In Search of Short Term Memory

by Pat Antonopoulos

Another fair warning, Gentle Reader. This is a ramble, unstructured and without a worthy conclusion.

A conscious decision needs to be made.
Forget it.
Forget the list.
Forget the spider web of thought that clings with sticky residue.
Move all those moments of meanness out...away...gone.
Erase any long term lingering thoughts that keep the dregs fresh.

This isn't forgive and forget. Too often forgive is a phantom, only vague and indistinct. We think we forgive. We say we do. But the next time a pinch happens, the dregs resurface, good as new. Forgiveness is hard.

There is the forgiveness of the Bible, 70 X 7. Corinthians admonishes not to keep a record. "It is in God's hands" is a waver and a waver diminishes my responsibility. St. Francis' verse is a goal, but pretty impossible for most of us. And there is that "if only" as in If Only She/He would apologize, all would be forgiven. Not so. It helps but forgiveness needs much more. Forgiveness needs change. I might forgive 71 X 7, but by that time, my turn is definitely winding down.

Some would say that those 'dregs' are life lesson...that we need them to make good decisions. Maybe. And maybe they are stepping stones to a better way of handling those life lessons.

And I admit that forgetting is as close to impossible as forgiving. Further, I know that I need to step away from several 'lists' that have been growing uglier. And I am trying. But how does a person step away without walking away? How can we forget without relegating the person to a totally different place in our life?

Disengage? Disengage from the patterns that allow the list. But that comes very close to disengaging from the person. And sometimes keeping a person close might be worth fighting the list and accepting that getting pinched is part of the bargain. But why must renewable pain be part of a relationship? How important is it to stay close to hit-and-run?

Wish I could ramble this one to some kind of conclusion. I can't.

Hand wringing, then hand shaking

by

Patti Dickinson

Yesterday morning I got up with a huge knot in my stomach. Looked in the mirror and saw the result of three continuous days of Kansas humidity. Fuzz hair.

Big day today. Our first ever book signing. Today three of the four authors of Four Ordinary Women were going to Keeler Women's Center to talk about women's friendship, and the why, when, where and how of this book writing journey. We were a wreck. All three of us. I left the house without my purse. No driver's license (and probably the only time in the last six months that I drove exactly the speed limit there and back all the while praying that I didn't have an expired tag!!!). Nine pennies in the cup holder in my car. Good thing I wasn't a Boy Scout. The two other authors forgot their outlines.

We stood at the front of the room as people came in. There was a nice sign-in sheet, not a xeroxed plain piece of white paper. Papers with a pink logo, some pens nearby and a small vase of fresh flowers. What a nice quiet, no-fuss way to welcome authors and participants. I felt the knot loosening. And then the participants came. Kind, encouraging faces....extended hands, many taking my hand in both of theirs (don't you just love that?) Making eye contact, and making this initial introduction much more than a way to get from the sign-in sheet to a chair.

We were introduced, talked, answered questions, read from the book....all the expected stuff. But what wasn't expected was the feeling lingering in the air. The we're-happy-for-your-success, we-appreciate-you-being-here, we-are-happy-to-have-spent-this-time-with-you. This group didn't follow the sum-is-greater-than-the-parts adage. No, the parts, each and every person present, were great all by themselves. It was just terrific to be in a roomful of them. Strangers all.

I hope that some of them will read this....I want them to know that they are the most gracious and genuine group of people that I have ever had the pleasure to share time with. God bless you all.

Tribute to a Friend...

by

Patti Dickinson

On Saturday, I attended a memorial service for a friend of mine that lost her four year battle with lung cancer in January of this year.  Janice and I were friends for thirteen years.  We met on the soccer field at St. Ann's.  Her husband, Jim was coaching a team of kids, my son Andrew, included, from Ilya's Kindergarten class, while Janice was shoving the stroller through a bumpy terrain of dirt, rocks and grass, with eighteen-month old Nicholas in the driver's seat.  Out of breath, she extended her hand to introduce herself, and that is how our friendship began.

We shared a gamut of firsts with our kids.  First lost tooth, first solo on the two wheeler, first soccer goal, first spelling test, first performance at the Westwood View Talent Show.  

During a bumpy patch with my oldest daughter, Elizabeth, Janice stood with me on the sidewalk of the elementary school, her trademark giant McDonald's Coke in her hand, listening to daily updates on the angst of raising this particular kid and dispensing advice while we waited for our kids.

She was a doer, a strong woman who stood her ground.  Her moral compass was always pointed due north.  She was a champion of the underdog.  Beneath that tough exterior was a woman who could get teary at a perceived injustice. But she didn't just stop there, she did what she could do to right that wrong. And oh yes.  Courage.  Janice fought the good fight at the unseen enemy called cancer.  For four years.

In Janice's last weeks, I had the privilege of sitting with her at Hospice House. Oftentimes, I just held her hand while we sat in a comfortable silence.  Her last days were filled with visits from her sisters, Barb and Judy, her dad and her college roommate, Renee, her husband and her two sons.  I hope the family knows how much I appreciate them making room for me in the quiet family vigil.  I am honored to have been part of that.

A Tribute to Susan Boyle

Every once in a while, we are stopped in our tracks by something that has the potential to change, well --- the world. Susan Boyle has accomplished that. Here is a woman, 47 years old, who is, in all outward appearances, well --- ordinary. She is a contestant on the British version of American Idol.   

Susan Boyle, in her sensible shoes, outdated dress, and fuzzy hair walks across the stage, seemingly oblivious to the reception she is getting.  You know, the she's-got-to-be-kidding-me reception.  She approaches center stage.  A little nervous, but doing a good job of putting her best self forward.  She's got her own version of stage presence, a combination of star-struck, deer-in-the-headlights and can-this-be-me-on-this-stage. 

And then -- then she opens her mouth.  And then -- then the magic happens. Her voice trumps everything else.  I have watched it three times on You-Tube and have cried three times.  

It's all the lessons we want to teach our kids, all wrapped up in one human being, right?  That what matters is not what someone looks like.  That talent comes with all kinds of wrappers. That nice matters.  That happiness is not about what you can accumulate.  That fame can be accomplished without weighing 110 and baring too much cleavage. That maybe Simon and the audience of skeptics have learned a valuable lesson.  Maybe Simon will keep his waiting-to-be smirked smirks in check for a tad longer.  And finally, we need to harness the joy on Susan's face and when she stamps her feet because the happiness is spilling over and out.  I hope that she never changes, that the "makeovers" that are rumored don't happen.  Because she is perfect just the way she is. 

On the Threshold....

by

Patti Dickinson

As I hope some of you have noticed (smile) I have been floundering a bit with the blogging. Easter week saw this house packed to the rafters with my dad, recently widowed, my returning college kids, and my son and my granddaughter, coming up to go to Opening Day at the Royals. We had all eight kids home at the same time, which doesn't happen too frequently anymore.  So I left-it-all-behind --- the housework, the laundry, overseeing the science fair board, and the PTA stuff.  I cooked for a crowd again!  Just put a figurative sign out that said, "I am busy" and emitted those vibes to everyone who wasn't in the house. 

And the in-between was wonderful.  Lots of catching up (face it, those college kid stories are much better acted out, in real time, instead of emailed) laughing and reminiscing (I always learn something new during these conversations....usually something mischief-related.)  This time I learned that Kathleen and Mary Morgan are still having words about whether the tape was on too loud/soft and whether the fan was on too little/much. This is a going-on-fifteen year-battle from when they shared a room.  This was also the time that I learned that my daughter, Claire, told all her friends that her name was "Claire Annette" and that her grandfather was the inventor of the musical instrument of the same name.  

The goodbyes are always so agonizing.  I hold onto my departing kids just a bit longer than usual.  My dad is 82.  He doesn't walk with his confident stride anymore.  He sort of shuffles. He hangs onto the doorframe as he steps down the back step.  That brings tears.  And I will them back.  But the three kids who are standing there after Wood and my dad pull out of the driveway to go to the airport, know.  They know what I am thinking before I can say it.  They are nodding, heads cocked, ready to listen, hug, looking for me to take the lead.  And this is, indeed, the circle of life.  One day, it will be me, stepping carefully down the back step, as my kids and their kids watch. 

And four days later, my daughter Elizabeth delivers her second baby.  We keep Piper, kid #1 who is about to have her two year old world turned upside down by a seven pound screaming, demanding high maintenance sister!!   Standing in my daughter's hospital room, seeing the simultaneous glow of joy mixed with fatigue.  I see in her the ready-to-get-home-and-get-the-routine-figured-out impatience with the hospital rules.  And so it goes....new life, old life, both standing on thresholds.  

Boys Will Be Boys in the Very Best Sense of the Word

by

Patti Dickinson

Funny story.  Andrew is a high school senior.  Managed the whole college application process seamlessly on his own. Reasonable number of speeding tickets (he comes from a maternal lead-foot so I share some of the blame.  I said some.) Gets himself up and out every morning. Cell phone alarm makes that happen. Does his homework.  Mows the yard with only a little coercion. So he's ready to be "launched".  The maturity is there. But wait.....a cops and robbers re-make?

The high school seniors play a game every spring.  It's called "Assassin" (I wish they hadn't called it that, because it sounds so uncivilized and bloody).  The game goes like this.  Whoever wants to play kicks in $5.  Each kid draws a name.  That is the kid they have to "get" with a water gun.  There are a bunch of rules.  You can't "get" someone in their house.  You can't "get" someone on school property. And no "gets" between midnight Friday and 6 pm on Sunday. If the police are called (because there are kids running around the neighborhood ambushing each other) then the kid whose house it is is out. Everything else is fair game.  The first night Andrew slept in the garage. Mattress, sleeping bag, something for breakfast.  He brought his toothbrush to school with him. Went right from sleeping bag into his car, so no one could get him.  Everytime he returns to the house, he calls from the garage and has whoever's home "check" the surrounding area, and then he comes toward the house like a rocket.  So far, so good.  He plots and plans his every move, based on how vulnerable he will be.  He thinks that Taco Bell and a tennis tournament go hand-in-hand.  He hasn't had a taco in a week because there is no drive-through. 

I have enjoyed every single minute of this.  There are still good kids out there. This is good clean fun.  It brings kids together.  The morning chatter at the lockers is all about who got who and under what circumstances. Kids are just looking for ways to be good. Believe it.