Wasted on the Way

I've seen Crosby, Stills and Nash (never with Neil Young) live in concert twice.

The first time was in the mid 1980s. David Crosby was still using; he hadn't been to prison yet. The concert here started late; finally, after about 30 minutes, a man in a camo shirt and bandana came out and apologized. I thought he was a roadie; he was Stephen Stills. "We're running late. David's left the hotel and is stuck in traffic. We'll begin as soon as he arrives." It took two more "any time now, we hope" announcements before they finally took the stage.

They sounded great, all of them. Crosby, though, never looked up, never chatted, never engaged. He was on autopilot (and high as a kite).

Toward the end of the show, Stills started talking about the time they spent apart, not recording together, or even really talking to each other. "We're artists; we have egos, we get hurt," he said. "But then, one day, I got a phone call. Someone had written this amazing song." Nash looked down and fiddled with his guitar, but for the first time that night, Crosby's head snapped up. He looked straight out at the audience, and waved to get their attention. Then he took a small step back, out of Nash's line of sight. As Stills said, "... this amazing song, that just melted away all of the bitterness, that made us come together again, that made us both regret the time lost and come together like we'd never been apart," Crosby pointed, with both arms, at Nash's back. He kept looking at the audience, pointing, making huge gestures, making sure we got it. THIS MAN - this man wrote the song and brought us together. Nash kept busy tuning his guitar.

Years later, when Crosby was in prison, Graham Nash spontaneously phoned our local radio station, and probably more across the nation, just to talk, to say, "I've heard some of what David's been writing in prison. It's brilliant. I think it's some of the best work he's ever done. I can't wait to record it when he's able." He had no album to sell, no tour to promote, just the news that his friend was well and writing.

Sure, they have egos. But to watch them continually make sure that you notice the other guy's contribution, to see them truly value the other guy's input over their own, that's brotherhood.

I bought that first record they put out after David left prison. (It featured all four, including Neil Young.) It is indeed brilliant.

Watch them sing, years later, that song that brought them together:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kg-Qdrr3XSk

Feeding Yourself

It's always hard to know what balance to strike between doing things for your children, and having them do them for themselves. Sometimes, I think I get it right. Sometimes, I'm not so sure.

When my kids were little, I made breakfast for them every day. We only had the whole family at breakfast - at family meals, really, meals including all of us - when their dad had days off. He was working a rotating schedule of day shift, swing shift, graveyard shift, then back to day shift again. Weekends could be a day and a half, two days or four days (the rotation from graveyard back to days). When they were older, he worked steady hours, 3 am to 3 pm, which meant family dinner at about 5, but there was no way we were getting up at 2 am to have breakfast together.

I don't make elaborate meals. One of their favorite breakfasts was microwaved scrambled eggs and cinnamon toast. Another was sliced fruit, usually bananas and apples, in yogurt, topped with granola. We went through our fair share of cold cereal, oatmeal and Cream of Wheat, as well.

Once the kids were in school, I insisted that they be dressed before they came to breakfast. If we were running late, they could eat in the car on the way to school, but they couldn't get dressed or brush teeth in the car. This plan went pretty smoothly until they got a bit older. Then, obsessions with the "right" outfit, requests for fancy hairstyles and general dawdling meant that there was less and less time for breakfast. I resorted to toast, muffins or Pop Tarts in the car, until it became clear that I'd spend my days fishing untouched food out from under my seats. When I insisted that food be eaten at the table, even if it meant no fancy hair, there was much howling. I found myself thinking, "Are you kidding? You're upset because you're being fed? How is that even possible?" I even caved to them - and their dad - and bought cereals that were little more than spun sugar. They still griped.

By the time they hit middle school, in seventh grade, griping about "having to eat" was a pretty firmly established routine. It still astonished me. (Years later, I'm still astonished.) When they were asked to skip a meal for fasting with the church, or when meals were late on weekends or while traveling, they wailed about being "starving," yet they howled about being "not hungry" on school mornings. It had nothing to do with hunger, and everything to do with a power play. I even let them drench their oatmeal in syrup, or otherwise make sugar the main course, and they griped. Griping was a reflex action.

When the oldest kids were 12 and 11, and the third child was almost 4, we had Baby #4. One Saturday morning, when we were still measuring her age in days, the big kids were just waking up and coming down the stairs while the baby had just finished eating, and I was hoping to head back to bed. I resigned myself to more exhaustion when I suddenly realized, hey, I can put the big kids in charge! I mean, they can handle breakfast and Saturday morning cartoons, right?

My oldest was deeply scandalized by this request. "You want me to feed everyone so that you can go sleep?" It should be noted here that my Firstborn has always considered sleep to be a weakness. Even as an infant, she slept less than the other children. Sometimes, her dad would come home from work and go straight to bed, and this also scandalized her. She'd demand, "Why is Dad asleep?" and she did not understand why the answer was, "Because he's tired." This made no sense to her.

"Yes. I'm tired. This is the fourth time I've been up to feed the baby since I went to bed. I'd appreciate it if you could feed the rest of you." Surely, this request made sense.

"Can't you make breakfast first?"

"I could, but I'm exhausted. By the time you're done with breakfast, the baby might be awake and hungry again." (The baby was breastfed; Mommy was the only possible feeder.)

"I can't believe that you want me to make breakfast!" Really, Kid? In actuality, I shouldn't have been surprised. Asking the kids to do anything resembling work elicited wailing, and complaints that all household jobs belonged to me, and I was just farming out the work because I was lazy and mean. Still, I was taken by surprise at the level of outrage she was showing over a simple task.

After a few more moments of back-and-forth, I snapped at her.

"It's cereal! If the three year old could reach the cupboards, he could do it himself!"

This stopped the complaining for just a moment, while it occurred to her that this was not a sentence of hard labor. Still, in her mind, it was clearly the mother's job.

Eventually, the 11 year old started looking through the cereal cupboard. The baby and I went upstairs to sleep.

The oldest still recounted the story to her friends in horror - "Mom slept, and I had to make breakfast," as though this demonstrated clear hardship.

It occurred to me that I wasn't asking them to help out nearly often enough if a simple pouring of cereal brought on such a ruckus.

As an adult, my Secondborn insisted that part of her getting ready for school routine was spoonfeeding the babies. "No," I corrected, "you and your sister sometimes fed them on weekends, but never on school mornings." School mornings were short enough on time without trying to get the big kids to do anything besides get dressed and feed themselves. But yes, I did ask them to help feed the siblings once the babies could eat in high chairs. Being part of a family means pitching in. Kids learn to be responsible by being given responsibility. Taking care of siblings also brings the siblings themselves closer.

She still isn't sure that I'm right about this. In her mind, it was so burdensome a task that it had to be every day.

"But sometimes, I was late to school."

"I know! That's because you dragged, and I had to cattle prod you through the mornings. That's exactly why you only fed the babies on weekends." (It's also why we had a "no TV in the mornings" rule; turn on the TV, and everybody ground to a halt.) She doesn't remember it that way.

At least, by the time she was in high school, she got ready in 15 minutes. Foodless minutes, but progress is progress.

Once they hit high school, I stopped making their breakfasts, in another attempt to teach responsibility and time management before they moved out of my house. I didn't want to send them away to college without them having done the basics for themselves. I still fought the "eat something!" battle. Many days, a glass of milk was all I'd get a child to consume before leaving, but it was something. I bought granola bars, string cheese, applesauce cups - all kinds of convenience food, but they rarely ate it. I said, out loud, that Oreos and milk would be acceptable, but nobody took me up on it. They were determined to skip breakfast, which makes me crazy. I'm hypoglycemic, so skipped meals are BAD. Plus, I'm a mom; I need to feed. Study after study shows weight gain, lower productivity, reduced concentration and lower job performance for breakfast skippers. It was maddening. In a nation brimming with both food and actual deprivation, and in a house full of food, should it be this hard to get people to eat?

Secondborn is in her late 20s, and after seeing something recently on TV about moms making breakfast, said, "You never made us breakfast."

"Not in high school," I said, sure that she was ignoring the actual meaning of the word "never."

"I don't remember you ever making breakfast."

"I did it for the first 14 years of your life, and I often had to fight to get you to eat it."

"Yeah, I hate breakfast. But I don't remember that." Wow. So glad that I spent all that time slicing, sprinkling, and buying stuff like Dinosaur Egg Instant Oatmeal.

When the Firstborn graduated from high school, she went to Hawaii with her two best friends. After we'd gotten the call saying that they'd landed safely, the Secondborn started to worry. "How will they eat?"

"You remember Honolulu. There's tons of places to eat."

"But how will they eat? What will they do when it's dinnertime?"

"They'll go to a restaurant, order food, pay for it and eat it." That seemed pretty obvious to me. I wondered if she was concerned that restaurants might not serve them, so I added, "They are legal adults, you know."

"But how will they know where to eat or what to eat?"

"They'll say, 'Hey, what do you want to eat?' and choose."

This conversation was sounding more and more bizarre to me. I'm sure that she was actually anxious because her sister, who'd been right next to her for her entire life, was now thousands of miles away, and after she came home,  she would be preparing to move hundreds of miles away, so the anxiety wasn't actually about food, but food still seemed an odd thing for the anxiety to attach itself to. She wasn't worried that they'd be mugged, or get lost, or lose their luggage, or be assaulted, or miss their flight, or be on a plane that crashed, or miss their connecting flight home and be stuck in an airport in California, or anything else that was a much higher probability than starvation. No; she worried that three eighteen year olds with honors diplomas couldn't figure out how to feed themselves.

"They might get some stuff, especially for breakfasts, at a grocery store, too. That's cheaper than breakfast out." We've traveled a lot; I thought that how one fed one's self away from home would be familiar.

"What if they don't have enough money?"

Wow. "They'll have to figure out how much they can spend every day. But if something goes wrong, they have the credit card for emergencies."

"How will they know how much they can spend? How will they know if they can afford something?"

More wow. "If they can handle honors calculus, honors trigonometry and honors statistics, I think they can figure out how to make their cash last for a week. They can divide by seven."

"What if they can't?"

"Then they use the credit card."

"What if they lose the credit card?"

OK, this conversation would have made sense to me if I was having it with the seven year old, but this was the seventeen year old. "If they have reached the age of 18, and graduated from high school, without being able to feed themselves, we as parents have done a terrible job, and they'd better start catching up so they can be functional adults."

"I can't believe you're not even worried."

"Not about them feeding themselves!"

Then it occurred to me; this child usually worries based on things that she thinks might happen to her. "Do you think that you could feed yourself if we weren't there?"

"Me, yeah. I just don't know if she can."

Sisterly love.

As it turned out, by day seven, one girl had run out of cash, and the rice cakes she'd packed. The other two pooled their money and covered the third for those last meals. For instance, they bought 99 cent fruit and yogurt parfaits for breakfast, and ate them on Waikiki Beach. Go, girls!

The next year, when Secondborn went to Florida with her best friend on their graduation trip, everyone was fed, without much angst.

I still find myself having to cattle prod people to EAT at home. (Not literally - don't bother the authorities.) My household seems determined to skip meals. The Thirdborn averages two meals a day - he's an adult now - and the teenaged Fourthborn will go until midafternoon without eating, and then graze for the rest of the day, if I let her. My husband will be up for hours before he thinks about breakfast.

Is it me?

Is it them?

Should I have had the kids making breakfast, and dinner, for the whole family regularly, from an early age? Probably.

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

From my Facebook page:

Someone asked people to post good parental advice on their page. Here's stuff I learned from my Mom. What's your good advice?

You don't need validation from others to be sure that you're doing the right thing.

You can be the smartest person in the room without being a gloating arrogant a** about it, or even pointing it out.

Always give a kid a ride.

Love your kids' friends.

Trust your kids if they've earned it; watch them like a hawk if they haven't.

Be good at what you do because it's the right thing to do and will make you feel good, but don't expect others to notice or appreciate it.

Go outside as much as you can.

Read.

Eat it or wear it. (The family joke ;D)

(I'm the little bald one.)

For Mother's Day, I shared wisdom from my mom. For Father's Day, here's some of what I learned from my dad.

1. Line up the sights before you pull the trigger: This was very literal advice, as my dad was a shooting coach, and I was competent with a gun while my age was still in single digits. It's great metaphorical advice, too. I sometimes want to jump into things without lining things up, and I know that it won't work as well.

2. Fishing wisdom: I can look at a stream or lake and tell you where the fish will be. I can catch them in a tiny trickle of a stream or a deep mountain lake. I know how to rest the line on a sensitive fingertip in order to feel nibbles. I can set the hook. I have homemade bait recipes, I can clean and cook fish, I can cast, I can keep a reel from tangling. I can feed myself, as long as there's water nearby.

Fishing was what my dad and I did together, without the rest of the family. One of his favorite stories from my childhood was "the time Ainsley put you out of the boat." He'd tell it and roar with laughter, no matter how many times he'd already told it. Ainsley was one of Dad's - our - fishing buddies. One day on Frenchmen's, I announced that I had a bite before either man had one. "No, you don't. They're not biting today. You're feeling the bait bump the bottom," Ainsley said. Moments later, I pulled in a nice sized trout.

This continued - "I have a bite!" "No, you don't!" followed by reeling in a fish - until I had caught my limit. Neither man in the boat had gotten a single bite yet. Competitive Ainsley was so miffed that he found a tiny island to leave me on until HE'D caught his limit. I watched the boat go back and forth, back and forth - it was Ainsley's boat, and he wasn't letting me back in until we were even.

Dad loved that story.

3. You don't have to be a parent to parent a child: he helped raise his niece while he was a single man. She called him Unc instead of the more cumbersome Uncle Everett. "He needed a three letter nickname, just like Dad," she explained. He held the same place in her life as her own father - which also taught me that kids can have more than two "real" parents.

4. Do your job to the best of your ability, even if others stop short: The thing my dad did that made me proudest happened before I was born. He worked for the Sparks Fire Department. A fire broke out at the jail - an old style jail, with caged cells and a big iron loop of big, iron keys to open the locks. The fire was so fierce that most responders refused to enter the building, saying that the prisoners had to have already succumbed to smoke, and to risk any men would be foolhardy. Only two people, my dad and one police officer, were willing to venture into the burning jail to let the prisoners out. Those two saved every one of the prisoners.

There were articles in the paper, commendations, awards from service clubs. Dad shrugged them all off. "I was just doing my job. I wasn't going to let men burn to death in cages."

I now own his uniform cap and the awards that hung above the desk during my childhood. None of my kids remember my dad - two never met him, the others were infants when he died - but they know this story.

Food Bank Donations

Today my family volunteered at the Food Bank. We do this every three months or so, with my Rotary Club.

Today we sorted food from a recent food drive. I've seen this same thing happen before, and I feel the need to address it.

IF YOU DONATE FOOD: Thank you! You rock.

Please keep in mind, though - watch the expiration dates. I am far from a nut about these things. I happily eat food that is literally years past its date - how "bad" can dried pasta get? It makes my kids crazy, but I'm much older than they are, and have never had a problem. You're probably thinking that any food is better than no food, and you're right. Here's the problem, though: the Food Bank is not allowed to pass out food that's any more than 6 months past its "sell by" date. Let me repeat that in case someone missed it. The rules do not allow the Food Bank to distribute food that is years past its "sell by" date. There's a 6 month window, and that's it.

They can't put it out with a sign saying "expired; use at your own risk." They can't let volunteers take it home. They are not allowed.

Is this ridiculous? I think so. As I said, I regularly eat canned and boxed stuff that is far past its date. I worry about the date only on perishables, and even then, I'll buy the "bargain bin" meat that's past its date, and throw it in my freezer. (Again, I'm still alive. I've had food poisoning ONCE in my almost 50 years, and it came from bad handling, not from age.)

Today, there were entire bags of food with dates three, four, and five years out of date. One package expired in 1998. The "winner" was one that expired in 1993. We had to throw ALL of it out. There was probably a dumpster full by the time all was sorted. It took time, gas, money and effort for your donation to end in the trash. This is not a chance to clean your cupboards and unload what you don't want to eat.

Also, they have to throw out any individual packages - say, applesauce cups - that do not have a date stamped. If it was part of a larger pack, you can't donate it. Well, OK, you can, but it'll get thrown away. Complete packages only, thanks.

IF YOU RECEIVE HELP: Thank you for allowing others to serve you, especially if you are feeding children, the elderly or the sick. There is no shame in receiving needed help! Do not feel bad about yourself.

BUT: please keep in mind that you should be gracious about the generosity of others. I have, in the past, heard others complain about their donated food. "There's nothing good or high quality in here. It's all store brand. It's mostly canned, with all that sodium and processed sugar. They think that, just because we're down on our luck, we don't deserve anything good."

NO. That is NOT what it means. I donate store brand food because I EAT store brand food. I'll pick up one for me and one for you. You get EXACTLY what I feed my family, as far as canned, boxed or jarred foods go.

Also, many people donate because they know what it's like to be in need. I remember Christmas the first year I lived on my own. I was working for minimum wage, and my idea of "a varied diet" meant chicken ramen for lunch, and beef ramen for dinner. I donated two (store brand) cans of green beans and corn. I thought that, if someone managed to buy some chicken, maybe a package of drumsticks, that my veggies would make a complete dinner. I was really proud that I could help.

For many years now, I've been able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted; I could eat out daily if I felt like it. I still donate because I know what it's like to worry about not having enough food. Plus, I'm a mother; we feed.

Would it be nice if you could get donated fresh, organic food, or food that met your restrictions due to, say, allergies? Sure. But, it's very, very hard to gather and distribute fresh food, because it spoils so quickly. When you're dealing with large numbers, or a wide geographic area (and our Food Bank covers one of the nation's largest geographic areas, including rural areas), you need cans, jars and boxes, because they store and travel well.

That's also why, if your boxes of macaroni look crushed, or your canned peas have a ding in the rim, you need to relax. I've heard people have fits about that, too. "They don't even care! These are all crushed!" If there's large amounts of food involved - and there is - or lots of handling and travel involved - and there is - some things will look worse for wear. If someone donated Cheerios and they were in the bottom of a bin, and someone donated canned chili, and the chili went in on top, the box might get crushed. Maybe some Cheerios themselves might break. They're still safe to eat. It is NOT a sign of disrespect or of the food being unsafe.

Sometimes, a jar of jelly or pasta sauce might break. In that case, the food it was near might get leakage all over. The choice might be made to wash off those cans and jars, again because the food in them is still good. If your labels look as if they've been wet, stained or torn, leakage is likely why. It would be a shame to throw away your peanut butter instead of washing off the leaked jelly. I washed off a jar today. The label looks awful, but the food inside is fine.

Keep in mind - we're asked, while we're making those sorting decisions, "Would you feed it to your family?" I would.

We're all in this together!

Recycled Landscaping

My friend Rick has the skeleton of a horse in his front yard.

This is absolutely true; he has it there by choice. It's part of the landscaping.

I went to a BBQ at his house, and complimented the skeleton. "I love your horse out there." I was being sincere; it delights me. He looked mildly embarrassed.

"Oh, you do? My parents hate it." Rick has adult children himself, but I guess you always feel like a kid when your parent says, "What exactly were you thinking?"

Rick lives in a much pricier neighborhood than I do. It's not An Exclusive, Gated Community, but it's not home to many fast food workers or maids, either. There are lovely homes on spacious, well cared for lots. Rick's front yard has a pronounced slope. There's sloping lawn, a walkway to the front door and around the house to the back yard, where there is more really lovely landscaping, including a custom wrought iron, glass accented gate that's just breathtaking.

The remains of the horse are on the highest point of the front yard, an island of decomposed gravel, rocks, steel sunflowers and a mining cart. Given our area's mining history (and present), along with the surrounding desert, it's very place appropriate. It looks like a more artfully arranged version of a vignette that you might come across in the surrounding area, or as far afield as Death Valley (about 5 hours away). It almost has that, "abandon hope" look about it. I didn't ask where he got the skeleton - he may, indeed, have found it in the desert. It's still articulated, still in one piece. There's still scraps of skin and fur hanging on, but by and large, the soft tissue is all gone.

As I said, it delights me. It's imaginative, evocative, indigenous and well executed. It's unusual.

I was reminded, though, in a recent letter from the city (long story), that a legal "nuisance" is "any material, regardless of its market value, which, by reason of its location and/or character is unsightly or interferes with the reasonable use and enjoyment of adjacent properties." What that means is that if Rick's neighbors complain, his skeleton has to go - and I think that's a shame.

I think that I might be in the minority here. I know that most people view nuisance laws as away to protect their neighborhood, to keep it clean, keep it attractive, and that old standby, keep the property values up. I think that in order to be an actual nuisance, you should have to demonstrate incontrovertible evidence of clear and present danger.

You shouldn't be able to complain that something's a nuisance just because you don't like it. That's where that, "regardless of material value" thing comes in. You could buy a priceless antique, but be unable to display it in your yard because your neighbors hate it. Maybe you have one of those many armed, many breasted Hindu goddess statues. One neighbor could hate it because it's pagan, another because it scares their small child, another because the bare breasts offend them. I think that, barring an actual danger - sharp blades, snares - you should be able to have it out there if you like it.

Maybe one of Rick's neighbors is an animal rights activist, and the skeleton makes them angry. Maybe one's a vegan, and it makes them sad. They're totally entitled to their feelings, by the way, but so are those of us who love the unusual. I have never really understood how lawn came to be accepted as the perfect landscaping material, especially here in the desert. ( See "Of Lawns and Men.")

I say, embrace the eclectic! Recycle! Plant meadows, not lawns! The very fact that most new subdivisions in our area mandate a certain amount of lawn, outlaw front yard vegetable gardens and outlaw rainbarrels or gray water systems is ridiculous.

And yes, I have old, ratty, recycled things in my yard. Maybe the neighbors hate it.

I like it. Plus, it keeps things out of landfills. Win/win, yes?

I have to admit, if I find any kind of animal skeleton in the desert, I'm likely to want to take it home.

To each his own.

Bridesmaids

The first time I was a bridesmaid, I was a scared 10 year old in a long yellow and white dress. The second time, I was 15, and wore a long dress in an abstract, watercolor design of blue, purple and green. At 18, I was a maid of honor in long, sky blue lace.

At 20, I was the bride. I wanted my bridesmaids to have dresses that they'd wear again; nobody has that much use for floor length gowns. I loved the dresses I'd worn, and the women I'd worn them for, but I'm also fairly practical.

There seemed to be two prevailing ideas about bridesmaid dresses. One held that they should be at least marginally unattractive, so no one would outshine the bride. This seemed silly (and insecure) to me. I expected even the guests to "outshine" me. I have never felt beautiful or even eyecatching. The second notion was that you had to micromanage what your wedding party wore so that you could control the day, or at least the photos. Since this was supposed to be The Day You Have Always Dreamed Of, it was your absolute right to make sure that you approved of what others were wearing, especially those who would stand next to you and have their photos in your wedding album. This also seemed over the top to me. I couldn't imagine how it would "ruin my day" if someone wore something I didn't like. There wasn't actually a dress code and a bouncer.

I figured that having the wedding party in fancy, matching clothes was our way of saying, "These people are important to us!" Not that everyone else wasn't, but I couldn't afford to buy all of my friends and relatives new wedding outfits. Tradition dictated a wedding party of close friends, so I had one.

My husband actually had far more firm opinions on things like clothes and decorations than I did. He and I saw our bridesmaid dresses at the same time, as we were stepping off the escalator in a department store, and both of us simultaneously said, "THOSE!" They were pink with white pearlized buttons, faux wrap style, just below the knee length. We both loved them.

I mean, how cute are these dresses? And these ladies?

I gave no instruction on what to wear with them. A couple of them asked about hair or shoes or jewelry, and I told them, "Whatever you do is fine." Our colors were pink, white and ivory. The men wore black tuxedoes with pink boutonnieres. I did my own hair (my ordinary style, with a bit of curl and a fancy shell clip), and I expected everyone else to do the same. We didn't get ready together, or go to a salon, or anything of the kind; that's just not appealing to me.

We had six bridesmaids - an indicator of my inability to leave anyone out. Truth be told, I wanted a few more, but my husband only asked 4 men to be groomsmen, and only two said yes, so we were already lopsided.

One bridesmaid wore pale gray flats. One wore brown sandals. The rest wore white shoes, most of them heels.

So, yes, we looked lopsided, but otherwise adorable. And my nieces, the flower girls - could you just eat up their sweetness? Literally 15 years later, people were asking, "And how are those darling flower girls?" (Um, adults now, thanks. But they're still darlings.)

Anyway. I digress.

During my reception, a cousin came up to me and asked why one bridesmaid wore brown sandals.

My nerves were a little raw. We'd been engaged for a year; DON'T DO IT! Short engagements are the way to go! We had been bombarded with "You must do this," and, "You can't do that," and opinions out our ears until I wanted to scream. Someone phoned my husband at work, the night before the ceremony, to tell him to "call the whole thing off" because they and I disagreed about how to serve the condiments at the reception - and this someone was NOT our caterer or catering staff. True story. So, I was more caustic than I would otherwise be. I responded, truthfully, "She and her husband and their two year old twins drove for 16 hours, one way, to be here with us today. I don't care if she's barefoot." I mean, focus, people! What's important?

My poor cousin, who has never been anything but sweet and helpful, looked stricken. "Oh! I just - I wasn't sure if you gave them instructions. I didn't want you to be upset." I assured her that I was not upset with the shoes, or with her asking about them. The shoes were a non-issue.

I wish that I had photos of being a bridesmaid for my friend two years later. Back in the days of film, it was harder and more costly to share images.

We had off the shoulder, lavender, floor length gowns - very Southern belle. Luckily, they were also full and high waisted, because I was 6 months pregnant, and the matron of honor was 8 months pregnant.

When I walked down the aisle, there were a few whispers. Mostly, I think, people were trying to figure out if I was pregnant "or just that big." There was no question when the matron of honor walked down the aisle. She looked like she had swallowed a watermelon. There were audible gasps, and a loud buzz of conversation. They only quieted down when the pastor slightly raised his voice to ask everyone to stand for the bride.

Many people at the reception told the bride how "sweet," "brave," and "amazing" it was that she included us in the wedding party. The prevailing opinion seemed to be that we broke both of the cardinal wedding party rules - we pulled the focus away from the bride, and we did not look like a magazine spread. The bride was astonished and forthright: "It never occurred to me NOT to have them just because they were pregnant. These were the women I wanted there with me."

More than two decades later, when my daughter was planning her wedding, matching bridesmaid dresses were out of style. It was referred to as being "matchy matchy," and derided as an outdated and unflattering custom. "There's no way that one style of dress will look good on everyone," the experts said.

My daughter stood firm. Non-matching dresses were a chaotic mess. She would have matching ones. People tried to talk her out of it. They pointed out that her wedding party ranged from short and round to tall and thin. They told her that her photos would look dated. She didn't care. I applaud that; everyone else gets to plan their OWN wedding, not someone else's.

And the handmade dresses were gorgeous.

My niece got married at roughly the same  time of year as my daughter and I had, only five years later - just this past spring. She had a similarly spring-like color palate.

One of her bridesmaids asked her, during the wedding planning, "Can I wear black tights and shoes?" My niece responded, "If you want to. The other girls will be bare legged in white shoes, but do whatever you want." Talking with me about it, over a month later, my niece said, "I really didn't care. If she wanted to wear black tights, she should wear black tights." She paired them with cute black ankle boots and a chunky black necklace. I think that everyone looked amazing.

My niece also had a 16 year old flower girl, instead of a small cherub. She wanted to include her cousin, and to have someone old enough and responsible enough to pair with the 2 year old ring bearer, in case he was uncooperative.

Yes, everyone looked great. But most important, in my opinion, is that my niece put people over image. She wanted everyone to be as happy and comfortable as she was on her special day. You ask people to join you because you love them, not because they're window dressing.

In short, I'm pretty proud of having people in my life who value a little bit of individuality. We may all be in this together, but we are not all the same.

When You're Alone

Years ago, I told a friend, "I need serious hedonism lessons." After describing my weekend, the friend agreed, with horror, "Yes, you do!"

My family - husband and four children - were out of town. I'd had to fly back from vacation early, to perform in a play. So, I was alone in the house all day, then went to work on the show at night.

So, what did I do? I deep cleaned all four children's bedrooms. (Yes, they all had their own rooms.) Then, I shopped for new sheets and comforters, so they all came home to beds freshly made up with brand new, co-ordinated bedding.

That's part of my personality - I get the most done, and feel the most energetic, when I'm alone.

My husband does not understand this. Only one of my children understands this. Most of my friends think I'm somehow ill. But, there it is.

That, sincerely, has been the hardest part of homeschooling to get used to. I love having my kids home, I love creating our own schedule. I think that most kids learn best outside of classrooms. There are many reasons this works for us. But I am rarely, if ever, alone.

I've never been a great housekeeper, but one of my older children (who attended public school) looked at old photos and said, "Look how clean the house is!" Yeah; that was before we all spent our day in it. It was also when I had several hours a day by myself.

Today, my youngest child started her first part time job. I was alone for an hour and a half. (Mind you, I have a cold, and went to bed at 8:00 p.m. last night. I'm tired and draggy.) What did I do?

I folded and put away clean laundry. I sorted and washed dirty laundry. I hand washed a drawer's worth of wood handled knives. I straightened the living room. I shared a blog post. I read an article on education that I'd been wanting to finish. I put away books displaced from the bookshelves. I took out the trash. I cleaned the stove (who dribbled this stuff all over it?) I put away clean dishes.

Then, my son came home. We watched Netflix.

I love time with my family, I truly do. I think the house, though, will love me having some time alone.

Developing Empathy

When Phillip Seymour Hoffman died, of a heroin overdose, it made me extremely sad. I loved watching Hoffman long before Hollywood caught on to how amazing he was. I remember watching some forgettable Showtime sitcom as a pregnant newlywed in 1986, seeing Hoffman, and thinking, "That guy is amazing." I think that one of the reasons he was relatively overlooked for so long was that people forgot that he was acting. They assumed that he was being himself, reciting memorized words. News flash - that's what good acting looks like. You believe that the actor is truly like the character(s) that they portray. When Hollywood finally caught on, I was both thrilled for him and proud of myself for having known it first.

After his death, the first time I heard someone say, "Why should we care about the death of a junkie actor?" I thought that it was an anomaly, spoken by a judgmental individual. Then I heard it over and over, from many different people.

They said it as though two things were true: actors were somehow less valuable than non-actors, and junkies had relinquished any chance of being valued or loved. Both assumptions made me very angry.

A few people called for understanding or compassion on the basis that "it could have been any one of us. It could have been me." I thought that they were missing the point, too.

It could not have been me. Why? I have never been intoxicated. I have never been drunk, high, buzzed or whatever. I don't drink; I never have. I have never recreationally taken anything intoxicating, mind altering or mood altering. (Even though I've had to use prescription painkillers and the like many times, they have never made me loopy, euphoric, giggly, sad or anything except sleepy and nauseated. I cannot imagine taking them recreationally.)

Should it matter if it could have been me? Not in the slightest; not for a moment.

Why? Because if you want to be a caring, compassionate, empathetic person, you will care about the pain and problems of others, even if they are different from yours, and even if they brought their problems on themselves. You should want to be a caring, compassionate, empathetic person, even if those qualities feel unnatural to you and do not come easily. This seems so obvious and self evident. This should be Human Interaction 101. We should all learn, before we are even out of diapers, that this is our goal.

Second, someone that you love will one day need that kind of understanding. Understanding is not condoning or encouraging. Even if all of the people you now value in your life have the same beliefs, standards and behaviors that you do, that does not mean that they always will. Some day someone - a grandchild, a cousin, a childhood friend - will do something ill advised or damaging. That does not mean that you should cut them out of your life and your heart. (And if you are not close to anyone with whom you disagree, you are living an extremely ill advised and isolated existence, but that's another discussion.) How do you want others to treat your loved one?

I often see people who are willing to accept the behavior of loved ones who drink too much or use recreational drugs, as long as they seem to be reasonably functional, and as long as they believe that their loved one could stop using if they wanted or needed to, but they have zero sympathy for anyone who is truly addicted. I think that's backwards. Addicts have my utmost sympathy. They have a physical and psychological dependence. I cannot begin to imagine how difficult that must be. Both their body and mind are convinced that they will cease to function, or even die, without their substance intake.

Aerosmith's Steven Tyler has given interviews about how he felt when he was forced into rehab. He would call his bandmates and say, "I'll never be able to write anything again. They're killing my creativity. I'll never be able to play or sing again. Is that what you want? Do you want to kill the group and take away my livelihood - to take away your own livelihoods?" He meant it, too. He wasn't trying to manipulate them with false facts; he truly believed that if he was sober, he couldn't work and couldn't create.

He's not alone. I've personally known people who felt this way, and I've heard and seen the stories of many more.

"Then," Tyler says, "I found out that my writing was better, and easier, sober, but I never would have guessed that before."

Even good fiction tells truths. I resisted reading "Doctor Sleep," Stephen King's sequel to "The Shining," for years, because Danny Torrance is one of my favorite fictional people, and I didn't want anything to ruin how I felt about him. When I finally picked up the book, I was so annoyed with Danny. I try not to, but I tend to be disappointed and a bit judgmental when people behave in stereotypical ways. I know that cliches and stereotypes exist specifically because so many people will react in predictable ways. Still, I think that the harder and less conventional roads are wide open enough that any reasonable bright or functional person can find and walk them, so it annoys me when they don't or can't. It made me angry that Danny, after watching his father fight alcohol and lose, after watching Jack's life (and that of his family) unravel in good portion because of this Achilles heel, became an alcoholic. I just thought he was smart enough to avoid that first drink.

I understand what he was thinking. He'd seen horrible things - unlike the rest of us, who have to in some way be present to witness horrors, Danny didn't. They let themselves straight into his brain. It was scary and uncontrollable, and he was a child. He tried to cope, and to silence the horrors, any way he could. For a moment, the alcohol shut the door; but it didn't stay shut. Then, Danny would drink more, sure that he needed more alcohol, not less, in order to stay sane.

What Danny was surprised to find out was that being drunk kept out any of the positive effects of his "shining," and only let the horrors in. He eventually discovers that being sober lets in the good stuff, and makes it easier to keep out the bad stuff. He was amazed; I was not. It's a universal truth that life works that way.

It's hard to trust that, though, especially if you've spent time teaching yourself that the opposite is true. I think that every one of us has been in physical pain and mental pain, sometimes at the same time, so acute that we would do almost anything to shut it off. It makes us frantic and panicky and unreliable. We can't hear anything but the noise inside our own heads. I've certainly been there. At one point or another, many people learned that they could momentarily silence the pain with a drink or a pill or a shot or a smoke. They didn't intend to become addicted - nobody does - but it happened, and now they cannot imagine that there's another way to quiet the pain. Their body tells them that this is the only way. Their brain tells them that this is the only way. All they know for sure is that they want the pain stopped, or at least blunted, and they'll do anything to get there. The motivation is understandable.

Sometimes, people start using for reasons other than pain. They might be lonely, easily influenced, bored, hoping to fit in, or afraid. There's nothing wrong with feeling that way, and nothing wrong with trying to fix it. The problem with trying to fix it with a substance is that the substance has zero effect on the actual problem, and you need more and more of it to feel any effect on your mood. It's a recipe for failure. Still, that momentary relief is enough to keep people coming back until they're physically and psychologically dependent.

When Hoffman died, he wasn't with friends. He wasn't at a party or a club - he wasn't "partying." He was alone, in his bathroom. His family was out of town. Maybe he was lonely; maybe he was in pain. We'll never know. We know that he'd fought this demon for years, and was currently winning most of the time, but on this night, he lost. It, unfortunately, happens. You can win them all, and then lose one, and that one will take you down.

He wasn't having fun. He wasn't being sociable. He wasn't following a crowd. That makes it all the sadder - that a man alone in his own home could be his own downfall. It hurts. It hurts me to think about, and I never met the man.

Don't tell me that I shouldn't care. Don't tell me that you don't care unless you're prepared for an angry reaction.

Also earning my ire is the belief that intoxication is unavoidable and even beneficial. People lose credibility with me when they start telling me how "impossible" it is to be sober - Hello! Standing right in front of you! Closing in on a half century old! - or insisting that I'm "ruining" my kids by expecting them to be sober. I have little patience with that kind of nonsense. I also have little patience with the idea that the sober are uncultured, unsociable, immature or somehow suspect.

For instance, even years later, I'm still pretty ticked off at a particular bartender.

When you're working on a theater production, it's very common to go somewhere afterwards to get drinks or a meal with the others working on the show. Quite often, that happens at a bar, because they're open and convenient. (Also, because quite a few people follow the "need alcohol at the end of a long, hard day" mindset, but that's another story.) I spent years working at one theater that shared its parking lot with a bar, so it received a lot of our business. We'd walk over after a rehearsal or show.

The usual bartender knew some of our names and most of our faces; a show typically rehearses for six weeks, and we'd often be the only faces in the bar at 10 o'clock on a weeknight. Depending on whether I'm more concerned about sugar or caffeine at the moment, in a bar I'll order a 7-Up or a Diet Coke. (You get a bigger tip if you give me marachino cherries in either one.)

One night, I ordered a 7-Up. The bartender said, "Awww. Would you like a milk? Do you want me to put a nipple on that?"

I am cutting him more slack than I think he deserves by assuming that he was trying to be funny. It was not funny.

You know The Mom Look, the one that means you've stepped over the line, and the boom is about to be lowered? Most small children figure out that look very quickly; it's a self preservation thing. I had That Look on my face. The bartender saw it, and momentarily froze.

The thing is, I was working very hard at making sure that the next thing that came out of my mouth was not outright offensive.

In that theater company, there were, at the time, at least two recovering alcoholics. One had spent years getting sober, and more years sober before he could face walking into a bar again. Now, he could walk into the bar with the rest of us, order a soft drink, have a good time and leave, but it hadn't always been that way. It was deeply offensive and inappropriate for the bartender to say this to anybody, but I was trying not to imagine the horror of saying it to a recovering addict, or someone teetering on the edge between social drinker and addict, or to a young person trying to decide if they'd become a consumer of alcohol. For all this bartender knew, I was a recovering alcoholic, and the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life was order this soda. Then there's that insidious and ridiculous idea that I was somehow not adult if I didn't want something intoxicating. All of this was running through my mind as I tried to choose my next words.

I was leaning toward, "Just shut up and serve me the soda" or another sentiment of the kind, but the bartender suddenly saw a Pandora's Box open up in front of him. He knew that 1. he'd blown his tip, and I'm a generous tipper, 2. I might never come back, 3. My friends might decide not to come back as well, and we'd find a new hangout, 4. I might be writing a letter of complaint to his boss the moment I got home (and I write a great complaint letter, let me assure you), and most importantly, 5. he'd blown it big time and needed to remove his foot from his mouth. As I opened my mouth, he opened his. "I'm sorry! I'll get you that drink!" He scurried away. I fumed, and he tried hard to be endearing. for the rest of the night.

I'm still angry about it.

Don't be a jerk and express any kind of similar sentiment to me. Addicts deserve my patience; jerks do not.

Also, just for a moment, let's look at the idea that Hoffman didn't count because he was an actor. That, too, makes me angry.

First, I can't stand job snobs. It's obnoxiousness. My ideas about jobs are very Sesame Street; when they named jobs that began with the letter D, they put "doctor" right next to "ditch digger," with no value judgement attached. Any job that is not inherently immoral (say, child pornographer or crack dealer) is valuable. Society needs every job to be done, and done well. Plus, I grew up during the Cold War, trying to gauge how we'd all function After the Nukes Fell, so people with "menial" skills might end up being far more important to survival and wellbeing than, say, securities analysts.

Second, artists are valuable. We tend to judge past civilizations in large part based on their arts. A robust, flourishing culture would have thriving, well paid artists. Even people barely scratching out enough to eat, centuries before large cities, municipal governments and the like existed, took the time to paint and carve and tell stories.

I don't understand deciding that artists are unintelligent or of little value. I really don't understand disliking actors if you watch TV or go to the movies.

I don't like the frequent complaint that, since popular actors make more than the average Joe, they shouldn't have any problems. I expect anyone past childhood to have enough life experience to know that life is hard, no matter how much money you have. Complaining because someone rich has problems or disappointments is a childish manifestation of Sour Grapes Syndrome.

(Don't understand the reference? It's from Aesop's Fables, from the story of The Fox and the Grapes. Go Google it and read it.)

In short, I'm back to the idea that developing sympathy, compassion and empathy should be Human Interaction 101. You should want to be a caring, compassionate, empathetic person, even if those qualities feel unnatural to you and do not come easily. We should all learn, before we are even out of diapers, that this is our goal.

None of us are perfect at this, but please, for the sake of us all, start down the road towards it.

Lady in Black

I was recently telling my son about the outfit I wore for my kindergarten school photos, and how I loved it, and the silver caps on my front teeth. "I thought those were so cool."

My son replied, "So, what I'm hearing here is that you've never had any fashion sense." Nope. Never. None.

I've finally figured out how not to be completely inappropriately dressed, I think. Not inappropriate as in revealing - I'm not an exhibitionist - but just a deep, inborn inability to figure out what goes with what, what looks good, and why.

Someone once asked me if I owned so much black because I thought it was slenderizing. (I am nobody's idea of goth, and never have been, so that option is out.) I thought that was very funny. First, it's hard to "slenderize" someone of my bulk. Second, I don't think that anyone needs to be slender in order to look good.

Third, and most important, I just can't summon much interest in looking fashionable, or shock value unfashionable; really, in wondering too terribly much what anyone thinks. I try not to be offensive or otherwise sabotage any chance of functioning smoothly in everyday life, but that's it. I had a baby at 20 and another at 21. When you're responsible for keeping another human being alive and safe, nothing else seems very important at all. All I had room for in my head and my day were things that directly affected my children's health or safety. I couldn't possibly spend that time wondering if my shoes "went" with my pants. I barely summoned up interest in whether something was flattering or not; comfort is king.

That's where black comes in. You can't mess it up. Everything matches it - darks, brights, pastels, patterns, florals, winter wear, summer wear; black is universal. It also doesn't show messes very readily - something that is important when you have small children in your life.

I also needed a lot of black, including maternity clothes, to work backstage on the theater productions on which I spent a great deal of time.

It's just not possible to go wrong with black.

Then, I discovered that there is a downside to black clothes.

I tend to assume that people mean what they say and say what they mean, so I don't spend a lot of time looking for subtext. (I know. Stop laughing.) When I'd be in all black in the dead of a Nevada summer and someone would ask, "Aren't you hot?" I would assume that they actually wanted to know if I was comfortable, and that being assured that I was was enough.

We have relatives, though, who are sure that any direct question, and any direct answer, are rude. I had no experience with this kind of thinking, and still find it difficult to navigate a landscape of hints. I spend my time giving literal answers, and they spend their time wondering why I'm clueless.

Years ago, my little family of four was at an extended family picnic in July, and I was oblivious to the fact that I looked out of place. I hate changing my clothes, and try to avoid it unless I'm very dirty or having to wear something uncomfortable. Otherwise, I put on what I'll need to wear at night first thing in the morning, and wear it all day. This was especially true when my kids were very young, and a lot of what I did, including any theater, meant a 45 minute one way drive. I was not about to pack basically an overnight bag just to go into town shopping or visiting relatives, then change for the show if I was tech crew. (Costumes, obviously, are in a different category; you don't want to take a chance ruining or staining them.) So, at this picnic, I wore a black top, black pants, black socks and black lace up canvas shoes. In July, in Nevada. It made sense to me, my husband and my kids, and I didn't really think about anyone else.

Most of the other women were dressed one of two ways - denim shorts and expensive athletic shoes, or floaty floral dresses and sandals. I knew that I didn't look like that, but I honestly didn't think anything of it. Then, after an hour or two, my five year old niece approached.

"What, are you going to a funeral?" she demanded, hands on hips, looking me up and down. I could sense her mother being horrified, but I was totally charmed by this. If you want to know, ask.

"No, I'm working backstage on a play later. We have to be in all black so the audience doesn't notice us moving things on and off stage."

She looked slightly puzzled - the concept of "play" may not have made sense to her - but she said, "Oh. OK." She waltzed away, and I became aware of a ripple going out through the rest of the relatives, starting with the ones at the table next to me. There were exclamations of, "Oh! "OH." "Oh!" rippling across the yard. Apparently, the fact that I was "inappropriately" dressed had been the subject of much speculation, but they all considered it more polite to discuss and theorize amongst themselves than to ask me outright. There was a great deal of relief that "there's a reason."

I was left thinking, thank heaven for my niece. Who knows what bizarre theories were being floated? Come on, folks, just ask!

I still didn't fully comprehend that I may occasionally look out of place.

A few years later, I was head of stage crew for a musical. I loved the show; it's still one of my favorites. I frequently wore the button with the name and logo of the show, with the dates and theater information in small print.

I was 26; you know how 20-somethings are frequently fashionistas? Yeah - not me.

My oldest daughter, in kindergarten at the time, had a Girl Scout activity in town, an hour away from home. I had a show that night, so, of course, I was in head to toe black. I had also put on a string of small multicolored beads, since my husband was always encouraging me to accessorize in colors to spice up the unrelenting blackness. They were small enough that I could keep them on during the show without them being distracting. I also wore the publicity button for the show, "Assassins."

Yeah; you probably already see where this was going. I didn't.

I stood there in my sunglasses - it would be another few years before I had prescription lenses that darkened outdoors - my black clothes and shoes, and my big red button that had the crosshairs of a gun sight and the word "Assassins" in bold letters, waiting for my daughter to be done. The room was full of adorable little cherubs in Scout uniforms, including mine in a bright blue Daisy smock. The other mothers formed those groups that everyone else seems to form so effortlessly, and chatted. No one chatted with me, which was fine, but a few of them kept throwing me wary, sidelong glances. I had no idea what that was about, but little inclination to figure out why. Humans are a mystery.

Finally, a woman I knew from church left her little group and walked over to me, I assumed to say hello. Instead, she said, "Assassins, Sharon?" in a tone of outrage.

Whoops. Yeah. Not sounding very child friendly, is it? And here I am in my sniper clothes.

"It's a show. At the university. I'm head of stage crew." She continued to look at me uncomprehendingly. I felt compelled to keep talking. "It's about people who have killed, or tried to kill, presidents of the United States." Still no real response. I kept talking. "It's really funny. It's a musical."

Finally, a reaction: "A musical?"

"Yeah. It's great. You should come see it."

I was not successfully selling the concept.

"We have a show tonight. These are my stagehand clothes."

"Oh. I wondered."

She went back to her little group, where I saw her mouth moving, and the O formed by the mouth of the woman next to her, as she received the explanation.

Yeah; not selling any tickets here. Whoops. Unsuccessful attempt at publicizing my show.

When the event got over, and my little cherub ran up to hug me and started to chatter about all the things she'd done, I saw some of the other moms look even more amazed. Come on, ladies; would you have liked it better if I and my "Assassins" button were hanging around this event without my having a child there?

They probably still feel bad for my daughter and her tragic upbringing.

And I still wear a lot of black clothes. But not because they're slenderizing.

Things That Make Me Go "Hmm" (Part 1)

Volumes could be filled with the things that puzzle me. Here are just a few.

Why is the nickname for Sylvester "Sly?" I mean, I understand not wanting to be "Syl," but this makes no sense to me.

Along those same lines, why is the nickname for William "Bill" or "Billy?" Will or Willie, I get. But Bill? Where'd the B come from?

Fashion; no matter how I look at it, it makes no sense. "These things weren't popular years ago, and they won't be popular years from now, but right now, you must have them!" I don't care if it's clothes or hair or home furnishings, this makes no sense. I understand the capitalism of it all, "Sell more stuff by creating false need, and making sure people replace things that aren't worn out," but I just cannot quite comprehend 1. why so many people go along with it, and 2. why so many people treat it as though it has any actual value.

Conviction by Consensus, the idea that, "Other people think this; therefore, I will think this." All the permutations of it, from fashion to mob mentality, just escape me. Again, intellectually, I can explain it. I understand the psychological and anthropological reasons, the fact that being part of a group makes survival easier and more likely. I understand that some people just do not trust their own judgement, but feel sure that majority opinion confers some kind of authority. After all, isn't that democracy in a nutshell - "We will do whatever the majority decides we should do."

Still, keep in mind that "majority" means "anything over half," so out of 100 people, 51 is a majority; that still leaves 49 dissenters, though, who are told that their idea has less value, just because there are fewer of them. I understand using this as a basis for a government, but not in using it to make decisions or form opinions about everyday life.

The older I get, the more I want to strike the phrase "most people" from anyone's vocabulary. "Most people like (blank)." "Most people will do (blank)." It's just infuriating. Have you sincerely polled all of the Earth's inhabitants? This is the adult version of a child's statement - "Everybody else (fill in the blank)." Unless you put some parameters on it - "most people who visit Rome for the first time," "most people who live in Chicago" - I just want to disregard whatever you have to say outright.

Even if you do designate your parameters, and your analysis is correct, why should that indicate any kind of desirability? Truly, why is something a good or bad idea just because a lot of people agree? Every single inventor, discoverer or pioneer did things that went against prevailing knowledge and opinion. Watching "The Imitation Game," I was struck by the fact that someone more likable and agreeable than Alan Turing would have caved to his peers. After all, these were honestly the best and brightest analysts available. They were smart, educated, informed and well intentioned. They told Turing that he was doing it wrong, wasting time, wasting money, costing lives, and he should just buckle down and do it like the others did. Yet, Turing was right. They were able to succeed only because he stubbornly refused to listen to majority opinion, and in doing so, he ended the war years earlier, and changed cryptography forever.

I understand, too, the desire to be like someone we admire, or to cultivate traits that seem desirable, but I just want to smack people who explain any part of their opinion or actions by saying, "Intelligent people think/do x." It makes me want to drip with sarcasm - "Do tell! Enlighten me! However do intelligent people think? I would so love a glimpse into that rarified world!" In actuality, folks, truly intelligent people form opinions and make decisions on their own, not as a group. And, they frequently disagree with one another.

Negativity, in almost any form, annoys me. I read a study that measured how readers rated the intelligence of review writers. Participants were given movie and book reviews written by the same person, expressing the same views, with just a few key words and phrases changed, to reflect either a positive, upbeat tone, or a negative one. By a huge margin, the participants said that the reviews using negative words were written by more intelligent writers. Anecdotally, I see this frequently. Be happy or positive about something, and people adjust their estimation of your IQ downward, but be rude, scathing and dissatisfied, and they'll think that you're a genius. It aggravates me.

Has no one noticed that any idiot can complain or find fault, and most of them do? It takes hard, relentless work to see the positive in any given situation. Many people are ill equipped, or simply don't expend the effort.

Ranch dressing; I'll eat it if there's nothing else available for my salad, but I don't really like it. I don't want it on my sliced veggies, my wings, my pizza, my chicken strips, or anything else. I'm always puzzled when I'm at a restaurant and they bring me copious amounts of ranch that I didn't order, or ask me if I want it when I haven't asked for it. It's not horrifying, but it's not amazing.

Fear of rodents and/or insects; I just can't quite imagine what harm people fear will befall them. Rodents are cute. Bugs can be lovely. Neither one frightens me. I do dislike the sensation of lots of little legs walking on me, but I also dislike having people stand too close to me or rub me too lightly, and that doesn't cause me to scream and run.

Fear of snakes; fear of venom makes sense, but fear of any snake? Why?

Extreme germaphobia; come on, trust your immune system. I was at a weekend event at a high school, and took an available opportunity to nap; the only place quiet enough was the school library, where I could nap on the floor. My son wrinkled his nose and said, "Oh, yeah, Mom, that's real sanitary." My response: "Our ancestors lived through the Middle Ages. I think I can handle a frequently cleaned library floor."

Driving fast; I am not an adrenaline junkie. I dislike the physical sensation of speed. I dislike knowing that speed increases danger. Things that are fender benders at 25 are fatal at 85. I'm generally not in a hurry, either. Impatience is just an exercise in misery.

I do not enjoy large (or steep) roller coasters, anything that drops from a height, or other adrenaline rush rides; see above.

High heels are of the devil, I'm sure. Not in a "you shameless hussy" kind of way, just in an "I'm not a masochist, I don't want to be in pain" way. I read where an actress was quoted as saying, "Who cares about comfort on the red carpet? It's about looking fabulous." She does indeed look more fabulous than I do, but I care about comfort. Call me a hedonist, but I can't imagine why anyone would choose to wear something that hurt.

Have Fun Stormin' the Castle

Everyone has something in particular that they like to do when they travel. Some people get excited about the food; some get excited about the shopping. I get excited about the photographs that I can take.

When we planned a trip that would take us to Europe for a week, people asked, "What do you want to see?" At first, I just said, "Whatever is there." Then I started thinking, and we started buying things like train tickets, and I amended my answer; "I want to see a castle."

I've grown up in the American West; we get all excited if something is 100 or 150 years old. Our entire nation is just over 200. When my niece spent a year abroad in France, she lived in an ordinary neighborhood in an ordinary town, and her home was over 400 years old, with stone walls. The thought made me swoon.

At our first stop, Madeira, there was no castle. The island was gorgeous, and I didn't miss the opportunity to see a castle.

Our second stop was Gibralter. I was excited about the rock, the monkeys, the view across the channel to Africa. But there, sitting on the hill, was a castle.

See it? Don't worry, we got closer.

Technically, it's a medieval fortress. Still, on only my second day in Europe, I got to cross a "must do" off my list.

It became apparent that castles were not scarce the morning we arrived in Barcelona. This was the view from the deck of our ship:

Well, then!

This is Montjuic Castle, first built in 1640. We didn't go inside, but we did get a closer view.

 We saw plenty of palace-like buildings in Paris. Even if we hadn't, who cares? It's Paris!

We hit the castle jackpot in Germany.

After looking, exhaustively, at flights to take us home, we'd discovered that the least expensive flight left on a Thursday from Frankfurt, so we arranged to arrive in Frankfurt on Tuesday night. That left all of Wednesday for an adventure. We were without a car (we'd arrived by train), so we looked into tour companies, and settled on a tour that would pick us up from, and deliver us back to, our hotel. We were scheduled to go down the Rhine in a tour boat, on a stretch of river that was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and has the highest concentration of castles in Europe. We all charged our camera batteries in anticipation.

Unfortunately, the Rhine was flooding. It was the highest water level in over 300 years. Virtually all river traffic was halted.

This is a staircase that goes down to the waterfront sidewalk. The water levels were, if I recall, 15 to 20 feet above normal here.

Many of the docks were themselves underwater. Some peeked out, but you wouldn't want to dock there.

The tour company had a contingency plan. We would still get many of the usual elements of the tour - lunch at a cafe, a visit to a local monument, a ride down the mountainside in a chair lift reminiscent of a ski lift - but instead of sailing past numerous castles, we'd get to tour the grounds and interior of one.

It was an absolutely picture perfect example of a castle - suits of armor, a ballroom, towers... just gorgeous.

There's me and my husband.

Here's the view from across the river.

Isn't that storybook perfect?

What was more astonishing to me, though, were the number of other castles in the area, castles not included as part of the tour. They were just sitting there, a part of the normal scenery.

I mean, they're just everyday buildings. Here's another view from across the river, showing the next castle just a bend in the river away.

Do you see that? Here's a closer look.

They're within sight of each other, some of these castles. Holy cow! I mean, even if it was centuries ago, I could easily walk or ride between them!

So, we have a new plan on the back burner. Some day, we'll go back to Germany. We'll drive the Romantic Road, we'll float down the Rhine, and we'll photograph more castles.

It's a great plan.