong (as I wrote in the essay, in case you didn't really read it) is that it gives you 100% of the possibilities of any given situation. And if you are comfortable with being wrong, as I am, then you don't feel so badly if you've made the wrong--or other--decision. The consequences after either decision, right or wrong, are just information for the next decision. Learning happens, or it doesn't, so the lesson comes around again and gives you opportunities to sharpen, or ignore, your instincts. That's what's so fun about life.

I had to learn to be comfortable with being wrong. Besides having been criticized for many years about my choices as a wife and a parent, I also really do make a lot of "other" choices. Quitting school to get married, quitting a job at the beginning of a recession, quitting lots of things I probably should have stuck with longer, but didn't for what seemed like a good idea at the time. Except smoking. Buying a used transmission for my used Mercury station wagon. Twice. There are more, but that's enough.

I could have made better...I mean... different choices, but those were the choices I made and I'm sticking with them. Whether I realized it at the time, I always learned something from my decisions. Sometimes I learned that I wished I had kept my mouth shut, spent more money (or less),  stayed home instead of going out, wore more clothes or left earlier. But where's the fun in doing everything right all the time. Or, thinking you do?

Seriously, if you can't be comfortable with being wrong at my age, then getting even older is going to be a much harder process.  Happily, also at this age, you don't remember half the things you do, so who's to say who's wrong and who's right anyway?

(Maybe not a plastic dress for Easter...)

50 is the new 50

An oversized postcard from our local community college arrived in my mail the other day. Among other exciting announcements, it encouraged the +50 residents in the community to consider getting new career skills because, “50 is the new 30!” To use a phrase my daughter used to say when she was a toddler, the announcement “didn’t feel me better.”

I am in my 50s. At 56, I’m closer to 60 than to 50. When I think about my thirties, I cringe a little. For me, the thirties included some of the most difficult and challenging times of my life.  Fun was not a word I used often. To begin with, I was supposedly at my sexual peak, depending on whose study you believe (Cosmo or Kinsey). For most of my 30s, I was a divorcing, single parent of two young children. There was no sexual peaking for me. At all. (Although I did meet the man who eventually became my husband later in my 30s; there was some peaking then.)

There is a popular graphic going around online that acknowledges: “The best part about being over 40 is that we did most of our stupid stuff before the Internet.” Ain’t that the truth. I absolutely did some stupid stuff in my 30s and hopefully most of the evidence rests in the foggy memory of long forgotten acquaintances. I was getting divorced in a very small town; nothing I did went unnoticed. Or got reported back to my ex. Toeing the line became my main hobby.  And most of the time, I was successful. Other times, I was let go with a warning.

My 30s were marked with stress, financial desolation, ostracism and tons of wine. Learning how to navigate through that uncharted sea took all of my energy plus skills I didn’t have, but had to learn quickly. I don’t think I always did the best job as a parent; I made the bulk of my parenting mistakes in my 30s. Every recurring nightmare my kids report to their therapists today probably happened during this time. It is ironic that my current day job is being a parent educator; what gives me authority now are all the mistakes that I myself made then.

No, I am quite happy with where I am right now. Certainly society has changed, jobs have changed, retirement has changed. People are doing things in their 50s, 60s and beyond that people like my parents hadn’t even considered: living in other countries, starting new careers, raising a second family.  My 30s were a training ground; I’d like to think I’ve gotten a little wiser as I’ve gotten a little older and hopefully I won’t make the same mistakes again. No, I know I won’t. I might make different ones, but with a foundation of experience and a much different outlook.  I don’t want to be 30 again. I say 50 is the new 50. And I’m keeping the wine. 

*Author's note: I liked writing about this topic. I think I'll revisit it from time to time in the next few months. Please feel free to contribute your ideas or thoughts - here on the blog or via email and I'll incorporate them into the subsequent essays. As long as you're nice about it... 

Where does the time go?

Whew! It has been some time since my last post and I can't even come up with a reasonable explanation why! It has been a busy summer, for sure, but it's always busy, isn't it? Work, family, travel to Italy.

What? I didn't tell you about my trip to Italy? Well, I will - soon! I am working on another post for the very near future and after that I will gather up all of my pictures and thoughts and share them with you. It was a wonderful trip and we have plans to go back soon. (Well, next year anyway...that's soon.)

I hope you all are haaving a wonderful summer and are spending lots of itme with family, books, barbeques and gardens. Be back soon!
Cindy

The Long and Winding Road

I don’t remember why, but I was the only one visiting my parents at their cottage in Maine for the July 4th holiday weekend a couple of years ago. And, naturally, we were going to do what everyone always does on Frye Island on 4th of July weekend – go up to Long Beach and watch the fireworks show. We had been enjoying a streak of picture-perfect, Maine summer sunniness – so it was on.

The beach is about a mile down Leisure Lane, but we usually drive because my parents don’t really want to walk about a mile down Leisure Lane. Not when we have a golf cart. We acquired the golf cart several years earlier after we sold the Boston Whaler that came with the cottage. We tried to be boaters, we really did, but boating just wasn’t in us. So, off went the Whaler and in came the cart.

Now that was a vehicle that got some use. You could buzz down to the store for a paper, run up to the community center for a ceramics class or get rid of a couple of bags of garbage without so much as disturbing the dust on anyone’s car. My son Christopher spent two summers on the island as an Ice Cream Engineer (that means he scooped ice cream cones at the little store) and the golf cart was his preferred and constant mode of transportation. Even if he wasn’t exactly street legal. Once he got a real driver’s license though, the golf cart was as neglected as the Velveteen Rabbit. And as my parents got older, they preferred taking the car for quick trips; it had windows…and air-conditioning. But, every year when we opened the cottage, we hauled it out, cleaned it off and gassed it up. We had it registered it and ready for service only to be covered up in the fall and returned to its place in the shed with very little use in between.

So, it was a bit of a surprise that Saturday morning when my Dad drove it up to the front of the house and announced, “We’ll take it up to the fireworks.” He started futzing around with the lights, cleaning pine needles off the seat and testing the battery. My mother and I just looked at each other, thinking, I’m sure, 'who did he think was going to drive?' Over the years, due to complications of his diabetes, my dad’s eyesight had grown more and more compromised. One of the worst side effects – for him - had been that he had to give up driving. The man who had driven all of us from Maine to Florida, west to the Mississippi and up and down the Eastern Seaboard was now relegated to the passenger seat. But, there he was, getting the cart ready for Saturday night like a teenager anticipating his first date.

After the detailing, my dad came into the kitchen and announced to no one in particular, “I’m just going to take it down the road and back – see how it’s working” and he grabbed his sun visor off the rack and was off. I wondered how many hazards there could possibly be in the rutted, rock-strewn dirt road up to the corner and back, so after he left, I went to sit on the front porch. The better to hear any loud crashes or shrieks of terror that way.

About six hours later he returned. Or maybe it was six minutes. Either way, I let out my breath, not realizing I’d been holding it. “All set!”, he said, and he walked back into the back bedroom he used as his office, as if taking the cart for a spin was something he did every afternoon. He seemed so confident, more than he had been in a long time, for having gotten the cart ready, that I decided, if my dad wanted to take it up to the fireworks, then we would take it to the fireworks – and I assumed that I would be driving.

It wasn’t until I heard him shout from outside, “Everyone ready to go?” a couple of hours later that I realized that that wouldn’t be the case. There sat my dad, in the driveway, in the driver’s seat, waiting for us. Just like all those Sunday mornings when we were growing up and he would go out and start the car while my mom made sure we were all brushed and dressed for Sunday School before shepherding us out behind him. At the last minute, my mom stayed back. “Something at dinner didn’t agree with me”, she said with her hand on her belly. To this day, I don’t believe it was nerves at my dad’s being behind the wheel – I think she just didn’t want to sit on my lap all the way to Long Beach. In any case, she begged off, promising to come later if she felt better.

“Okay, I guess it’s just us”, I said, and I took my place on the passenger side. My dad turned the key, kicked off the brake and hit the gas. We were off. Down the driveway – great. Up to the corner – well he had already practiced that one, hadn’t he? Right onto Leisure Lane and the open road. Should I keep my eyes open or squeeze them shut? Leisure Lane is a narrow dirt mile of sharp turns, gallon-sized pot holes and gravel bordered by boulders of varying sizes, large and small recreational vehicles and occasionally, small children. I am suddenly reminded of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. At first I tried to be a helpful navigator.

“Family of six up on the right”, I say.

“See it”, my Dad replied and easily veered left.

“Enormous truck bearing down on the left”, I warn—and I don’t think I scream at all.

“Got it”, he says and he scoots by it with room to spare.

And then, as we took each turn and steered past cars parked along side the road, I realized we were doing just fine. Compromised eyesight or not, the one thing my Dad has always been is responsible. He wouldn’t do anything he didn’t think he could do, especially if it meant that it might put me – or any one of us – in harm’s way. That’s why he took his test drive earlier. We wouldn’t be here if he didn’t think he could do it. And here we were…we did do it. Or rather,  he did it. We parked as close to the beach as we could possibly get. It didn’t occur to me to feel relieved, but I’ll be he was.

We unpacked our folding chairs, made the short walk to the beach and planted them into the sand right by the water. My mom showed up--by car--about 20 minutes later, gastrointestinal issues settled. But she had to park about a half mile away. On the return trip, I drove and Dad navigated. In the dark, with all the dust kicked up by departing fireworks-watchers, seeing was difficult enough for 50-something-year-old eyes, much less for nearly-80-year-old eyes dimmed by diabetes. But he was an able co-pilot and we not only made it home without incident, but we beat my Mom by three minutes.

I went down by the water as my parents fixed coffee and dessert in preparation for our next fun thing to do--watching a video together. I looked up into a sky plastered with stars--which made the fireworks display I had just attended pale in comparison. I stuck my feet in the water and about 10 feet in front of me, hovering in the low branches of a pine tree, a firefly twinkled. Sometimes, the little things are really the most impressive.

The New Reader

These days, in the new world of book publishing (and if you didn’t know there was a new world, look here and here) things are a little different. As a writer and newly published author who chose the so-called “partnership” route, my world has become all about building a digital platform, promotion, marketing and social media. I am getting a new education in publishing; the old world, the one I dreamed about when I was young where Mr. Big Publishing House came along and scooped me up, printed my words and set me up to appear on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson no longer exists. Yes, because Johnny Carson is dead, but also because of the new way books are published.  

It is an exciting time for people in the book biz. Authors are getting their work out there like no other time before due to independent publishers, self-publishing, partnership publishing - whatever you want to call it. It’s out there and it’s exciting. But most of the education is aimed toward the new author-- all the how-to articles, websites and other new books help the author stick her or his toes into the fast running current of self-publishing and keep their heads above water.  I myself have been treading water as fast as I can. Dory from Finding Nemo is my new muse: “Just keep swimming!” All that help and support is well and good for me and all my new peers and colleagues, because it’s a big learning curve. But I wonder who is going to tell the public how to navigate in this new world, because as it stands now, I don’t think they’ve noticed the change. 

This occurred to me this morning as I sat down to check on my platform architecture - just to see how it’s holding up. Last night I posted another plea to my Facebook friends and followers to write a review of my book. “If you review it, it will sell,” I said cleverly to my friends and one of them responded within minutes and my Amazon reviews grew to seven.  I was overjoyed, as I am every time anyone says anything nice about my book.  Writing and publishing a book (aka having a dream come true) is not exactly like leaving your first born child on the first day of school with a bunch of other people you don’t know and learning how to stay away for the whole day, but it’s a little like that. Obviously, you want people to like it and it feels good when people say nice things, but in this new world, it matters that they do for more vital reasons and not just to make you feel good. In the old days, publishers sent the books out to stores and libraries, and people would buy them, read them, love them (hopefully) and didn’t worry whether or not the author was feeding his family or making the insurance payment on her car.  The publisher took care of the author. The reader took care of the reader. 

It’s a little more symbiotic than that now, but nobody told them. Readers are still behaving like they always have (god bless ‘em) reading voraciously until their next favorite author comes out or finding some new author through a friend. The advance of technology has given readers a little more connection with the authors they were reading. One didn’t have to wait for a university or a library to have a Famous Author come and give a talk; just pop on the internet and check out Famous Author’s website.  Even as Amazon carved its own enormous space in the market and allowed members to “review” their book purchases, I don’t think anyone really realized that their review made a difference. As with Goodreads, which is solely an online community of readers and encourages member reviews, I think the typical reader feels like their review “won’t count”. How in the world can Ms. Jane Smith’s review impact anything except her book group’s next novel or her mother’s next birthday gift, not when Publishers Weekly, The New York Times or Kirkus are out there with their authority and clout.

I think it surprises most people to learn that writing a review about a book makes a difference to the author.  Reading behavior, like writing behavior, is an individual and solitary experience. Even if you belong to a book group, the actual reading of a book is an intimate process, much like writing it. To transfer that experience to one that is written and public in larger community is part of the learning curve. It’s part of the learning for the writer, and, I also believe, for the new reader.

When I talked to my husband about it, he said, “Be direct. Just ask people to write a review.”  So I said, “Will you write a review?” It didn’t even occur to him that he could write one. Everyone can write one. My family, my friends. Even with the disclaimer that a review was written by a friend, family member or colleague, a review will help to guide the next reader to choose your book. And then tell another reader, and another. And that, boys and girls, is how to be a part of the new book publishing world.  Come on in. The water's fine.

Ladies Who Lunch

The following is an essay I wrote for the Friend's of the Watertown Library's annual Spring Luncheon, at which I was honored to be the guest speaker. I decided to post it here for two reasons: One, many people should know about the work that is done "behind the scenes" for our library, not the least of which is raising funds for improvements. And, two, there are hundreds of Friends groups all over the state and country who are doing the same thing. The Friends groups are mainly retired folks who give of their time and expertise. If you haven't joined your local Friends group, it's a good idea. Our membership dues are $10 a year. Yours are probably equally affordable! 

And if you haven't dropped in lately, go visit your public library and see what's going on there these days. I'll bet that it's more than you realize! So, in honor of the Friends of our town library, here's to the ladies who lunch...

Ladies who lunch is a phrase often used to describe well-off, well-dressed women who meet for social luncheons, usually during the week. Typically, the women involved are married and non-working. Normally the lunch is in a high-class restaurant, but could also take place in a department store during a shopping trip. Sometimes the lunch takes place under the pretext of raising money for charity.

The phrase "ladies who lunch" was introduced in the January 19, 1970 issue of New York magazine by the writer Merle Rubine, and she was describing ladies with enough fashion sense to buy at half-price but not admit it to anyone.

It was later popularized by a song of the same name in Stephen Sondheim's Company. The character Joanne, a cynical, middle-aged woman, makes a drunken toast to "The Ladies Who Lunch." Her song offers a harsh criticism of rich women who waste their time with frivolous things like luncheons and parties. At the end of the song, Joanne realizes that she is one of the "ladies who lunch." She spends her time criticizing the lives of other women, but she never does anything to improve her own life.

That is what Ladies who lunch used to mean. Now, at least for me, it means this:

A veritable army of women who, upon seeing a need, rally to address it in the most effective and efficient way possible.

In the summer of 2008, I had left a full time job without so much as a Plan B. While I looked around for other jobs, part-time or otherwise, I found myself in early September at the annual meeting of the Friends of the Watertown Library, held in the basement of the Oakville Branch.  There was a presentation from a local businessperson and following that, the annual meeting. After that; refreshments. Some of the faces in the room I recognized from around town, but I didn’t know anyone well nor did anyone know me. One thing was certain: everyone knew I was fresh blood. You will not be surprised to hear that I was roped in to membership and a job before I even had my cake.

“Edit the newsletter? Sure!” I agreed and suddenly I was in. This may or may not have been when I also agreed to head up the annual Poetry Contest held for the grade 1-5 students in town. I left the meeting that day full of cake, and several new items on my once-empty calendar. I was a Friend of the Watertown Library Association.

Since my memory isn’t what it once was, (obviously, or I would have remembered to say “well, let me think that over” to those job offers instead of “sure, I’ll do that!”) there is not a clear trajectory to my involvement with the Friends. I do know that each time I attended a board meeting or popped in to the Book Nook, there were people getting things done. Much of the time it was women, but occasionally one of the Misters could be found in various stages of heavy lifting.  But the work didn’t stop at volunteering to carry, clean, and cashier books. The opportunities of the Internet did not daunt this group and an Ebay store and Facebook page were quickly created and managed. Fascinating speakers and authors came to town with their books - old favorites or newly published - and offered personal glimpses into the writing process and story creation.  Programs were developed, considered, improved and promoted. The Farmer’s Market added summer hours to the Book Nook and more opportunities for Watertown residents to discover its value. Thinking up ways to involve more members into attending the annual meeting were successful: Now why didn’t we think of lunch at the Miranda vineyard before?

Each Friend has a gift of her or his own which they bring to the organization that in turn builds it from simply a group of women connecting around books, to an intrepid operation whose forward motion is rarely stopped.  The Friends consistently contribute to the Library Association at the Annual Spring Luncheon every year.

However, it is the love of books that brings us all together. Whether or not our Friends job is to clean, write or bake, what we really love to do is read. And talk about what we’re reading and compare authors and series and genres. Talking about what we love makes working together pretty much fun. I don’t think I’ve ever been in the Book Nook when there wasn’t someone laughing at someone else’s story or smiling at pictures of grandkids. Or at our actual grandkids.  The first time I brought Luca to the Book Nook, we came down the dark, steep stairs and opened that heavy door into a world he still refers to when he comes over to my house. He remembers his first visit to the Book Nook (because we bought him over a dozen books) but also because it was like coming upon a wonderland.  And the Friends are the keepers of that wonderland.

So, here’s to the Friends. Of this library and countless others across the country. Your quiet strength and relentless commitment is what gets things done. Thank goodness for ladies who lunch.