Ornaments

A family member recently asked on her Facebook page if people let their kids decorate the family Christmas tree, or if they did it themselves, because they wanted it to look "picture perfect."

The majority of her friends who responded said that they had the kids help. Some admitted to tweaking the placement after the kids were in bed, but only slightly. I remember doing that; I have a photo of my two year old hanging every ornament that she had on the same branch. We told her what a big helper she was, and moved them after she was asleep. I'm not going to have a discussion about ideal placement (and branch strength) with someone in diapers.

The discussion made me think of a conversation that I had with a friend, years ago. She wanted a perfect living room, so she put up a tree in another room, not visible to visitors, and, in her words, "made it a junk tree." I looked really confused, so she explained - "You know - hanging up all those crappy looking things the kids made." Oh. Well. Those are some of my favorite ornaments. My daughter was thrilled at 5 when I used the angel she made out of a paper plate for the top of our tree; at 15, she was mortified. I still loved it.

I admire trees with matching, themed, color coordinated ornaments. I really do. They're lovely. But I want my tree to hold memories.

Every year, we got the children a new ornament. When they got old enough, we let them choose their own. We end up with ornaments like this on our tree:

We get a little grief for it. "Oh, yeah," one visitor said. "Nothing says Christmas like Darth Vader." Hey, that Vader makes my son happy, and it makes me happy.

So does Darth Maul; he's from the year that my son dressed as Darth Maul at the Disneyland Halloween party.

You can tell a lot about my childrens' interests by the ornaments they chose.

These came in children's meals at a fast food place one year; all of my kids got the full set of 4 (there's also a Whoville house, and Max the dog with a tied on antler).

My son made this one at Scout camp.

We generally commemorate events of the year with ornaments. This is from the year that my youngest daughter danced in "The Nutcracker" on a local showroom stage.

These were actually on an onstage tree the year 4 of us were in "A Christmas Carol." That's a laminated ticket tied on when the ornament came home after the show, and went on our tree.

Years ago, we decided to start collecting ornaments when we travel. Most of these were bought on vacation; sometimes, we buy something after we've gotten home that reminds us of the trip. (There's no shortage of Eiffel Tower ornaments in stores!) The photo is from the Big Island of Hawaii, commemorating our hike in to the island's green sand beach. We've also printed wedding photos onto metal ornaments.

 

These are from Germany. My maternal grandmother's family emigrated from there; I bought these when I visited Germany for the first time. The visit helped explain some of my grandma's taste; there were red geraniums everywhere.

Sometimes, we go with things that aren't actually designed to be ornaments. The one from Hawaii is supposed to be a bookmark; the Minnie hat is an antennae ball. The swordfish was just what my son chose one year when he couldn't find an ornament that he liked. Hey, we can adapt.

Until this year, when our immediate family reached 9 with the addition of spouses, we tried to add a personalized family ornament every year. Sometimes, they're travel reminders, too. We got the orca the year we went to San Diego at Christmas.

Some of our ornaments are more traditional. I cherish my mother's delicate glass ornaments. I remember breaking many of them during my childhood.

All together, they make for a beautiful tree that makes me happy every time I see it.

"December to Remember"

It's that time of year again. Every day, there are commercials on TV telling me to buy my loved ones luxury automobiles or diamond jewelry for the holidays.

It's not going to happen.

Look, I'm not going to tell you how to spend your money. Do whatever you want - spend it, don't spend it, give gifts, don't give gifts. If you want to give me a car, I'll take it and be grateful. Just know that my idea of ideal gift giving and yours do not mesh.

I think that gifts should, ideally, be small. They're meant to say, "I thought about you!" The last time I made a "wish list" for my husband, it had brown eyeliner and bed sheets on it. We also have a deal - there will be chocolate in my Christmas stocking.

I will totally admit to occasionally giving expensive gifts, but that usually involves travel. (Once it was scuba classes.) Experiences are more valuable than things are.

Again, I'm not telling you what to do, but this is what works for me.

People have told me why they think that big ticket items are something that should wait for special occasions; I know those reasons. I just feel that, if you've taught yourself to expect a car with a big bow on it in your driveway, just because it's a holiday (or birthday or anniversary), you've 1. put the emphasis in the wrong place, and 2. set yourself up to be deeply disappointed if the gesture isn't huge. And how many huge gestures are even possible, much less likely, in an average year or an average life? "Going big" ceases to be big if it's commonplace.

If you'd be happy with some candy, some warm socks, a good meal and a good book, you can pretty much guarantee a happy holiday. Think about that - guaranteed happiness! Who doesn't want that?

If, however, you've trained yourself to expect a two carat solitaire, you'll be disappointed with a one carat solitaire.

Years ago, I worked with a lovely, delightful, bright lady, who came from a family with more money than mine had. I remember clearly one November, when she announced, "I've just paid off last Christmas!" I was horrified. I said something (undoubtedly indelicate, like, "Are you crazy?"), and she looked puzzled. "That's how it's done," she said.

"Not in my family!"

"In every family."

We tangled about this for a few minutes. She thought that I was just being ignorant of family finances, and I was assuring her, "I'm not talking theoretically." My mother handled the money in the family I grew up in; I handle the money in my family. I know how it's spent.

She's a lovely person, but she may have felt a bit attacked, because we ended with her saying something about how "most people" wanted their holiday to "be nice," and credit cards were how that was accomplished, so my holidays were undoubtedly not "nice."

I beg to differ. My holidays were lovely. They still are.

I'm gearing up for this year's Christmas celebration. We'll have dollar store candy and discount store clothes and a fantastic time. I love this time of year; it's my favorite! No luxury cars or diamonds are needed.

Making Time

"Is your family close?" a classmate once asked me.

"Like, am I close to my siblings?"

"No, the rest of your family, like aunts and cousins."

"Oh, yeah, my family is really close!" I said with enthusiasm. "We get together every holiday, at my aunt's house." I looked forward to those family parties.

"Every holiday?"

"Yeah. You know - Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Fourth of July - holidays." The girl who'd asked was looking really puzzled; I thought that the concept of "holiday" was pretty clear. "All my relatives on my dad's side are there. Not the ones who live really far away, but the ones who live an hour or two away all come, too."

"That's when you see your cousins?"

"Yeah, usually." There were a couple of cousins that I saw more often; we'd go to my cousin Lynne's cabin for a week in the summer, for instance. But if you asked, "When do you see your cousins?" the answer would be, "On holidays."

She gave me a look like she'd give to spoiled fruit. "If you only see your family on holidays, that means that you don't really like each other."

What? That made no sense to me. "No, it doesn't! We get along great!"

"I see my cousins at least three or four times a week," my classmate said. "Sometimes, every day."

What? I couldn't imagine that. Not because I didn't like my cousins, but because I couldn't quite imagine seeing anyone that often, unless they lived on the same block. Who drives to other people's houses several times a week?

Turns out, lots of people do. More power to them; I think that's great. I just come from more solitary people.

(Once my husband asked me, in aggravation, "When you get older, are you going to become a complete hermit?" My brother was visiting, and he answered for me: "It's inevitable; it's hereditary.")

I feel like I have a lot of friends, and a lot of close friends. I feel like my extended family is close. That doesn't mean that we see, or talk to, each other frequently. I always thought that "being close" was about how comfortable you felt with people, how much you liked them - not how often you were in contact. One of my long time friends said it well: "I don't have to see my friends every day to know who they are." You know that "pick up right where you left off" feeling? That's pretty much how I define "close."

I am often baffled by other definitions. "If you're important to someone, they'll make time for you," people say. Well, sure, but how frequent does that time need to be?

I once upset someone who was telling me how ignored by their sister they felt. Their examples were making little sense to me; it wasn't "She won't answer my phone calls," it was, "She doesn't call often enough." When I was, I guess, less sympathetic than she wanted me to be, she snapped, "How would you feel if you went weeks without hearing from your sister?"

"I do go weeks without hearing from my sister. I routinely go months without hearing from my sister. Sometimes, I hear from her twice a year - my birthday and Christmas."

She looked aghast. "Have you had a fight?"

"No! I adore my sister! She adores me!"

"Are you sure? It doesn't sound like it."

"Yes! I'm sure!"

Truly, the sister in question - I have two, one who lives near me and one who doesn't; I was speaking of the one who lives hundreds of miles away - is one of the nicest, most considerate people you will ever meet. I feel positively cherished by her. I don't think that I have to hear from her frequently in order for that to be true. She loves me, she'd be here in a heartbeat if I said, "I need you," she'd give me her internal organs if I needed them. And she calls every few months. This is OK! And if I needed to hear from her more often, I'd call her - it's not healthy to put my needs on her (or anyone else). I'm responsible for meeting my own needs.

I have four siblings, none of whom I see frequently, or call frequently, or go out to lunch with regularly. There are no festering resentments, no issues, no "grit your teeth and get through obligatory contact" on anyone's part. This makes sense to me. It makes sense to them.

It's the same with my friends. At least, it is on my part. Honestly, the last time I had a friend who felt that we had to get together, or at least talk on the phone, two or three times a week, I felt absolutely oppressed. I found it excessively clingy and needy. I also found it weird that she'd approached me in public just because our kids were roughly the same age. I mean, I liked her, but I was glad when a move meant that she needed a new, in the neighborhood, buddy. I can only be readily available for so long, and then I'll start hiding in the bathroom, and feigning illness.

I hear about women feeling alone and isolated, desperate for mom friends, and I know that they really are in pain, but trust me, I am not. We can't expect everyone to want what we want.

Two of my close friends are the kind of person I honestly thought was a myth before I met them. They are the kind of person who strikes up a conversation in line at the grocery store, in line at amusement parks, with the people at the table next to them in restaurants. They often walk away from meeting new people with names and phone numbers. Just the thought of it makes me exhausted enough to collapse into a puddle on the floor. If I thought that I had to not only make conversation but forge a lasting connection with someone who stood next to me waiting for Splash Mountain, I would just stop going places.

And, of course, they would be unhappy living my life.

I think that's the key - are you happy? If so, OK. If not, then you do what you need to do to fix it.

And if you think that someone's ignoring you, don't take it personally. They may be happy as a clam, thinking that you're best buddies.

Because, hey, if my cousins don't like me, well, I'm blissfully unaware, and what we have going is working for us. I like them, I think that they like me, and they don't have to hang out with me every week. Bam! Success.

"Offensensitivity"

As always, Berkeley Breathed and "Bloom County" are sheer genius.

Sorry to break it to you - I hope that you're sitting down - but "life is offensive."

Some people wear the sentiment "I'm offended!" like it's a badge of honor. Even when it's phrased differently - "That sentiment is so hurtful!" - it comes down to being aghast that someone is different from you, and expecting them to change because of it.

"I don't expect them to change because they're different! I expect them to change because they're wrong!" I hear. Of course, they think that you're wrong - and round and round we go.

We're all so easily offended, aren't we? And we think that everything is about us, personally - or, that it should be.

I like to travel, and I've spent recent years working as a travel agent, so I read a lot of travel related stuff. In one list of things actually written in online reviews was this gem from a Caribbean resort: "There was a sign in the lobby that said, 'No hairdressers on property.' We are hairdressers, and we think that they knew, because we did not get attentive service."

The thing that amazes me most about this is the "we" - there was more than one of these people. Let's assume that there are two. Also, presumably, anyone old enough to have a profession that requires training or schooling is an adult. So, one of these otherwise functional adults expressed this sentiment - "They don't allow hairdressers to stay here! And I'll bet they've figured out that we're hairdressers, because they are not being attentive to us!"

Instead of saying, "Don't be a knucklehead. That sign means that the resort does not employ hairdressers; you cannot get your hair done on resort property," the other, otherwise functional, adult says, in effect, "I think you're right! Using no other information than our names and credit card info, they have figured out what we do for a living, told every employee at this resort, and now they are all making a concerted effort to give us less than their best service!" I mean, does that make any logical sense?

What are the odds that a property will decide to discriminate, and choose hairdressers as its target? Come on in, drug traffickers, strippers, phone sex operators, convicted felons - welcome! Stay out, you nasty hairstylists, we don't serve your kind! And we're going to do extensive background checks on anyone who stays here, so that if any hairdressers sneak in, we can give them bad service! That'll show them! Does that actually sounds plausible to you? And yet, at least two people agreed that, yes, that was exactly what was happening.

I saw a review for a doctor's office that complained, "He yanked up the back of my shirt with no warning, so that he could listen to my lungs." She went on to say that she'd never come back, because she feared that the doctor would be sexually inappropriate. She was obviously upset, truly upset, but I found myself thinking - he's a doctor. If your accountant yanked up your shirt, yeah, dump his services and file charges. But have you never been to a doctor before? He can't do an exam through your clothes. If you want him to warn you before he touches you or your clothes, tell him, explicitly. Otherwise, calm down. Every time a doctor has listened to my lungs, he or she has pulled up the back of my shirt, without warning. I have never felt mistreated because of it.

No wonder doctors, nurses, and anyone else who touches you is paranoid about lawsuits.

(I've had to warn my doctors - I will make faces. I will probably make noises (often with the faces). Do not touch my tummy without warning, or I'll yelp. I am not in pain, I am not afraid, you're doing fine - I just hate to be handled.)

Of course, it's usually most baffling when someone directs their outrage straight at me for things that are, honestly, just an ordinary part of life.

The first time someone informed me that I should not belong to my religion (or, presumably, many other religions) specifically because "when you think that other people are going to hell," it makes it impossible for other people to have a productive relationship with me, I was baffled.

Well, my first problem with that idea is the very flawed understanding of my religion's belief in the afterlife. We believe that everyone, and I mean everyone - Adolph Hilter, Ted Bundy - will go to heaven, where there will be no pain, death, hunger, illness, etc. It will be a beautiful, safe and peaceful place, where people will live with perfected bodies. It will not be possible for harm to come to anyone there.

That will be, however, the least desirable "level" of heaven - there are four more places that are even better. In the best of these "levels," people will be living in the presence of God.

Plus, we believe that if you messed up your life, or never heard about Christ, you'll get a chance to fix things in the next life; your fate isn't set at the moment of death. You can change and improve after death.

So, when you accuse me of thinking that people are "going to hell," you're not bothering to find out what I actually believe, or you're being deliberately inflammatory.

The first time that I told someone that my beliefs weren't what they thought they were, and they said, "Just because your church does it differently doesn't mean that religion in general doesn't shame people," I thought that they were just particularly stubborn and trying to save face. I've since had enough people say it to me that I have to concede that it's a pattern. The thing is, if you're going to judge me because of my religion, the conversation had darned well better be about my religion, not another religion or religions as a general concept.

"You just don't understand how painful it is to be told that you're going to hell," people (yes, plural) have told me - ignoring, I suppose, that under the belief system of most of the people on the planet, I personally am going to hell. Born again Christians, Muslims, Catholics, Seventh Day Adventists, Jews, Jehovah's Witnesses, all believe that I, myself, will not be going to heaven. There's more religions that think so, I'm sure, but I'm not well enough versed in their teachings. (On more than one occasion, someone who's telling me how I "just don't understand" the pain of being condemned has also told me that I'm headed to hell; I suppose that I'm not supposed to notice the contradiction.) This means that I have family, friends, health care providers, casual acquaintences, people that I will hire and people that I will work for, who all think that I am going to hell. And, as the person who spends the most time in my life, and knows it the best, I can say with authority that it does not harm me. I can assure you that those of other religions do not make me feel condemned.

I once asked someone (accusing me of being a bad person, by virtue of my religion) if they knew of any instance in which I'd treated someone badly, based on my religious beliefs - smacked alcohol out of their hand while yelling, "SINNER!", said that I feared for the souls of their children, refused to spend time with them or told my children to avoid them, for instance. The answer: "No, the way you treat people is fine. You just think that they're inferior."

Whoa, there, Thought Police. Aside from the fact that you are not a mind reader, and therefore can't accurately speak to what anyone else is thinking, even if you could, are people's thoughts a big issue for you? Every day, people wish they could push past everyone else in line and be served first, they want to slap rude clerks, waiters or customers, they lust after strangers (or those who aren't strangers), they think about how easily they could shoplift that item they want, but they don't do any of those things. At least the hairdressers and the patient were complaining about something that someone actually DID. I cannot get behind the idea that you are a bad person, and I should censure or shun you, based on what you might be thinking. (Because, of course, no one knows exactly what you're thinking unless you tell them.)

Treat me politely, even if you don't like me, and we'll be fine. No one is required to enjoy someone's company. But, every human owes other humans civility.

Pressed for an example of how I thought that other people were "inferior," the answer was that I think that ordinances performed in my church are "better" than those performed elsewhere.

Oh, for crying out loud. Every religion recognizes its own ordinances, but not necessarily those of other religions. If you want to join a religion, you may need re-baptized, remarried, re-ordained. Churches generally do not mirror civil authority; a justice of the peace, for instance, can perform civil marriages, but not religious ones. At my church, I am a teacher (Sunday classes for adults), but I hold no civil teaching credentials, and I would not be asked to teach religious classes at any other church.

If people do not agree with religion in general - say, they're atheist - I can understand them thinking that the entire concept of religious authority is silly. But if you're a religious person, and you get angry at another religion for having its own criteria, procedures, etc., I just can't get behind your outrage. You're entitled to have it, and express it, but not to expect me to change because of it.

Don't be the Thought Police. Don't suffer from offensensitivity. Live and let live!

Know Your Source Material

From my Facebook page:

Dear Acura,

Re: your advertising dept.

I try not to tell people how to do their jobs, mostly for 2 reasons: 1. I don't want the general public telling me how to do my job, and 2. Other people have expertise in areas that I don't. But every time I see your new commercial, I cringe a bit more.

I get it; nostalgia sells, and who doesn't love the Stones? Plus, you were thinking that, "Please me allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste" would appeal to people who have wealth (or want it) and like to think that they have good taste.

But the thing is, Acura, virtually everyone who has heard the song is aware of the rest of the lyrics. Do you REALLY think that a song with the lyrics, "I rode a tank, held a general's rank, when the blitzkrieg raged and the bodies stank" is a great sales tool? Because that's what we hear in our heads when your commercial runs. I mean, I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming that you just didn't think about it, or you're thinking that no one knows what "blitzkrieg" means anymore; because, if you actually wanted to pitch to Nazis or sympathizers, that's a horror instead of carelessness.

I'm not one of those crazies who howls, "Rock music is devil worship! Just look at this song's title!" while clutching my scriptures. I love rock music; I've attended rock concerts. Obviously, I'm a Rolling Stones fan. But I also recognize subtlety and irony and other tools utilized by writers and artists. You know - when they write a catchy song with an unsympathetic narrator, calling it, "Sympathy for the Devil." They expect you to "get" it.

Neil Young - he has a notable solo career, and played with a famous, successful band; you might wanna look him up if you don't recognize the name - once gave an interview in which he was asked why he didn't sell the rights to his music to advertisers, when his colleagues and bandmates did. His answer was succinct and fantastic: "When I'm writing lyrics like, 'Four dead in Ohio,' I'm not thinking about laundry detergent."

I'm not saying that you can't choose rock, pop, country, ska or whatever else you want to for your campaigns. I'm saying, be aware when you're doing the equivalent of selling detergent on the backs of the bodies of unarmed college students, shot to death on a college campus.

Sincerely,
American consumers (who recognize that your campaign will NOT be the new Chevy "Like a Rock" ads)

Knee Deep

We were visiting my oldest daughter's house, getting ready for church on a Sunday morning. My youngest walked out of the bedroom in her church outfit, and her older sister made a noise of alarm - "AAHHHH!" She frequently despairs when faced with the fashion choices of her family, but I couldn't see anything wrong with the way her sister looked. I mean, she was dressed for church, not even in her "grubbies."

"What?" I asked.

"Her knees!"

Well, OK, the dress hit above her knees, but she wasn't flashing. Thinking that she was worried that the dress was too short, I said, "She's wearing leggings."

"NO! They bend backwards!" - in a tone of horror.

I sometimes wonder if my family has been paying attention for, well, pretty much their whole lives. Her sister was a teen - had she never looked at her legs before?

"Yeah, they do. She has my knees. Haven't you noticed?"

My daughter and I both have knees that bow backwards - our legs are shaped like parentheses. In order to have them look "straight," we have to bend our knees slightly. My daughter's might look a bit more obvious because her legs dimple over her knees, but the curve is virtually identical. How had my oldest never noticed this? On either of us?

"Can't she do something about that?"

"Well, we could try a complete knee replacement, but I'm not sure that would work. Maybe we'll find out when we're old."

My oldest is a very sweet, well intentioned human being. But when something offends her sense of order, she gets rattled, and how things look is very important to her.

Of course, my youngest and I have a diferent frame of reference. We have to make these knees work. They not only bow backward, but inward - we're "knock kneed."

Yes, our legs look like the letter X from behind, and the letter C from the side.

You know that walk that women do, where they cross one foot in front of the other as they step, and it looks elegant? Yeah; we will never be able to do that.

As a teen, I knew that I had "bad knees," the kind that hurt when a storm was coming, and might seize up or collapse while I was roller skating. Falling on my right knee (off of a horse) when I was 13 didn't help. I sounded (and often felt) middle aged, but what are you gonna do? You have the body you were born with.

I never understood it when people said - and they sometimes did, as my oldest daughter did again, "How can you stand that?" Easy; there's no choice. What sense would it make going through life being disgusted or aghast, by your own body, every single day? That would be far more miserable than my knees made me.

After I had surgery on my feet, I had to learn to walk again, and everything felt wrong. Plus, putting my feet where they were "supposed" to be made my knees literally smack into each other. I watched my daughter walk; her knees glide past each other, always touching but never smacking. I couldn't figure out how to make my feet and knees and everything else work properly. ("These Feet Were Made For Walking")

I pretty well have it figured out now, I think. I suspect that I've taken on a "cowboy who's been too long in the saddle" wide legged walk, but that doesn't bother me.

Howdy, Partner.

I'm walkin' here!

I Told You So

I try to avoid saying, "I told you so." I don't necessarily need other people to know that I was right; I can just be glad that I was.

Sometimes, though, I feel a distinct urge to point it out - mostly when I think others were condescending, especially if they missed something that I thought was obvious.

The subject of bottled water is one of those subjects that prompts me to say, "I told you so."

I was a young adult when bottled water started to gain popularity. Some people laughed at the very idea. "They're selling water! Who'd be stupid enough to buy water?"

Of course, the way to counter that is to convince people that the cleanest, most available water in history is tainted. When I'd ask people why they bought bottled water, they'd tell me how it was filtered, from special springs, so much cleaner than tap water.

I never really understood people who were total water snobs.

I horrified my assistant director once, when I was in a murder mystery. The theater was small, and the only water fountain was in the audience area. The performers shared restrooms with the audience (their door was at the east end of the hallway, and ours was at the west end), so we couldn't use them during intermission. We also couldn't use them, unless it was an emergency, during the last half hour before the show started. I had a water bottle, and I frequently refilled it from the restroom sink, the only sink in the theater.

One night, my water was empty just after the show started. I never like to be without water. Since I couldn't go to the water fountain, and didn't have time to go to the restroom before I had to be onstage, I asked the assistant director, who doubled as the backstage manager, to fill it for me, so that it would be waiting during intermission. "I can't go out to the fountain," she said. "The show's started."

"Yeah, I know. Just go to the restroom."

"The restroom?" The horror in her voice was clear.

"Yeah. That's what I do."

"You don't want to drink restroom water!"

"It's not from the toilet or anything."

"Don't you want to wait until intermission, when I can go to the fountain?"

"No, I don't. I want it waiting here when I come offstage."

The conversation did not go any better as it continued. She was scandalized. She finally browbeat me into waiting until intermission, because she was sure that I'd "feel better" if I had water from the fountain. I was sure that I'd feel better if my water was waiting for me, but I didn't want to keep arguing.

I told a friend about the incident weeks later. "What, does she think that there's a special pipe just for the fountain, one that comes straight from the Alps, and all the other pipes come from the sewer?"

My friend was on the AD's side. "But restrooms are dirty."

"Water straight out of the faucet is dirty?"

"Well, you know, there's germs all over the bathroom."

"Have you ever heard of anyone getting sick by brushing their teeth in their bathroom? It doesn't happen. And even if surfaces were germy, are those germs going up inside the faucet? Because that's the only place that the water touches before it goes in my cup or water bottle." Yeah, germs will multiply where they land, but how are they gonna land inside the faucet?

She looked uncomfortable. "The fountain's water is refrigerated."

Three decades after its introduction, we were pretty clear that bottled water often was tap water, and people talked about convenience, or how it was better for you than soda, but that was not the case in the mid 1980s. Back then, I also ran up against a figurative brick wall when discussing the disposal of millions of plastic bottles.

"Can't people just carry a Thermos, and refill it?" I asked a significant number of people. (Note: a Thermos was an insulated, portable liquid container, originally made from metal with a glass insulating layer. Later, they were made of plastic, with foam insulation. They always had a lid that doubled as a cup, with a little, teacup style handle. Generations of men took them to work, and kids took them to school.) This virtually always resulted in an explanation of how special and filtered bottled water was. You apparently couldn't just pack tap water.

"What about all the waste?" I said. "You can go through dozens of disposable bottles, or refill one."

"You can recycle the single use ones," people would sniff at me, condescendingly thinking what a hick I was.

"Sure, you can. But how many people will?"

"Most of them, I'm sure."

And you know what? Most people didn't, and don't. For at least 15 years, the alarm has been raised - "The Earth is drowning in discarded plastic! Plastic bottles alone could circle the Earth's equator multiple times!" Estimates are that there will soon be more plastic than fish in the ocean.

You can now buy the widest assortment of portable liquid containers ever available: tall, short, insulated, non-insulated, with spouts, with straws, rigid sides, soft sides. They're in just about every store. Fountains often have a spot specifically designed for refilling water bottles.

And yet, we drown in discarded, unrecycled, single use plastic.

I told you so, back in the 80s.

It's Always Something

My brother is 15 years older than I am; he moved away when I was young. I knew the name of the town he lived in, and the state, but not much else about his home. I was in 8th grade when Mt. St. Helens erupted. The next time my brother came to visit, he brought me a jar of ash that looked and felt like gray flour.

"Were you close to the eruption?" I worried. "It's in a whole different state," he told me. "I was a long ways away."

When I got older, I found out that he'd fudged that answer a bit; while truthful, it was sugar coated. That other state was just across the river, and while he was out of the line of sight for Mt. St. Helens, he was close enough that ash fell like rain over his home, his car, his town. Plus, the day before the eruption, he'd been inside the blast zone. Almost as distressing, from his home - from pretty much his whole town - he was in sight of two more dormant volcanoes.

"Doesn't that make you nervous? How do you sleep at night?" I fretted. I adore my brother, and wondered why he chose to live somewhere so "dangerous."

At that point, he hit me with some significant wisdom. He shrugged, and said, "It's always something." And do you know what? It is.

Recently, Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, went from a picturesque, photogenic window into an active volcano to a destructive one, with huge lava flows ruining houses and roads, causing evacuations, emitting toxic gasses. In the online news coverage, there were comments from people saying things like, "Why do they even allow anyone to live there?" The implication was that the government should stop people from living anywhere that there might be danger, to themselves or to their property.

I can't believe that anyone would think that people should be controlled that tightly. Think about it; if people can't live anywhere that there might be a disaster, we have to abandon vast areas. Can't live near volcanoes; they might erupt. So, pretty much any island is now off limits, as is the Pacific Northwest portion of the United States, where my brother lives. A significant portion of the world's mountains are dormant or extinct volcanoes. Yellowstone National Park is part of a "super volcano" - let's empty out Montana, Idaho, Wyoming.

And speaking of the Pacific, you can't live withing 30 miles or so of the ocean, if you're being careful. Tsunamis can come almost without warning, and wipe out whole cities. You can't live near the Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico, either - hurricanes!

You can't live in the Midwest - Tornado Alley! You can't live in most of the American Southwest - drought could kill you, as can creatures that bite and sting. Don't go near the Sierras - earthquakes! The San Andreas Fault! And how many of the huge cities of the Southwest can exist without air conditioning and imported water?

And floods - man, you can hardly get away from flood zones, if the right circumstances arise. Here where I am, in the high mountain desert, even a sprinkling rain can cause devastating flash floods.

We don't have a monopoly on floods. Right now, there's severe flooding a couple thousand miles away from me, in Maryland.

Gracious, I live in a place where earthquakes, floods and drought are frequent occourrences. Every summer, someone dies of exposure in the desert; every winter, someone freezes to death on the mountains. How do I manage?

Of course, I can't go many other places, either. Between insect borne illness, carnivorous animals, sandstorms, monsoons, extreme cold, extreme heat, scarcity of water, scarcity of crops, viruses, bacteria, fungus, and the crime and homicide rate of large cities, it's hard to find a risk free spot anywhere on the planet. We'd all be crowded into a few square miles, even if we could avoid those obvious risks, and that brings risks of another kind.

That's the point, of course. Even if we try to eliminate the obvious risks, something else will get us. And none of us will live forever, anyway.

It truly is always something.

Don't let it get to you.

Bookish

More than once, I've served as one of the leaders in the nursery at church, spending just over two hours every Sunday with children ages 18 months to 3 years. We're supposed to have play time, story time, snack time, singing time, activity (coloring, etc.) time, clean up time, and a "waiting for parents" activity like blowing bubbles for the kids to chase.

It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.

Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.

Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.

One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.

I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.

Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."

Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?

I asked, "Like what?"

"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."

Wow.

OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.

The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.

The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.

We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.

It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"

"Nothing."

"Something has to be."

"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.

He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.

Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.

Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."

"Of course it is. That's how people are."

Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.

He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)

Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.

Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.

Oh, dear.

"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"

She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"

"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."

"That's because you're an alien!"

I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.

"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."

She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."

Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.

I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.

When You've Gotta Go

There used to be a Pepto Bismol commercial that started with a nervous man saying, "I'm here to talk to you about... diarrhea. Don't change the channel!" That's kind of how I feel right now. I'm going to talk about public restrooms. Please don't leave.

I'm going to let you know, too, right up front, that I'm going to be talking about how other countries do this better than we do.

On the one hand, I tend to dislike and dismiss people who whine that this or that place is better than here - wherever here is. It's pretentious, and begs the question, "Then why aren't you there?"

On the other hand, something that's far more annoying, and damaging, is clinging to an idea or practice that doesn't work, just because it's "ours," and "this is how we do things here." The inability to assess, learn from, and implement new ideas is crippling, personally and societally.

So let's talk about how other countries handle public restrooms better than we do.

Let's start with the name. We call these rooms "restrooms," but there's no resting being done in them. It's a ridiculous, inaccurate euphemism, because we're apparently too embarrassed to discuss the fact that we have bodily functions. It makes us, collectively, look like we're children.

I remember the first time I heard the term "restroom." I was a child, and I was in a restaurant with my family. We didn't eat out often, so this was not an ordinary occurrence; I wasn't used to the way things worked. My mother got up and left the table, which puzzled me, especially when she didn't come right back.

"Where's Mom?" I asked Dad.

"She's in the restroom."

A whole room for resting? That sounded great. As a kid I didn't take naps (I make up for that now), but I've always been easily exhausted by crowds, noise, excessive human interaction (even when it's positive and fun), so it was easy for me to imagine that Mom had just reached the point that she needed a room in soothing blues and greens, with soft music, chaises and cold compresses. I mean, who doesn't? But at a restaurant? In the middle of lunch?

"Could I go, too?"

"Do you have to?"

"Well, I don't have to, but I could."

I was so disappointed. The "restroom" was a tiny room with two toilet stalls and a sink, in faded white paint. No potted plants, no gentle flower fragrance, no resting. Just cramped toilet stalls in gunmetal gray.

We make fun of other countries' euphemisms - oh, those silly British and their "water closets." Hey, it's a tiny room with plumbing - "water closet" is a far more accurate description than "restroom."

Most other countries get it right - if you need to tend to your bodily elimination functions, you ask for the toilets, or look for the sign that says "toilet." Straightforward, no childish snickering, the way humans should act.

The other obvious way in which other countries get it right is their stall doors and walls. Last year, we took a trip that took us across 8 countries, and do you know what every non-US nation had? Actual doors and walls in their stalls, as in up to the ceiling, down to the floor, doors that close fully. Genius!

The most obvious advantage is that they didn't have to close the facilities for cleaning, no matter what sex the janitor was. My children mock my bladder, and tell me that I have the bladder of a two year old, because I need toilet facilities frequently. I tell them that they can talk to me after their bladder has been squashed by repeated pregnancies, as well as fibroids up to the size of a cantaloupe. But the thing is, I have been deeply inconvenienced on numerous occasions by really needing a restroom, and having it closed for cleaning. AUGH! The first time I was in a public restroom while a man was cleaning it, I was surprised and then delighted. It was fantastic! He didn't have to wait for me, and I didn't have to wait for him! Woo hoo!

Another plus is the added privacy. I remember being seriously stressed when I was in a fast food restaurant during a road trip, in one of those towns that is two hours or more from the next town, so the facilities are packed. We were in year 5 of an extensive drought, with reservoirs and rivers dry, and serious water rationing in place. A woman using the toilet insisted that those of us waiting run the faucets in the sink, so that we couldn't hear what she was doing. I wanted to scream, "We KNOW what you're doing! Especially if the sound of water will muffle it! We're all here to do the exact same thing! There's only two real purposes for this room! If you're doing something not intended, please find somewhere else to do it!" But I didn't. I just watched the water run down the drain as my blood pressure rose. There is no reason to waste finite resources because you are embarrassed by ordinary bodily functions. Solid walls and doors will let those people avoid the waste.

That leads me to a third advantage - it's not soundproof, but it's a whole lot harder to hear or smell what your neighbor is doing, which should make both of you more comfortable. And no more worrying about how awkward the open row of urinals is.

Yet another advantage, in my opinion, is that it should also end the need for sex segregated facilities. If I, and everyone else, are in our own room, there's no reason for us to worry about who's in the next room. No more worrying about the fact that the line in the ladies' room is always longer than the line in the men's room. No more stressing about which restroom transgender people should use. (Having spent their lives with enclosed facilities, Europeans probably think that Americans sound silly arguing about that.)

I really have little patience for the reasons people have given me to not like full doors and walls.

One is, "But I also want to arrange my clothes, and fix my hair and makeup." Fix your clothes behind the door, and quit worrying that fixing your hair and makeup are acts that you must hide from others. Seriously.

"You don't want things totally enclosed like that, because child molestation and sexual assaults will go up!" Wow; if you seriously believe that the only reason people are not assaulting others is the gaps in stall walls, you have a view of humanity that deeply concerns me. You are also advocating a society in which it is impossible, and inadvisable, to have any privacy in public, and I am not a fan. You're also overlooking the fact that many public restrooms, in places like parks, end up closed or with restricted hours because of frequent prostitution taking place there, with the gaps in the stalls. I'm not making this up; it happens in my area more often than I want to think about. Trashy behavior does not depend on walls.

Plus, many foreign restrooms have a small fee for usage, and with that, they often pay attendants. There will be far fewer shenanigans of any kind with watchful eyes in place. (It also means that the rooms are comparatively spotless and well stocked.)

"But the construction will cost more." I don't think that cancels out the plusses, but if you do, again, usage fees. Plus, drywall is cheap, and doesn't have to be custom manufactured.

Yes, finding coins in order to pee can be annoying, but obviously, there are advantages. And, you can install card readers, like those on parking meters.

The only thing other countries don't do better: water fountains next to the restrooms. The only time I have ever been more dehydrated on a vacation than I was this last trip, I required medical attention. Water, people! Free water! You have the plumbing already in place! Most of the restroom sinks were even too shallow for me to refill my water bottle in them.

There you have it: the recipe for perfect public toilet facilities. Listen up, America!

Kids Your Age

One of the things that I didn't understand about adults when I was a child was their assumption that all kids would, or should, get along.  I hated it when they'd pitch some event to me by saying, "There will be kids your age there!" Then they'd look either expectant or pleased, obviously thinking that they'd just provided me with instant friends. It was baffling.

I wondered how they had forgotten what it was like to be a kid. Did all kids their age automatically get along with them? I assumed that the answer had to be "no." Then why would they assume that all kids my age would like me?

I've never mixed easily or well with other people. It's a skill that eludes me. And, especially as a kid, I was the odd, badly dressed one with body odor who didn't laugh at the standard jokes; no one really gravitated toward me. If I was going to get along with other people, they were generally adults, who liked my rule following, studious nature.

Saying, "There will be kids your age" translated to me as, "It will be really uncomfortable, and kids will make fun of you."

When I'm an adult, I thought, I'll remember, and I won't assume that all kids will love each other, just because they're kids.

So, of course, my children frequently wanted to know, "Will there be kids my age there?"

Again, I was baffled. And my older kids especially were annoyed when I'd say, "There will be kids there," but couldn't specify that there would be kids their ages there. My homeschooled younger two were used to hanging out with kids who might be a mix of three or four years older to three or four years younger, but that's not what life is like in public schools. Two of my high school best friends are three months older than I am, but they were in the grade above me. Several of my other best friends were between 7 and 10 months younger than I was, but because they were in my grade, they counted as "my age," whereas the kids a grade above me were "older."  My older kids were frequently annoyed that there were no kids in their exact grade or their exact number - age 7, 10, 15, whatever - at any given function.

That's OK, I thought. They'll grow up and get over it, and realize that age is not really a big deal. (And to an extent, they did, because most people do.)

When I was in my late 20s or early 30s, I was talking to a friend from church who was probably in her 70s. She had been gone when the leaders announced an event - I think it was a dinner - for our congregation, so I and another friend, a few years older than I, were making sure that she knew about it. "That sounds fun," she said. "And I don't mean to be rude, but do you know - will there be people my age there?"

I probably looked stunned. She was afraid that she'd hurt my feelings, I think, because she was very quick to explain - "I mean, you young people are nice. I enjoy being around young people; it keeps me young. But sometimes, I just need to be around people my own age. They understand me. They've experienced the same things I've experienced, and they remember the same things I do."

"Oh, of course." I assured her that there would be people her age there, and sincerely hoped that there would be. Then I went home pondering the fact that here was obviously another instance where I'd interpreted the rest of humanity incorrectly. Or had I? What if other people her age didn't feel the same way?

I watched people. I asked people. People of different ages. And holy cow, there are a significant number of people who feel most comfortable with other people close to their own age. And the people I asked thought that this was obvious.

It just had never been my personal experience. Who knew it was everyone else's? I mean, what about all that talk about age being just a number?

It's just me, isn't it?

Still Not For Sale

 I've already written about this once ("Not For Sale," April 2014). It would quite literally never have occurred to me that I'd be talking about it 4 years later.

A recap: My father passed away in 1988; my mom passed away in 2012. Their home is not particularly desirable by today's real estate standards - only one bathroom, gasp! - but it sits on over an acre of land.

Everything my mom owned was held in a family trust, with a successor trustee, that dictated passing of her assets to her children without probate. Family agreement, not on paper, was that the house would go to my brother. He's the oldest, and he rents his home. So, even though the trust owns the house, we all referred to it as belonging to my brother.

The thing is, he didn't particularly want it. He lives in another state, and has absolutely zero desire to move back to his childhood home. So, the trust rented the house to one of Mom's grandkids. The money went straight into the trust account, to be used for taxes, repairs, etc. on the house while my brother mulled over what to do.

OK. So you're caught up.

Over half of Mom's property - not to ignore my dad, but she lived alone for 25 years, and we got used to calling it "Mom's" - is vacant land that used to be a horse pasture. It's not visible from the street, but the neighbors certainly know that it's there. In all, there's 10 lots that touch the property boundaries. Mom's is actually valued at less than any of her neighbor's properties, except for one vacant lot; the extra land in a long, awkward shape, actually knocks down the valuation, as it's "difficult to use."

After Mom died, several of the neighbors inquired, with varying degrees of intent, whether the property was going up for sale. All were told "no." OK, well, the least emphatic statement was this: "He (my husband) said, 'Probably not.' (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)" ("Not For Sale")

So, they should have all been well aware that we were NOT selling it. And yet, at least three of them kept asking - and KEPT ASKING. In person, in notes, in phone calls - "Are you sure?" YES, we are SURE!

Not to sound too much like The Godfather about things, but this is a family decision. My brother had the final word on keeping or selling the house, but all of us weighed in. When I say, "we," I mean my mom's children and grandchildren - and our spouses, who are all in agreement.

Any of the inheriting siblings could, in theory, have taken the house as their share of the inheritance; none wanted to. The trust could have sold it, and split the proceeds, but that's not really what Mom wanted. She always talked about dividing the land and giving her children - or grandchildren - a piece to build a home on. (And we were informed by accessors and surveyors that a buyer would likely tear down the house, put a road straight through where the living room and kitchen used to be, and construct an apartment complex.) So, we decided to see if it was feasible to split up the land, and if any of the children or grandchildren would want a piece.

We consulted the city, and learned that yes, indeed, it was very possible, and not very expensive, to re-zone and divide the land. There is enough square footage for 8 separate lots, but making it into any more than 4 constituted "building a new subdivision," with lots of restrictions, environmental impact studies, etc. So, four pieces it would be, with the existing house on one of them, and with a short street (the old driveway into the pasture) and a cul-de-sac for access to the pasture; the city requires that a fire engine be able to turn around.

We talked with all the children and grandchildren, and there was enough interest that a decision was made: subdivide.

The inspections and paperwork went without a hitch. All the neighbors in about a half mile radius were informed of the zoning changes. The road, cul-de-sac and new property lines have been approved by the city. Grandkids made plans to build houses.

Now we've hit our first snag. When the neighbors had subdivided their property in the past - remember those 10 lots around Mom's house? - they had simply graded and put in a gravel road. That's what we intended to do. The city no longer allows that - a gravel road "isn't permanent." (We live in the American West - tell that to the still visible wagon trails from the Gold Rush.)

So, we're stuck in a holding pattern. We have to have the money to put in a paved street, sewers, and gutters, and THEN we can place the houses. The road has to come first - it's the law. We can't do houses first, paved road last.

And now, as an aside to the conversation, the only reason it's not done is money. We have to raise the money in cash, because banks will not loan us money for this - it's considered "too risky." The banks don't want to end up reposessing a hunk of land that it can't sell at a profit, and that's what they see here. We can't get loans to put in the homes until the road is in. The one local bank that will even finance "unimproved land" loans - most won't - won't touch us. We even tried to get a home equity loan - no dice. (I get the feeling that they'd go for the tear down and new apartments scenario more easily.) So, the land sits and waits, and the grandkids hoping to live there rent elsewhere. We have to try to come up with a ridiculous amount of money in cash - and THEN get another loan (or loans) for the houses. It's frustrating.

But do you know what is MORE frustrating? That several of Mom's neighbors seem unwilling to part with their plans to own Mom's land themselves.

I understand asking, as either a matter of curiosity or as an offer to buy, once. Maybe twice, if you're pushy. Beyond that, it's just aggravating.

It's looking more and more as if people moved in next to my mother specifically because they wanted to buy her land. One informed us, in a bit of a huff, that he'd be moving if the land wasn't for sale. Well, dude, sorry, pack your bags. Others - at least three households have been insistent - have gone from asking to buy all of it to asking us to parcel it out. "You're not selling any of it? How about just a piece?" One wants the lip that extends to the street corner; one has taken to asking for "just a few feet" of the pasture. And they ask over and over and over, seeming astonished and disappointed every time someone says NO.

My son went by the house the other day to drop some things off, and in the amount of time he was there, one neighbor phoned three times, asking to buy part of the pasture. Three times! In one day! No, pardon me, in a few minutes.

Nobody has actually come out and said so to us, but it really looks as though they'd been counting on this for years. Mom was elderly, she lived alone, and with the last of the horses gone, the pasture isn't in use. So, they apparently reasoned, when she died, no one in the family would want the property - in fact, they'd be itching to get rid of it. I can picture them sitting around discussing it with their friends and family, and their friends and family agreeing - "Oh, I'm sure you're right. They'll jump at the chance to unload that." Now that they are actually speaking to the only people whose opinions matter, the people who own the property, they seem distressed and puzzled by our failure to follow their script. Apparently, we were supposed to be just giddy about greedy neighbors.

I can even understand a bit of what they're thinking. One house has a back yard that's all of five feet deep - they can practically stand in their doorway and touch the fence. One family has children, and a postage stamp yard that is meticulously landscaped. One is, unaccountably, terrified of the trees - Mom's property has more than a dozen mature trees - and keeps telling me how terrified they are that the trees will fall and squash them and their house; I think they want to own it just to cut the trees down. But my understanding only goes so far. The thing is - I did not buy any of those homes, and their owners shouldn't have bought them either, if the only reason they lived there was the hope that some day, they'd have our land, too. If you don't like your property, or if you hate being next to vacant land, or if you fear trees, don't buy homes with those conditions! I mean, that's pretty self explanatory, right?

What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?

The fact that we're "not even doing anything" with the land seems to stoke the craziness. News flash: if we wanted to let it sit vacant for generations to come, that's our prerogative. And, as I noted, if we had bundles of cash, or a bank that would finance us, the road would be in now, and the houses going up or already lived in.

One neighbor who keeps asking us for "just a few feet" of the pasture is apparently ignoring the fact that they live in the bottleneck, so to speak, next to the narrowest part of the property, so giving them "just a few feet" would mean that we no longer had the required clearance for the road and cul-de-sac - selling those "few feet" would render almost an acre useless to us. Given a choice between making the neighboring yards bigger, or having our family use the land for their own residences, is it really any surprise that we chose family residences?

The current residents of Mom's home are tired of being badgered, and respond to all inquiries with, "We don't own it." That causes a near feeding frenzy - "Well, have you asked the owners? Can you just ask your landlord?" Yes and yes, and the answer is still "NO." But they seem just positive that the messages aren't getting through, because, well, why would anybody want to keep owning something when someone else wants to buy it?

I growled the other day, "I want to put up a big, two sided sign in the pasture that says, 'No, it's not for sale. No, not even part of it. No, not even a few feet. Back off, vultures.' I should print form letters that say the same thing, and hand them out every time someone asks."

My son replied, "Well, I think 'vultures' is going over the top a bit."

My reply: "My first choice was 'opportunistic jackals,' so 'vultures' is already toned down."

My sister says, "Tell them that if they continue this behavior, you'll file a harassment suit." That sounds better every time they ask the same questions again.

This really isn't tough, folks: if there's no "for sale" sign, it's not for sale. If you ask and are told no, it's not for sale. If it ever does go up for sale, it will be through an agent of the owner's choice, not negotiated through persistent notes and phone calls - and, at this point, even if it ever were to go up for sale, none of us want to reward bad behavior by selling to harassers, so we'd probably leave word for our grandchildren to avoid their grandchildren, and so on, indefinitely..

Once again, for those in the back: No "for sale" sign means it's not for sale.

We've had almost three thousand days to think about it. The answer is still no.

Yes, the family members are all on the same page here.

What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?

War Is Bad

I was scrolling through a social media site, and said out loud, "Oh, I'm not even gonna read that one."

"What?" my son asked.

"An article titled, '20 TV Character Deaths You Still Haven't Gotten Over.'"

My son knows me. "Henry?" he said.

"YES. Henry."

Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake was the first commanding officer on TV's "M*A*S*H." I loved Henry, in spite of himself. He wasn't really the kind of person I generally admired. He was bumbling, he was easily bulldozed over by those with stronger personalities, he cheated on his wife. But putting all that aside, he was well intentioned (one of my "musts" for people), he was a good surgeon, he was a loyal friend. The company clerk may have been the organizational brains of the outfit, but you couldn't really hold that against Henry; he may have been its heart. He cared about those under his command, and he cared about the wounded who came through their hospital. He could behave like a parent frequently, and like a commander when he had to, but he was always a good doctor.

My age was in single digits when "M*A*S*H" premiered, and I was only 10 when Henry got his orders to head home.

Home; they all wanted to go home. He'd miss the men, we'd miss him, but Henry was excited to go.

Maybe the story lines were kind of heavy for a kid in elementary school. My parents kept me - all of their kids - from things they were afraid would traumatize us or be over our heads, but "M*A*S*H" didn't fall into that category. We only had one TV, so whatever was on, we watched together, and we discussed it. It was one of my favorite shows. I understood the horror of war, the great lengths they went to in order to keep the horror at bay, the humor.

I understood that Henry was going home because the actor, McLean Stevenson, hadn't renewed his contract; that made me a bit sad, but it was OK. I'd watched the cast be shuffled on shows before. We'd have all summer to get used to the idea before the show returned.

I watched Henry say his goodbyes, watched him call his wife back home. He had a child he'd never met, born while he served in Korea. "Let's not tell anyone," he said to his wife. "Let's just show up for dinner at the club." He was so excited to think about the surprise his friends would experience.

He took off his uniform - he took off his ubiquitous fishing hat - and he put on a suit. He saluted Radar, his clerk, and he climbed on to the helicopter.

That's where the script they'd all been given ended. During filming, the producers told the cast, "We have one more scene. Gary (Burghoff, who played Radar) is the only one with any lines. Just react to Gary." They set up a scene in the ER - then they handed Burghoff the script.

We, the viewers, found out through interviews that Burghoff gave afterward that he looked at the lines and felt punched in the stomach. "You sons of b*****s," he says that he told them. "You're going to win an Emmy for this."

The reaction you see when Radar walks into the ER - that's the actor's reaction to the lines he was given only seconds earlier. He walks through the door, and Wayne Rogers, taking to the direction to "react to Gary," says, "Radar, put a mask on!"

Burghoff reads the lines. I know them by heart. "Lt. Col. Henry Blake's plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors."

OH. Oh. Oh.

It was so painful. I cried then. I cry now. I cry every time I see the episode, every time I talk about that moment.

The reactions you see from the other actors - those are their actual reactions. Loretta Swit weeps.

I was not prepared for the reaction of some fans, though. The producers got nasty letters - "How could you? There was no reason for that!" "How can you treat your fans this way? We've been so loyal, and you hurt us!" "This is entertainment! We watch this show to laugh, not to cry!"

Even as a 10 year old, I understood what they were doing. This is why war is bad. This is why it is a thing to be avoided. Because people you love, people with everything to live for, people with wives and children and babies they'd never met, with friends and relatives and jobs waiting for them at home, die. Many of them are still too young to have wives and children, and they die anyway. War is indiscriminate; it takes everyone. And yes, TV is entertainment, and the show is a comedy, but it would be remiss if it didn't show that war takes lives, and not just the lives of soldiers, and not just people you don't know.

So, yeah, they ripped my heart out. Yeah, it still hurts. That's how I know they did their job. Because if there was a single sentence, with words of one syllable, that summed up "M*A*S*H," it would be, "War is bad." Because too many people die.

So, thanks, 20th Century Fox - even though it hurts.

And oh, yes - that episode won an Emmy.

The Golden Rule

I believe sincerely in The Golden Rule - the idea that you should treat people the way that you want to be treated. I really do! It's so clear and common sense.

You know what the problem with it is? Other people do not want to be treated the way that I want to be treated.

For instance: a friend recently asked people who viewed her Facebook page to tell her about meaningful acts of service that they've received. Here's what I said: We were engaged for a year, which is ridiculous and stupid, and no one should ever do it. We also announced it immediately; also a mistake. We were being crushed under the weight of the (often loving, well intentioned) advice of our friends and family - "You MUST do this!" "You CAN'T do that!" "You WILL be getting those, WON'T you?" "You aren't going to wear THAT, are you?" We were told that I had to wear a loaner dress that I hated (I put my foot down and said NO), that we MUST get married in a church we'd never attended because their building was pretty and mine was plain, that a white dress would make my complexion look worse, that I shouldn't allow the brother in law with a catering business to do our food, that our color scheme was all wrong, and on and on and on. We seriously almost eloped.

My mom, knowing that I wanted nothing more than to make my own choices, said, "Just let me know what day to be there and what color to wear." It was the nicest thing anybody did for me all that year!!! Then, even though she can't stand crowds or entertaining, she let us get married in her back yard. She's the best.

I was really glad that my friend, and a couple of her family members, also my friends, "liked" the post. When I've told that story in the past, I haven't always gotten a positive response. I told one friend who was just aghast. "That's terrible! How could she do that to her own daughter?"

"No, no, it was fantastic! It was the best thing anyone did for me the whole year I was engaged!"

My friend was having none of it. "Well, it's nice that you've forgiven her, but she robbed you of all those mother/daughter moments you're supposed to have." I could not change her mind. She was convinced that it had been deeply painful, but that I was burying the hurt.

Had I wanted my mother to make endless shopping trips and compare colors and choose a menu, she would have done it. She did for my sister. But she wanted me to have what I wanted.

You know who I took shopping for my dress, the bridesmaid and flower girl dresses, the flowers? My husband. Do you know why? Because it was his wedding too, and because shopping with other people is deeply uncomfortable. I avoid it whenever I can. The last time I can remember shopping with a girlfriend (or sibling) was more than 25 years ago, when a buddy and I checked out the newest grocery store in town. She hated it, and I loved it.

My husband and I both saw the bridesmaid dresses at the same time. We were riding an escalator in a department store. I called his name to point them out at the exact moment he pointed and said, "Those are the ones!" We loved them. (We still do.)

Do you know what other people had to say about them? "Are you sure?" (We'd already bought 7 of them.) "Is the fabric appropriate for that time of year?" "Pink? Really?" "I'll bet the slender girls chose those, and the larger girls weren't too thrilled." "I had every attendant in a different color, so it would flatter their complexion.""So, you decided not to go with gowns?" "Did you ask the girls if they liked them before spending money on them?"

Even three decades later, it makes me want to scream. EVERY SINGLE WEDDING RELATED DECISION was accompanied by that kind of behavior. My mother came across as the island of sanity, in the midst of Meddlesome Mollies.

When my kids got married, I let them tell me what kind of involvement they wanted from me. I didn't shop for their dresses with them. I didn't "help" choose their color scheme, flowers, or theme. I let the one with strong opinions about clothes choose the dress that I wore. I got some say in buying food only because we were footing the food bill. I happen to think that's what a supportive parent does - lets the bride and groom call the shots. Carmen Miranda fruit hats? You bet. Barefoot? Absolutely - no shoe cost, no painful dress shoes.

I'm sure that somebody somewhere tells them how awful it was that I didn't give them "mother/daughter moments," and is amazed that they have forgiven me. I think that I did the right thing.

Lately, too, I've been thinking about this incident.

"On a message board for mothers, I recently read a very angry letter about a gift from a child's dad. Dad had been out of the picture for years and had recently resumed contact. Daughter was 5; he hadn't seen her since she was 2. For her birthday (or maybe it was Christmas), he bought her a sweater. Mom was outraged. "A SWEATER! Nothing for 3 years, then a sweater! I'm so angry I'm thinking of telling him he can't come over when he calls next!"

I'm aware that, since this involves custody issues and hard feelings, it's probably not about the actual sweater. It's probably about unpaid child support and court hearings. Still, the reaction seemed over the top.

I wrote back: "Men are notoriously bad at figuring out gift giving issues, especially when the gift is for a female." That "female" thing isn't exclusive, though. My father in law once gave his 15 year old son a Daniel Boone style fake coonskin cap. It would have been a great gift for a kid half that age. We have photos of my son delightedly wearing his through Frontierland at Disney World when he was 7. For a 15 year old, though, it was worse than no gift.

I offered my opinion that Sweater Dad was probably patting himself on the back. He was probably thinking, "It's practical, it's in her favorite color, she'll wear it every day." Unless told, I said, he would be unaware that anyone would look at that gift and think, "What is wrong with him?"

The mom who wrote the question didn't take issue with my answer, but others did. One woman wrote back that I (names are available on the site, and yes, she called me by name) was " a b***h." "Just because your husband is a loser doesn't mean that the rest of us have to put up with that s**t," she said.

Wow. I thought we were talking about a little girl's sweater." (More Misunderstandings)

Sometimes my kids baffle salespeople who are urging them to buy certain things for me - jewelry, makeup, candles, purses - when they say, "My mom's not into those." The thing is, they're right; but, that perplexes people.

A few years ago, my youngest daughter, who has a very minimal need for personal space, was told by a friend, "You're really in my space right now." Her immediate reaction? To say, "Oh, I'm sorry" - and wrap her arms around the friend, go cheek to cheek, and give them an extended hug.

"Honey! When someone says you're in their space, you don't fix that by getting closer!" She was totally baffled. Who doesn't want a hug?

Plenty of people, really, but that makes no sense to her.

I kind of chalked it up to age, and hoped she'd listen to me even if she didn't understand.

Then, recently, my husband and I were standing at a restaurant host/ess desk, waiting to be seated. We were the only ones there, yet my husband was literally right in my personal space. "You are so close you are literally touching me," I grumbled. (I have a need for a rather large amount of personal space.)

What did he do? "Oh, I'm sorry," wrapping his arms around me and kissing my cheek. I grumbled and squirmed. "Why are you so grumpy?" he wanted to know.

"Because I told you that you were too close, and you got closer!"

"I'm comforting my wife."

"It's not comforting if the reason she's stressed is that you're too close!"

This does not compute.

Everybody is comforted by different things. When there was a death in my friend's family, she did not understand her husband's reaction. "It's private, it's time to be with family, and he's phoning everyone that we know!" Yeah, I'm like her - in times of stress or grief, I need my universe to shrink. My husband needs to gather people around him; he'd be the one phoning everyone that he knows, their condolences buoying him. I might not want to speak to anybody, him included.

I once really, deeply offended my nephew's wife. She had a miscarriage; I've had more than one, and I remember what it felt like. I didn't want to talk to anyone, about anything. I barely spoke to my family, and that was it. I didn't want to leave the house, to have people tell me it'd be alright, and that they were thinking of me. It was too much to manage their feelings, on top of my own. So, I made my husband Gatekeeper, to turn people away until I could face the world, which was no more than a month. So, when our niece miscarried, I gave her space. "She does not need to have to deal with me," I thought.

When I phoned, after two weeks, she was livid. To her, my silence meant that I didn't care, that I hadn't thought of them at all, that their loss meant nothing. Horrified, I explained my thinking, and she forgave me, which was so sweet. Still, I feel the sting of having my good intentions hurt another person.

You hear talk about how hard "adulting" is. Forget "adulting" - I apparently have trouble "humaning."