When I was a kid, I read parts of the newspaper every day, but it wasn't the headlines. It was the comics, Dear Abby, and Dave Barry. (I'm still miffed that Dave Barry no longer writes regular columns.) As an adult, I also read the news, but I still love the comics. I sometimes read advice columns; I might agree with the advice, not agree, or have no basis for an opinion (like the advice columns in my husband's handyman magazines; I don't know how to wire your new whatever).
I have rarely thought that an advice columnist was farther off the mark than when they answered a query from someone who wrote in to say, "I hate it when cars drive right next to me. I feel compelled to either speed up or slow down. Is this normal?"
Let me just digress for a moment here to say, I am baffled by the sheer number of people who apparently worry about whether or not they are "normal." I only tend to worry about it in, say, terms of post-op recovery, so I know when I need to seek out the doctor - "Your body will do this or that, but don't worry, it's normal."
I'm more like my son. His sister frequently asks, "Is it weird that I like (x)?" He has no patience for this, and is likely to snap, "Who cares? So you like it. It doesn't matter if that's weird." While I think he should be less snappish about it, that's how I feel. Like it or don't. There is no reason to spend a single second wondering if you're "normal." I think this behavior is a result of people deciding that normal = desirable, which it does not.
But anyway - back to the advice.
I was positive that I knew what the columnist would say. I, too, hate having cars next to me, or too close in front or behind. I think the reasons for this are obvious, and rooted in safety. A car near you, especially at freeway speeds, has the potential to harm you. If the other driver so much as sneezes, or looks at their phone, or gets aggressive in passing, you can be seriously harmed or killed. Cars are deadly weapons. I know nothing about most drivers that I'll encounter, but I'm asked to trust them literally with my life, and the lives of my family. I am most comfortable when they are far from me, not so close that I could touch them. So yes, I hate it when they want to drive right next to me. I, too, will speed up or slow down in order to shake them off.
This is not what the columnist said. She blathered on for several paragraphs about perceived intimacy. People like to think that they are anonymous in their cars, she said, so having someone close enough to see you feels like forced intimacy, so it makes us emotionally uncomfortable.
What? On what planet? They have thousands of pounds of metal right next to me, and I don't know if they're careful! I don't care if they can make eye contact! I'm worried about automobile contact!
But no; the columnist wanted to carry on about intimacy issues. I found myself mentally addressing her - "Honey, I'm not dating them! I'm trying to stay alive at 75 MPH!"
Maybe you have intimacy issues. I don't care, as long as you stay in your lane.
I should probably never write an advice column (I'd end up saying, "Who cares if you're normal?" and people would sue); but I'm sure that I'm right about this.
Saturday, June 6, 2020
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
Not Banned Books
My parents read a lot. We had lots of magazines and books around the house, and from the time we could read, none of us were forbidden to touch any of them. There were no trashy romance novels, no stashes of porn; the closest thing to inappropriate was a pile of Cosmos that a cousin had handed down (and my mom had no interest in). Plus, a lot of the thrillers and such were in Condensed Book form, so they were the equivalent of movies cut for TV. Anything graphic was edited out.
There were books we had to treat carefully, and those were on high shelves - the encyclopedias, the old family Bibles. We were expected to have clean hands, be gentle, put them away.
We had lots of storybooks, too, but if we could read something the adults owned, that was OK. Mom sometimes told us that we probably wouldn't like a book that was really dry, from a kid's point of view, or warned us that there was something we might not like (for me, that meant animals dying. I still loved Old Yeller). But if we could read the words, we could read the book (or magazine).
I remember sitting in the living room and reading a magazine while my mom sat across the room reading something. I came across a word I didn't know. I was never the kid who just skipped those; I had to find out how to say it, and what it meant. So, I asked my mom, "What are genitals?"
She looked a bit surprised, and said, "Private parts - reproductive organs. What are you reading that has that word in it?"
"Reader's Digest." She raised her eyebrows, so I elaborated - "It's an article about a bear attack. It says the man covered his during the attack." Now I understood why.
Mom said, "I'll bet he did." Then she wanted to know, "Did he survive?"
"I haven't finished the article yet, but the title has the word 'survival' in it, so I'm guessing he did."
"That's good," Mom said, and went back to reading.
That kind of parenting was perfect for me. She didn't lecture me about reading something scary and tell me that I'd have nightmares. (Books rarely scared me.) She didn't rush to reassure me that bear attacks were rare, and that we were safe when we went into the woods. (I knew that anyway, and the article had already covered that ground if I didn't.) She certainly never refused to tell me what a word meant, or made me feel bad for asking. She gave clear, factual answers, without unnecessary detail.
I was eight years old when the book Jaws came out. I remember clearly lying in the hammock in the back yard, reading in the opening pages the description of the first victim reaching down, thinking she'd caught her foot on something, and discovering that her whole leg was gone. A fly landed on my book, and in irritation I slammed the book shut, squishing it between the pages, then regretted my impulsiveness.
I loved Brody, Hooper and Quint. I loved the way that each needed the other's expertise to get the job done. I rolled my eyes at their bickering, and was captivated by their bonding. I understood parts of each of their personalities.
At eight, though, my only experience with losing a main character was Old Yeller. I naively assumed that all of our principles would live. After all, so far, everyone who'd died had been someone we'd met for mere moments.
Then Quint died. I took it very hard; I was devastated. Decades later, I still feel it.
I did not understand the reaction that a lot of people had: "I will never go in the ocean again!" A very literal person, I could not figure out if people had never known that sharks existed. That seemed unlikely. If you knew that sharks existed, why would a book about one be surprising? Turns out, most of them had just never considered that a shark might attack them, personally.
My reaction was, "You know what in the ocean is most likely to kill you? The water." Most animals will leave you alone, most of the time. Water is relentless, and doesn't care about you. Still, people felt sure that intellect and ability would keep them safe from the actual water - just don't breathe it, right? A shark sounded much more unpredictable and frightening.
Still, I fell back on the numbers, how many people die every year from drowning vs. shark attack. Plus, Benchley called his character a "rogue" shark, over and over. The whole point was that this was not a normal shark, and not a normal summer. Plus, it was fiction. He could have made the shark talk if he wanted to; fiction is not constrained by facts.
Decades later, I'm still afraid of drowning; sharks still don't bother me a bit.
The next year, when the movie came out, kids at school kept asking each other, "Have you seen Jaws?" I kept saying, "No, but I've read the book." (One kid earned a scowl by saying, "What book?")
When I was sleeping over at a friend's house, her dad asked my mom if it was OK if I went with them to the movie. "Sure. She's read the book; she'll be fine," Mom said. And she was right; the scenes of the camera gliding over the ocean bottom at the beginning of the show felt scarier than any of the scenes with the shark.
Except when we still lost Quint. I hoped that they'd let him live this time, but no. In a way, that made me happy, because I hate it when filmmakers change the plot, but I hated losing Quint, too.
I had the same rules for my kids concerning books as my mom had had for me - clean hands, treat it right, don't leave it out, put it away when you're done. But I didn't have any books that I hid from them. If there was something not appropriate for kids - I read a lot of mysteries and histories, and people in those have a tendency to die, often in colorful ways - I put it on a high shelf. By the time you could reach the shelf, you'd be old enough to read it.
My daughter was home from college for a visit, and I said something about a crime; I forget which one. "Oh, yeah, I read about that in your book," she said.
"Which book?" I wanted to know.
She told me, then said, "Whoops. I probably shouldn't have told you that." It was a book about famous unsolved crimes - Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, JonBenet Ramsey.
"Why not?"
"Because I read your book."
"Did you ruin it?"
"No."
"Did you put it back?"
"Yeah."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I figured you'd be mad if I read it."
"Let me get this straight. It's a book that I bought - not just borrowed, but spent money on. It's something that I'm interested in. And you thought that would be a problem?"
"Well, yeah. People were, like, murdered."
"So, you thought that a book that sat in plain sight, on a shelf literally right outside your bedroom, would be forbidden."
"Well, yeah." She actually looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't angry, but I thought that this was very funny. Kid, if I didn't want you to know that the book existed, I would not put it at eye level, 6 inches away from your bedroom door.
Also, if I would have said, "This is really fascinating, you should read this," I probably would have gotten, "Ew! That's gross! What is wrong with you? Why would I want to read that?"
I have only one book with pages that I don't want left where people can see them, and that's because I would have a problem. I own a big, glossy, fascinating book about the Titanic. But, the pages with photos of the wreck are paper clipped together. The kids all know that they're welcome to look, but as soon as they're done, those paper clips go back on!
Because the scariest thing in my books is still the water.
There were books we had to treat carefully, and those were on high shelves - the encyclopedias, the old family Bibles. We were expected to have clean hands, be gentle, put them away.
We had lots of storybooks, too, but if we could read something the adults owned, that was OK. Mom sometimes told us that we probably wouldn't like a book that was really dry, from a kid's point of view, or warned us that there was something we might not like (for me, that meant animals dying. I still loved Old Yeller). But if we could read the words, we could read the book (or magazine).
I remember sitting in the living room and reading a magazine while my mom sat across the room reading something. I came across a word I didn't know. I was never the kid who just skipped those; I had to find out how to say it, and what it meant. So, I asked my mom, "What are genitals?"
She looked a bit surprised, and said, "Private parts - reproductive organs. What are you reading that has that word in it?"
"Reader's Digest." She raised her eyebrows, so I elaborated - "It's an article about a bear attack. It says the man covered his during the attack." Now I understood why.
Mom said, "I'll bet he did." Then she wanted to know, "Did he survive?"
"I haven't finished the article yet, but the title has the word 'survival' in it, so I'm guessing he did."
"That's good," Mom said, and went back to reading.
That kind of parenting was perfect for me. She didn't lecture me about reading something scary and tell me that I'd have nightmares. (Books rarely scared me.) She didn't rush to reassure me that bear attacks were rare, and that we were safe when we went into the woods. (I knew that anyway, and the article had already covered that ground if I didn't.) She certainly never refused to tell me what a word meant, or made me feel bad for asking. She gave clear, factual answers, without unnecessary detail.
I was eight years old when the book Jaws came out. I remember clearly lying in the hammock in the back yard, reading in the opening pages the description of the first victim reaching down, thinking she'd caught her foot on something, and discovering that her whole leg was gone. A fly landed on my book, and in irritation I slammed the book shut, squishing it between the pages, then regretted my impulsiveness.
I loved Brody, Hooper and Quint. I loved the way that each needed the other's expertise to get the job done. I rolled my eyes at their bickering, and was captivated by their bonding. I understood parts of each of their personalities.
At eight, though, my only experience with losing a main character was Old Yeller. I naively assumed that all of our principles would live. After all, so far, everyone who'd died had been someone we'd met for mere moments.
Then Quint died. I took it very hard; I was devastated. Decades later, I still feel it.
I did not understand the reaction that a lot of people had: "I will never go in the ocean again!" A very literal person, I could not figure out if people had never known that sharks existed. That seemed unlikely. If you knew that sharks existed, why would a book about one be surprising? Turns out, most of them had just never considered that a shark might attack them, personally.
My reaction was, "You know what in the ocean is most likely to kill you? The water." Most animals will leave you alone, most of the time. Water is relentless, and doesn't care about you. Still, people felt sure that intellect and ability would keep them safe from the actual water - just don't breathe it, right? A shark sounded much more unpredictable and frightening.
Still, I fell back on the numbers, how many people die every year from drowning vs. shark attack. Plus, Benchley called his character a "rogue" shark, over and over. The whole point was that this was not a normal shark, and not a normal summer. Plus, it was fiction. He could have made the shark talk if he wanted to; fiction is not constrained by facts.
Decades later, I'm still afraid of drowning; sharks still don't bother me a bit.
The next year, when the movie came out, kids at school kept asking each other, "Have you seen Jaws?" I kept saying, "No, but I've read the book." (One kid earned a scowl by saying, "What book?")
When I was sleeping over at a friend's house, her dad asked my mom if it was OK if I went with them to the movie. "Sure. She's read the book; she'll be fine," Mom said. And she was right; the scenes of the camera gliding over the ocean bottom at the beginning of the show felt scarier than any of the scenes with the shark.
Except when we still lost Quint. I hoped that they'd let him live this time, but no. In a way, that made me happy, because I hate it when filmmakers change the plot, but I hated losing Quint, too.
I had the same rules for my kids concerning books as my mom had had for me - clean hands, treat it right, don't leave it out, put it away when you're done. But I didn't have any books that I hid from them. If there was something not appropriate for kids - I read a lot of mysteries and histories, and people in those have a tendency to die, often in colorful ways - I put it on a high shelf. By the time you could reach the shelf, you'd be old enough to read it.
My daughter was home from college for a visit, and I said something about a crime; I forget which one. "Oh, yeah, I read about that in your book," she said.
"Which book?" I wanted to know.
She told me, then said, "Whoops. I probably shouldn't have told you that." It was a book about famous unsolved crimes - Jack the Ripper, the Black Dahlia, JonBenet Ramsey.
"Why not?"
"Because I read your book."
"Did you ruin it?"
"No."
"Did you put it back?"
"Yeah."
"Then what's the problem?"
"I figured you'd be mad if I read it."
"Let me get this straight. It's a book that I bought - not just borrowed, but spent money on. It's something that I'm interested in. And you thought that would be a problem?"
"Well, yeah. People were, like, murdered."
"So, you thought that a book that sat in plain sight, on a shelf literally right outside your bedroom, would be forbidden."
"Well, yeah." She actually looked a bit disappointed that I wasn't angry, but I thought that this was very funny. Kid, if I didn't want you to know that the book existed, I would not put it at eye level, 6 inches away from your bedroom door.
Also, if I would have said, "This is really fascinating, you should read this," I probably would have gotten, "Ew! That's gross! What is wrong with you? Why would I want to read that?"
I have only one book with pages that I don't want left where people can see them, and that's because I would have a problem. I own a big, glossy, fascinating book about the Titanic. But, the pages with photos of the wreck are paper clipped together. The kids all know that they're welcome to look, but as soon as they're done, those paper clips go back on!
Because the scariest thing in my books is still the water.
Monday, April 13, 2020
Not a Germaphobe, But...
I am sincerely not a germaphobe. I mean that; I'm not the kind of person who disinfects their knick-nacks weekly, but thinks "that's just normal."
Let me give you an example. I believe firmly in the five second rule, unless the item is wet or sticky. (Mythbusters confirms this, by the way.) Once, as a kid, I dropped an Oreo, then picked it up and blew on it before taking a bite. Another kid looked at me with disgust, and said, "You know that you can't blow the germs off, right?"
I said, "I'm not worried about germs. I'm blowing off any dust bunnies," and took another bite. I mean, who wants a mouthful of lint?
Thinking about it, I wonder if that kid ever talked to me again. Other children did not find me endearing.
Anyway, that's where I'm coming from when I say this: how you handle your illnesses could potentially kill me.
I know that's hard to understand, because I know lots of normal people who can't quite imagine it. But there it is.
Let's talk about my lungs for a minute. I spent years, in fact all of my childhood, not really thinking about my lungs. They were there, they worked, end of story. Now, it's a whole different ball game.
More than 20 years ago, I went, with my family, to a friend's wedding out of state. It was lovely, we had a great time, but I got sick on the way home. I grumbled about the misery of being sick in the summer, and finally had to go to the doctor. I was diagnosed with bronchitis, and given medication.
I'd never had bronchitis as a kid. The sensation of trying to breathe but not getting any air was new.
Anyway, I went through a full course of antibiotics, but still didn't feel well. So I had a second course, and then finally, a third. It had been over two months of illness by this time. The doctor assurred me that I was fine, but I didn't feel fine.
I went back to the doctor's office a fourth time. "I don't understand why I don't feel better," I said. The physician's assistant looked at my chart and said, rather irritably, "You've got to come to terms with the fact that you now have lung damage. You're undoubtedly going to be asthmatic from now on."
Note to health care professionals: You may want to ask if a patient has ever been informed that they have a condition before you tell them to accept it. I had never been informed that I had lung damage, or that I was now asthmatic, until that moment. It was not a great way to find out.
It took months to get used to my new normal. When I finally did, though, it got to the point that I rarely thought about asthma. I didn't need daily medication, or adjustments to my life. When I got sick, though, with even a cold, it would move down into my lungs and I'd need an inhaler. It's annoying, but doable.
More than a decade passed that way. Sick = treat my lungs; well = business as usual. Of course, "usual" was the new usual, right, the one with diminished lung capacity. Still, I'm not a pro athlete or professional musician, so the new normal worked fine. Actually, it gave me empathy for people who struggle daily.
I'm still not entirely sure what happened. I didn't move to a new climate, get a new job, gain or lose a ton of weight, take up smoking or vaping, or change in any other noticable way. But slowly, my lungs got worse. Then, for no reason apparent to me, they got rapidly worse.
I'm guessing it's probably the same thing that happened back when they were initially damaged - I got sick, it lingered, more damage. I can't pinpoint a moment, and (much as I really do love my doctor's office) nobody really tried to sleuth out why or when - they just treated the symptoms. So, instead of a rescue inhaler, I now have 2 daily inhalers (different drugs, different treatment regime; one is once a day, one is twice a day), a rescue inhaler (potentially every 4 hours), and a daily COPD pill. (I didn't think the pill was doing much until I ran out, and went for 10 days without it.)
I struggle to breathe, every day. The last three years have been difficult. Things that were always irritants - I have allergies - now are perilous. Dust, pollen, animal fur, cold temperatures will all seize up my lungs, to the point that I'm struggling for oxygen. Not "for air;" - I know some people feel as if they have a weight on their chest, or a band across their chest, but I feel as if my lungs are taking in the same amount of air, big, deep breaths, but there's no oxygen in the air. It's like breathing helium. Your lungs inflate, but you get no oxygen.
My voice will either get thin and breathy, or low and growly. That's usually the signal - break out the rescue inhaler. Sometimes, I don't notice. My daughter in law has gotten really good about saying to me, calmly and conversationally, "Your lips are turning blue. You probably ought to take your inhaler."
I do a lot less outside my home. During the winter, especially, I won't even go grocery shopping after dark. It's too cold - I can't breathe. Some days, I'm reduced to writing notes and giving hand signals to my family, and I've lost perspective enough to spend those days thinking, "Hey, no coughing fits! I'm doing great!" instead of, "Holy cow, I cannot even carry on a conversation."
Just in case you're going to say something like, "Hey, how do you know it's not just your weight?" or, "Maybe you're just out of shape," be aware that I've had those conversations with doctors, I've gone to see specialists, I recently had a cardiologist get (really annoyingly, frankly) complimentary about my heart health after a cardiac stress test.
Ironically, while going to the grocery store or my Rotary Club meetings has gotten difficult, going far away is often fantastic. Hawaii, Florida, cruises - my lungs love it there. We recently spent 11 days of a 14 day cruise entirely at sea, and my lungs were so happy. No dust, no pollen, no animals, no cold - two of my three inhalers never left their packaging. (I take the once a day inhaler no matter what.) It felt absolutely healing.
Then I came home, ran my vaccuum, and was back to writing notes. Coughing, wheezing, siiting in my recliner obsessively measuring my oxygen saturation and pulse; that kind of thing happens way too often.
I have a little fingertip monitor for my oxygen saturation and pulse. In a perfect world, saturation would be 100%. In most people, it's 96% or 97%. If you're in the hospital, alarms will go off if yours hits 85% (I know from experience). I have spent days with mine hovering at 90% to 91%, with my pulse rate at 112 beats per minute. 120 beats is considered normal for "strenuous exercise." All it takes is dust, or pollen, or a cold, or... you get the idea.
Once, mine was so low that the monitor couldn't read it. My son, my husband, everyone got readings but me; for me, it said there was no finger in the monitor. Naturally, I try to avoid that.
So, that's my normal existence. Now imagine how I feel about illnesses, especially those that affect the lungs. I'm not just talking about COVID-19, I'm talking about the flu, pneumonia, bronchitis. Any of those could kill me, easily.
My bonus daughter is a nurse, and in discussing coronavirus online, she was explaining that "it's like the flu" does NOT mean, "it's mild, no big deal." It means, "It's deadly, and will kill thousands every year." Her exact words were, "We should be terrified of viruses. We've gotten complacent and lazy." We view illness as an inconvenience, not a killer. We're wrong.
You know what used to kill people every year? Winter. The cold, the lack of available food back in the days when you had to grow and hunt your own, then try to store it long term with no refrigeration or canned goods, killed the old, the young, the sick, every single winter. People would travel to their neighbor's farms, or into the village, when spring came, in order to see who survived and who passed away.
Anyway; I digress. Illnesses are scary and can kill me. They can kill you, too, but they'll take me first. But to do that, they need to pass from one person to another. You know what prevents that? Staying home when you're sick!
Advertising tells us differently. It says, "Take this over the counter medication, and you can go about your day like normal! Go to work, go to the gym, go out to dinner!" That's terrible advice, terrible. That's equivalent to driving drunk. You're gambling that your behavior won't harm or kill someone else, and you're doing so in order to have fun or to feel good about yourself. Because, too many of us feel that being sick is being weak, and not being able to carry on is a sign of bad character.
I just read about a young lady who passed away from COVID-19; her family said that she felt strongly about doing her job, so she went to work "until she couldn't breathe." I admire her love of her job and her clients, but she may have killed some of them.
The worst thing about this virus is that it can pass to others when you have no symptoms, when you don't know that you have it. That's why we're all quarantined at home.
When you're sick, even "just a cold," stay home. During a pandemic, stay home, even if you're healthy. Don't become a carrier.
You wouldn't drive drunk - at least, I hope not. So, don't spread germs. Don't spread viruses. It will kill those of us who already have health issues. Natural selection does not cover your arrogant, self absorbed or careless behavior. Nature is not designed around you getting your own way at the expense of others.
Society shut down for fear of polio, and most times, polio would not kill you.
You can handle some boredom and inconvenience. Stay home. I'm trying to breathe.
Let me give you an example. I believe firmly in the five second rule, unless the item is wet or sticky. (Mythbusters confirms this, by the way.) Once, as a kid, I dropped an Oreo, then picked it up and blew on it before taking a bite. Another kid looked at me with disgust, and said, "You know that you can't blow the germs off, right?"
I said, "I'm not worried about germs. I'm blowing off any dust bunnies," and took another bite. I mean, who wants a mouthful of lint?
Thinking about it, I wonder if that kid ever talked to me again. Other children did not find me endearing.
Anyway, that's where I'm coming from when I say this: how you handle your illnesses could potentially kill me.
I know that's hard to understand, because I know lots of normal people who can't quite imagine it. But there it is.
Let's talk about my lungs for a minute. I spent years, in fact all of my childhood, not really thinking about my lungs. They were there, they worked, end of story. Now, it's a whole different ball game.
More than 20 years ago, I went, with my family, to a friend's wedding out of state. It was lovely, we had a great time, but I got sick on the way home. I grumbled about the misery of being sick in the summer, and finally had to go to the doctor. I was diagnosed with bronchitis, and given medication.
I'd never had bronchitis as a kid. The sensation of trying to breathe but not getting any air was new.
Anyway, I went through a full course of antibiotics, but still didn't feel well. So I had a second course, and then finally, a third. It had been over two months of illness by this time. The doctor assurred me that I was fine, but I didn't feel fine.
I went back to the doctor's office a fourth time. "I don't understand why I don't feel better," I said. The physician's assistant looked at my chart and said, rather irritably, "You've got to come to terms with the fact that you now have lung damage. You're undoubtedly going to be asthmatic from now on."
Note to health care professionals: You may want to ask if a patient has ever been informed that they have a condition before you tell them to accept it. I had never been informed that I had lung damage, or that I was now asthmatic, until that moment. It was not a great way to find out.
It took months to get used to my new normal. When I finally did, though, it got to the point that I rarely thought about asthma. I didn't need daily medication, or adjustments to my life. When I got sick, though, with even a cold, it would move down into my lungs and I'd need an inhaler. It's annoying, but doable.
More than a decade passed that way. Sick = treat my lungs; well = business as usual. Of course, "usual" was the new usual, right, the one with diminished lung capacity. Still, I'm not a pro athlete or professional musician, so the new normal worked fine. Actually, it gave me empathy for people who struggle daily.
I'm still not entirely sure what happened. I didn't move to a new climate, get a new job, gain or lose a ton of weight, take up smoking or vaping, or change in any other noticable way. But slowly, my lungs got worse. Then, for no reason apparent to me, they got rapidly worse.
I'm guessing it's probably the same thing that happened back when they were initially damaged - I got sick, it lingered, more damage. I can't pinpoint a moment, and (much as I really do love my doctor's office) nobody really tried to sleuth out why or when - they just treated the symptoms. So, instead of a rescue inhaler, I now have 2 daily inhalers (different drugs, different treatment regime; one is once a day, one is twice a day), a rescue inhaler (potentially every 4 hours), and a daily COPD pill. (I didn't think the pill was doing much until I ran out, and went for 10 days without it.)
I struggle to breathe, every day. The last three years have been difficult. Things that were always irritants - I have allergies - now are perilous. Dust, pollen, animal fur, cold temperatures will all seize up my lungs, to the point that I'm struggling for oxygen. Not "for air;" - I know some people feel as if they have a weight on their chest, or a band across their chest, but I feel as if my lungs are taking in the same amount of air, big, deep breaths, but there's no oxygen in the air. It's like breathing helium. Your lungs inflate, but you get no oxygen.
My voice will either get thin and breathy, or low and growly. That's usually the signal - break out the rescue inhaler. Sometimes, I don't notice. My daughter in law has gotten really good about saying to me, calmly and conversationally, "Your lips are turning blue. You probably ought to take your inhaler."
I do a lot less outside my home. During the winter, especially, I won't even go grocery shopping after dark. It's too cold - I can't breathe. Some days, I'm reduced to writing notes and giving hand signals to my family, and I've lost perspective enough to spend those days thinking, "Hey, no coughing fits! I'm doing great!" instead of, "Holy cow, I cannot even carry on a conversation."
Just in case you're going to say something like, "Hey, how do you know it's not just your weight?" or, "Maybe you're just out of shape," be aware that I've had those conversations with doctors, I've gone to see specialists, I recently had a cardiologist get (really annoyingly, frankly) complimentary about my heart health after a cardiac stress test.
Ironically, while going to the grocery store or my Rotary Club meetings has gotten difficult, going far away is often fantastic. Hawaii, Florida, cruises - my lungs love it there. We recently spent 11 days of a 14 day cruise entirely at sea, and my lungs were so happy. No dust, no pollen, no animals, no cold - two of my three inhalers never left their packaging. (I take the once a day inhaler no matter what.) It felt absolutely healing.
Then I came home, ran my vaccuum, and was back to writing notes. Coughing, wheezing, siiting in my recliner obsessively measuring my oxygen saturation and pulse; that kind of thing happens way too often.
I have a little fingertip monitor for my oxygen saturation and pulse. In a perfect world, saturation would be 100%. In most people, it's 96% or 97%. If you're in the hospital, alarms will go off if yours hits 85% (I know from experience). I have spent days with mine hovering at 90% to 91%, with my pulse rate at 112 beats per minute. 120 beats is considered normal for "strenuous exercise." All it takes is dust, or pollen, or a cold, or... you get the idea.
Once, mine was so low that the monitor couldn't read it. My son, my husband, everyone got readings but me; for me, it said there was no finger in the monitor. Naturally, I try to avoid that.
So, that's my normal existence. Now imagine how I feel about illnesses, especially those that affect the lungs. I'm not just talking about COVID-19, I'm talking about the flu, pneumonia, bronchitis. Any of those could kill me, easily.
My bonus daughter is a nurse, and in discussing coronavirus online, she was explaining that "it's like the flu" does NOT mean, "it's mild, no big deal." It means, "It's deadly, and will kill thousands every year." Her exact words were, "We should be terrified of viruses. We've gotten complacent and lazy." We view illness as an inconvenience, not a killer. We're wrong.
You know what used to kill people every year? Winter. The cold, the lack of available food back in the days when you had to grow and hunt your own, then try to store it long term with no refrigeration or canned goods, killed the old, the young, the sick, every single winter. People would travel to their neighbor's farms, or into the village, when spring came, in order to see who survived and who passed away.
Anyway; I digress. Illnesses are scary and can kill me. They can kill you, too, but they'll take me first. But to do that, they need to pass from one person to another. You know what prevents that? Staying home when you're sick!
Advertising tells us differently. It says, "Take this over the counter medication, and you can go about your day like normal! Go to work, go to the gym, go out to dinner!" That's terrible advice, terrible. That's equivalent to driving drunk. You're gambling that your behavior won't harm or kill someone else, and you're doing so in order to have fun or to feel good about yourself. Because, too many of us feel that being sick is being weak, and not being able to carry on is a sign of bad character.
I just read about a young lady who passed away from COVID-19; her family said that she felt strongly about doing her job, so she went to work "until she couldn't breathe." I admire her love of her job and her clients, but she may have killed some of them.
The worst thing about this virus is that it can pass to others when you have no symptoms, when you don't know that you have it. That's why we're all quarantined at home.
When you're sick, even "just a cold," stay home. During a pandemic, stay home, even if you're healthy. Don't become a carrier.
You wouldn't drive drunk - at least, I hope not. So, don't spread germs. Don't spread viruses. It will kill those of us who already have health issues. Natural selection does not cover your arrogant, self absorbed or careless behavior. Nature is not designed around you getting your own way at the expense of others.
Society shut down for fear of polio, and most times, polio would not kill you.
You can handle some boredom and inconvenience. Stay home. I'm trying to breathe.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Home Sweet Home
I'm going to talk about homes. I'm not intending this to be an endorsement of anything or anyone political, just so you know. Yeah, sure, I have opinions on leaders and laws and how to be a good person, but mostly I just believe that it's my job to put information out there, and it's your job to decide what to do about it. And when you put info out, I decide. That's just how it is. Anyway...
I grew up with three siblings, my mom, and my dad in a 3 bedroom, 1 bath house. In some ways, it was really idyllic. We had a big yard, fish, gerbils, a rat, cats, dogs and horses. We ice skated in our own back yard. We rode horses. We built clubhouses, climbed trees, and borrowed my mom's jewelry to be "pirate treasure" and bury it and dig it up again. We took a week long vacation every year, and often smaller trips as well.
It was also pretty tough, money-wise. As a single man, Dad had no savings and no credit. He lived in a studio apartment, and ate out daily. He was 50 when my parents got married. It was my mom's second marriage, so my parents started their married life as a family of four. Then, they had two more kids. When I, the baby, was six months old, my dad was encouraged by his employer, the fire department, to retire as a consequence of heart problems. I no longer remember the exact nature of the problem - whether it was a heart attack, a-fib or what. But his boss felt that firefighting was too physically difficult for Dad anymore, that it would aggravate his health and endanger himself and his co-workers. So, at 56, with 4 kids and a mortgage, Dad retired. Dad was, for the record, bitter about this.
They'd planned on mom being a stay at home parent, but now, if we wanted to eat, Mom had to work. Dad did not want to feel that she was the primary breadwinner, though, so she worked 20 hours a week. Every now and then Dad would take on a part time job - distributing seeds to retailers, night watchman at a warehouse. But mostly, we lived on his pension and Mom's paycheck.
I realize now that we would have qualified for all kinds of government assistance, but I can only see my parents requesting and accepting that help if it was a matter of life or death. And it never was; we could only invite friends for dinner on spaghetti night, because there wasn't enough to share on any other night, but we always knew we'd be fed. I usually owned one pair of pants at a time, but we had clothes. Vacations meant sleeping in a tent and cooking on a camp stove, but we went some amazing places.
And we never, ever worried about losing our home. My parents bought the house in 1960, and paid it off when I was in my teens. I remember how relieved my mom was, how much of a weight it took off of them.
It would be impossible to do that today. I'm not exaggerating - it would be sincerely impossible. Can you imagine buying a home on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine raising four kids on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine doing it without any assistance, from family or church or government? Of course you can't. But my parents did it. They were careful. We did without a lot of things. But it never, ever felt perilous, because it could be done.
My husband grew up a couple of miles from our house, with his two sisters and his mom and dad. Their house was a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, built in 1927. The house was 1204 square feet. I don't know what they paid for it, but the average home price when it was built was $6000. In 1956, the year my inlaws were married and bought their house, the average price was $11,700.
My parents' house was built in 1959; when they bought it a year later, the average home price was $12,400. It was, at 1318 square feet, slightly larger than my inlaws' home. For years, people expected to have a bedroom for the parents, and one for the children. By the time my parents got married, people expected a third bedroom, so they could separate the boy children and the girl children.
I remember my parents being flabergasted when their house first assessed at $50,000. "Can you imagine?" they said, over and over. It seemed like an incredibly large sum to them.
The first home we bought was a single wide trailer on an acre and a third; we paid $29,500 in 1987. It had 3 bedrooms and 1 full and one half bath in roughly 700 square feet. In 1989, we bought a factory built ("manufactured") home with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It was 988 square feet; we paid $50,000. Nothing was being built anymore without 2 bathrooms, or at least one full and one half bath. People usually expected a "master suite," a bedroom with an attached bath.
Our current home was built in 1972, when the average home price was $39,500. This house had 4 bedrooms and 2 baths (no master suite). The owners added a family room, 2 more bedrooms and another bath (in the new master suite). We bought it at 2304 square feet in 1994 for $110,000.
I'm sure you noticed, but I'll point it out anyway. Houses have been getting larger and larger for decades. Things that are considered "standard" were once luxurious. Our former house, with a separate laundry room (something my mother never had - her washing machine was in her kitchen) almost qualifies as a "tiny house," as those are considered to be anything 900 square feet or smaller.
So, why am I bringing this up? Why all the numbers? I'm getting to that.
I (too) frequently see something in the news about homelessness, and they'll have a family just like the one I grew up in - only something happened to them. "We were doing OK until Bobby got sick." "We were fine until my car accident." Usually, both parents will be working, but they'll go from "comfortably middle class" to homeless faster than they ever imagined possible - especially if there's a single income (like, having a single parent household).
My parents had no health insurance. And life happened to us - a traffic accident for my brother, my sister being bitten by a dog who nearly severed her upper lip, me having an illness (strep throat becoming scarlet fever) that should have hospitalized me. Part of the difference, for us, was the policies and expectations of our doctors, dentists, orthodontists. Every single time I remember getting any health care at all, my mother would say to the receptionist, "I need a payment plan." The receptionist would say, "Certainly. How much can you pay per month?" She'd write it down - even if it was $5, even if we already had a balance - and that was that. You can't do that any more. Even if you can find a doctor who'll take uninsured patients - and good luck - you can't just set up payments with the provider, on the day of service, for whatever you think that you can afford.
I was 7 when my brother was in the accident that not only caused soft tissue damage, but broke the bones and cartilege in his face. He needed reconstructive surgery, and they feared that he might lose the sight in one eye. That's exactly the kind of thing that can derail families who have very little financial leeway. At that point, if we'd been paying rent somewhere, it might have been the breaking point. Or, it could have started an avalanche. The last time that I lived in a rented apartment, the rent went up three times in twelve months. About a year after my brother's accident, we bought a family car that quickly became known as The Lemon, because it always needed some kind of repair. About the same time, my sister had her dog bite accident, and she too needed a reconstructive surgeon. Of the six of us, four needed glasses, two needed orthodontics. Imagine all of that happening, all at once, to a family on a tight budget.
If we had been renting, if we had fallen behind on mortgage payments, if there had been a variable interest rate or balloon payment, if we had to choose between medical care and food, everything may have unraveled for us. Maybe we could have moved in with relatives, but with six of us, it would be nearly impossible long term. Maybe my brother and sister would have had to leave before they were really ready, because we had no room. My sister is the only one of us with a university degree; maybe that would not have happened if we were homeless. Maybe my dad, in his mid 60s with health issues, could have found a job in, say, retail; maybe not. All of this is conjecture, because we never had to find out.
Instead, we stayed in our own home, Mom planned our meals around grocery store sales, and I have great memories of backyard campouts, getting permission for my friends to ride horses with us, and posters on my bedroom walls. The house not only held all of us, but housed various family members at times of crisis or relocation or out of town visits, over several decades.
That's not the only way that our parents' homes benefitted us, of course. Grandparents on both sides of the family rented to our children, at below market rates. Both grandparents' homes were offered to our children after their grandparents' passing. My son and his wife are buying one of those homes, with terms that make it comfortable for them. Our home's mortgage was paid off by money from my inlaws' estate. Money from both families' estates gave us down payments for "investment" condos.
We bought the condos specifically in order for our family members to have somewhere affordable to live. Long term, we may live in one ourselves, or sell them, or use the rental income during retirement. (Because, owning homes gives you choices.) But, mostly, our motivation was to give our kids somewhere affordable to live.
I realize how enormously privileged we are to even be able to make that choice, believe me. It sounds obnoxiously affluent to even say it out loud. But, I stand behind that decision.
The first one we bought was a 2 bed, 2 bath model, not far from our home. Everything went seamlessly. The mortgage agent said, "Just so you know, I can qualify you for 5 more at this price." We put it up for rent (our kids were either living elsewhere or still in school), asking only a small amount over our mortgage payment. (You've gotta have a cushion for repairs and emergencies.) We got a lot of inquiries that ended with, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We rented to strangers for a while, and when they moved out, my nephew's family moved in.
Two or three years later, we put an offer on a 1 bed, 1 bath condo. It's adorable, and in a bigger complex, so there are more amenities (playgrounds and tennis courts, as well as a pool, clubhouse, BBQs.) It cost half what the 2 bed condo cost. But, local prices were starting to skyrocket, and we wanted something that our youngest could afford, even if the only job she ever held was her high school job at a fast food place. (At my age, I look at market rates for even studio units, and think, "Who can afford that?")
We didn't anticipate any problems. Our credit is good, we had the down payment, we were remembering what the mortgage agent said last time - "5 more at this price" - and this was, I can't emphasize this enough, half the cost of our other condo (which made sense to me, as it's half the bedrooms and bathrooms). So, we didn't get financing in place first, since we anticipated it being a breeze.
It was not. Our first choice of mortgage company wouldn't finance it. Neither would our second choice mortgage company, or our credit union. The problem? "There are too many rentals in that development. Choose another development with more owner occupied units." But we didn't want another development, we wanted that one. Meanwhile, the owner was getting grouchy because he'd received an all cash offer right after he accepted our offer, so now he was tied up waiting for us, instead of closing a cash sale.
The fact that we bought the condo at all is due to two things - 1. our realtor has known us for years, and was willing to work a little bit harder, take a little longer, and be a little bit unconventional, and 2., we know someone who has a large family trust, and was willing to loan us the money at just over bank interest rates.
Which, of course, got me thinking; the price and payment should have put the condo in the price range of people with limited incomes. Someone working for minimum wage, or just over, could afford it even without making 40 hours a week; they'd probably need 30 or so - and that's a single person (or couple with a single income). Then there'd be more owner occupied units, too, so everyone would be happy, right? But here's the thing: if middle aged people with great credit, low debt and no current mortgage couldn't get financing, how could somebody young, working in a fast food place, qualify? Banks don't want the loan, and young people (let's face it, any people) are unlikely to know someone wealthy enough to give them a private loan. See the problem?
And it's not like this was a slum that no one would want to live in. Aside from the fact that I'd personally be happy there (or I wouldn't have bought it), looking for renters was a stark contrast to looking for renters just two years earlier. We heard from friends, relatives, acquaintences, strangers, and friends and relatives of our friends, relatives and acquaintences. We were again asking only a bit over our payment, but this time, nobody asked if we could go lower or said, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We had families of three and four asking if we'd consider them, even with only one bedroom. I felt quite overwhelmed by the need, and referred everyone to our property manager. She did all the credit checks and made the final choice.
What had changed? Rents in our area skyrocketed, with the news that a couple of large companies with good wages were going to be locating here. Many rental prices doubled; some tripled. Renters who'd been in the same place for years suddenly could no longer afford their homes. We made the national news for our "housing crisis." And everything new being built was "luxury units," because, "that's where the demand is."
This, of course, is not true. It's where the money is.
In making inquiries about putting a house on an inherited piece of land, one of my family members found out that even owning the land free and clear doesn't make things easier. In asking about the cost to put a modest sized home - less than 2,000 square feet - on the vacant land, the answer from the owner of a local construction company was, "Here's the approximate cost per square foot. But I can tell you right now, nobody's going to be willing to work on a house that size. The money is in 3,000+ square foot custom and executive homes. No one's going to turn down one of those to come build a smaller house, especially one without the high end finishes." The same applies for apartments; nobody wants to build units for baristas, maids and fast food workers, because the money is in "luxury units." This is true no matter how many hotel rooms, fast food restaurants, discount stores and gas stations (and their employees) there are in my city (that depends on tourism).
Of course, it isn't just my city. My brother lives in another state. He is recently retired; he's living on Social Security and a small amount of savings. He's rented the same home for years. (He previously owned a house, but lost it in a contentious divorce with an ex who exploited a legal loophole to take virtually everything.) For years, his rent remained the same. Then, the landlord died, and the heir "doesn't want to be a landlord" (which is absolutely his right), so he's selling the house. This means that my brother was dumped back into shopping for a home literally decades after he last had to, he's been paying 1990s era rent, and he has no wiggle room in his budget. Oh, and throw in a looming deadline.
Waiting lists for low income senior apartments are 2 years long. Most senior housing in his state is in mobile home parks, meaning that he'd have to buy a mobile home and then rent the space, putting himself at risk when the lot rent goes up (and you know that it will go up). Plus, lot rent was often more than he had available, more than the rent he'd been paying. (Plus, after he dies, he couldn't pass the house down to anyone, unless they were over 55.) There are programs designed to help low income seniors buy homes, but they will not cover condos, mobile homes, factory built homes, or older houses. There's renter's assistance, but it will not cover living anywhere owned by a member of your family. You know - you can't get help for anything that would actually be affordable for a senior living on Social Security.
He got one call back from a woman with an assistance program who said, "Oh, sure, we have a great house right in your area that I can get you into." The mortgage would have left him with $400 a month to cover everything else - food, utilities, gas, clothing, medical care. That's not doable. Just his glasses and dental care could potentially eat all of that up, if he needed them both in the same month. He lives where it not only snows, it snows a lot, so he needs heat. You can't even eat ramen noodles and take the bus on $400 a month.
He has siblings, he has other family members; he immediately had offers to live in 3 different homes, rent free. But, all of those would mean moving to another state, shopping for doctors (he's diabetic, he has an ulcer that tends to bleed, and he has a heart attack and bypass surgery in his past), giving up his friends and what he loves, hiking and photographing his area. I mean, it's certainly doable. But, aside from concerns like doctors and interstate moving costs, a man who's lived on his own since the last century does not want to move into somebody's spare bedroom, like he's a college kid.
He panicked, the rest of the family panicked, everyone scrambled, there was a deadline. Do you know what - who - saved him? Our grandmother and our mother, who've been dead for years.
Grandma had a vacation home - what we call a cabin and she called a cottage. When she died, our mom put the money from the sale of the cottage in a separate account, and just let it sit there. When Mom died, it went to her children. Some of it was still left - almost enough for a down payment on a home. But, my brother couldn't qualify, because he was retired, on Social Security. Family members offered to buy a home, but the one he wanted was a factory built house, and the bank wouldn't let them buy it unless they were going to live in it. The bank would approve them for other homes, but then my brother couldn't afford the payments, and nobody in the family can afford to make them for him. But, with Grandma's money, and relatives willing to co-sign, and the bank being happy because one of the applicants was going to live in the house, and family members being able to pitch in the rest of the cash needed, he now has a home.
It's a beautiful home, he owns it; this is a happy ending. But, in the middle of all of this, we were stopped at the McDonald's attached to the store where we were grocery shopping. There was a woman who appeared to be homeless, sitting at one of the tables eating food she'd gotten in the store. My husband bought her a McDonald's meal and a drink, so she'd be a customer, and get to sit there and have a meal out of the January cold. We've done stuff like this before. But, as he sat down, my husband said, "I just had to. I look at her and think, if everything didn't work out, that could be your brother."
Without so many pieces - my grandma, my mom, sellers who were willing to come down on price, a realtor who worked his butt off looking for inexpensive properties, mortgage company employees who worked their butts off to get financing that worked, and relatives willing to put up money and co-sign, and other relatives willing to offer a free room if the purchase fell through, yeah, my brother could be homeless. I feel that reality on a gut level.
Our oldest brother is in his 70s. He has more education than my husband and I combined, is multi-lingual, has a great work ethic, has an educated, hard working wife, and told me the last time I talked to him that neither he nor his wife was able to retire, that they probably never would be. Why? Their home - a modest, older home - still has a mortgage. Instead of paying it off, they've helped their children and grandchildren over the years. So now, they keep working, instead of retiring - but everyone has somewhere affordable to live.
If we either rented or sold our condos for market rate, my husband could retire now. Instead, he keeps working, and we rent below market rate, so that others can have affordable homes. Because if you work, but can't afford anywhere to live, it's not just you who suffers. Society starts to crumble.
We don't all own a Bailey Brothers Building and Loan. We all ride on the choices of our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents. But we can all try to make it easier not just for us, but for everyone else.
I grew up with three siblings, my mom, and my dad in a 3 bedroom, 1 bath house. In some ways, it was really idyllic. We had a big yard, fish, gerbils, a rat, cats, dogs and horses. We ice skated in our own back yard. We rode horses. We built clubhouses, climbed trees, and borrowed my mom's jewelry to be "pirate treasure" and bury it and dig it up again. We took a week long vacation every year, and often smaller trips as well.
It was also pretty tough, money-wise. As a single man, Dad had no savings and no credit. He lived in a studio apartment, and ate out daily. He was 50 when my parents got married. It was my mom's second marriage, so my parents started their married life as a family of four. Then, they had two more kids. When I, the baby, was six months old, my dad was encouraged by his employer, the fire department, to retire as a consequence of heart problems. I no longer remember the exact nature of the problem - whether it was a heart attack, a-fib or what. But his boss felt that firefighting was too physically difficult for Dad anymore, that it would aggravate his health and endanger himself and his co-workers. So, at 56, with 4 kids and a mortgage, Dad retired. Dad was, for the record, bitter about this.
They'd planned on mom being a stay at home parent, but now, if we wanted to eat, Mom had to work. Dad did not want to feel that she was the primary breadwinner, though, so she worked 20 hours a week. Every now and then Dad would take on a part time job - distributing seeds to retailers, night watchman at a warehouse. But mostly, we lived on his pension and Mom's paycheck.
I realize now that we would have qualified for all kinds of government assistance, but I can only see my parents requesting and accepting that help if it was a matter of life or death. And it never was; we could only invite friends for dinner on spaghetti night, because there wasn't enough to share on any other night, but we always knew we'd be fed. I usually owned one pair of pants at a time, but we had clothes. Vacations meant sleeping in a tent and cooking on a camp stove, but we went some amazing places.
And we never, ever worried about losing our home. My parents bought the house in 1960, and paid it off when I was in my teens. I remember how relieved my mom was, how much of a weight it took off of them.
It would be impossible to do that today. I'm not exaggerating - it would be sincerely impossible. Can you imagine buying a home on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine raising four kids on part time wages and a pension? Can you imagine doing it without any assistance, from family or church or government? Of course you can't. But my parents did it. They were careful. We did without a lot of things. But it never, ever felt perilous, because it could be done.
My husband grew up a couple of miles from our house, with his two sisters and his mom and dad. Their house was a 2 bedroom, 1 bath, built in 1927. The house was 1204 square feet. I don't know what they paid for it, but the average home price when it was built was $6000. In 1956, the year my inlaws were married and bought their house, the average price was $11,700.
My parents' house was built in 1959; when they bought it a year later, the average home price was $12,400. It was, at 1318 square feet, slightly larger than my inlaws' home. For years, people expected to have a bedroom for the parents, and one for the children. By the time my parents got married, people expected a third bedroom, so they could separate the boy children and the girl children.
I remember my parents being flabergasted when their house first assessed at $50,000. "Can you imagine?" they said, over and over. It seemed like an incredibly large sum to them.
The first home we bought was a single wide trailer on an acre and a third; we paid $29,500 in 1987. It had 3 bedrooms and 1 full and one half bath in roughly 700 square feet. In 1989, we bought a factory built ("manufactured") home with 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms. It was 988 square feet; we paid $50,000. Nothing was being built anymore without 2 bathrooms, or at least one full and one half bath. People usually expected a "master suite," a bedroom with an attached bath.
Our current home was built in 1972, when the average home price was $39,500. This house had 4 bedrooms and 2 baths (no master suite). The owners added a family room, 2 more bedrooms and another bath (in the new master suite). We bought it at 2304 square feet in 1994 for $110,000.
I'm sure you noticed, but I'll point it out anyway. Houses have been getting larger and larger for decades. Things that are considered "standard" were once luxurious. Our former house, with a separate laundry room (something my mother never had - her washing machine was in her kitchen) almost qualifies as a "tiny house," as those are considered to be anything 900 square feet or smaller.
So, why am I bringing this up? Why all the numbers? I'm getting to that.
I (too) frequently see something in the news about homelessness, and they'll have a family just like the one I grew up in - only something happened to them. "We were doing OK until Bobby got sick." "We were fine until my car accident." Usually, both parents will be working, but they'll go from "comfortably middle class" to homeless faster than they ever imagined possible - especially if there's a single income (like, having a single parent household).
My parents had no health insurance. And life happened to us - a traffic accident for my brother, my sister being bitten by a dog who nearly severed her upper lip, me having an illness (strep throat becoming scarlet fever) that should have hospitalized me. Part of the difference, for us, was the policies and expectations of our doctors, dentists, orthodontists. Every single time I remember getting any health care at all, my mother would say to the receptionist, "I need a payment plan." The receptionist would say, "Certainly. How much can you pay per month?" She'd write it down - even if it was $5, even if we already had a balance - and that was that. You can't do that any more. Even if you can find a doctor who'll take uninsured patients - and good luck - you can't just set up payments with the provider, on the day of service, for whatever you think that you can afford.
I was 7 when my brother was in the accident that not only caused soft tissue damage, but broke the bones and cartilege in his face. He needed reconstructive surgery, and they feared that he might lose the sight in one eye. That's exactly the kind of thing that can derail families who have very little financial leeway. At that point, if we'd been paying rent somewhere, it might have been the breaking point. Or, it could have started an avalanche. The last time that I lived in a rented apartment, the rent went up three times in twelve months. About a year after my brother's accident, we bought a family car that quickly became known as The Lemon, because it always needed some kind of repair. About the same time, my sister had her dog bite accident, and she too needed a reconstructive surgeon. Of the six of us, four needed glasses, two needed orthodontics. Imagine all of that happening, all at once, to a family on a tight budget.
If we had been renting, if we had fallen behind on mortgage payments, if there had been a variable interest rate or balloon payment, if we had to choose between medical care and food, everything may have unraveled for us. Maybe we could have moved in with relatives, but with six of us, it would be nearly impossible long term. Maybe my brother and sister would have had to leave before they were really ready, because we had no room. My sister is the only one of us with a university degree; maybe that would not have happened if we were homeless. Maybe my dad, in his mid 60s with health issues, could have found a job in, say, retail; maybe not. All of this is conjecture, because we never had to find out.
Instead, we stayed in our own home, Mom planned our meals around grocery store sales, and I have great memories of backyard campouts, getting permission for my friends to ride horses with us, and posters on my bedroom walls. The house not only held all of us, but housed various family members at times of crisis or relocation or out of town visits, over several decades.
That's not the only way that our parents' homes benefitted us, of course. Grandparents on both sides of the family rented to our children, at below market rates. Both grandparents' homes were offered to our children after their grandparents' passing. My son and his wife are buying one of those homes, with terms that make it comfortable for them. Our home's mortgage was paid off by money from my inlaws' estate. Money from both families' estates gave us down payments for "investment" condos.
We bought the condos specifically in order for our family members to have somewhere affordable to live. Long term, we may live in one ourselves, or sell them, or use the rental income during retirement. (Because, owning homes gives you choices.) But, mostly, our motivation was to give our kids somewhere affordable to live.
I realize how enormously privileged we are to even be able to make that choice, believe me. It sounds obnoxiously affluent to even say it out loud. But, I stand behind that decision.
The first one we bought was a 2 bed, 2 bath model, not far from our home. Everything went seamlessly. The mortgage agent said, "Just so you know, I can qualify you for 5 more at this price." We put it up for rent (our kids were either living elsewhere or still in school), asking only a small amount over our mortgage payment. (You've gotta have a cushion for repairs and emergencies.) We got a lot of inquiries that ended with, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We rented to strangers for a while, and when they moved out, my nephew's family moved in.
Two or three years later, we put an offer on a 1 bed, 1 bath condo. It's adorable, and in a bigger complex, so there are more amenities (playgrounds and tennis courts, as well as a pool, clubhouse, BBQs.) It cost half what the 2 bed condo cost. But, local prices were starting to skyrocket, and we wanted something that our youngest could afford, even if the only job she ever held was her high school job at a fast food place. (At my age, I look at market rates for even studio units, and think, "Who can afford that?")
We didn't anticipate any problems. Our credit is good, we had the down payment, we were remembering what the mortgage agent said last time - "5 more at this price" - and this was, I can't emphasize this enough, half the cost of our other condo (which made sense to me, as it's half the bedrooms and bathrooms). So, we didn't get financing in place first, since we anticipated it being a breeze.
It was not. Our first choice of mortgage company wouldn't finance it. Neither would our second choice mortgage company, or our credit union. The problem? "There are too many rentals in that development. Choose another development with more owner occupied units." But we didn't want another development, we wanted that one. Meanwhile, the owner was getting grouchy because he'd received an all cash offer right after he accepted our offer, so now he was tied up waiting for us, instead of closing a cash sale.
The fact that we bought the condo at all is due to two things - 1. our realtor has known us for years, and was willing to work a little bit harder, take a little longer, and be a little bit unconventional, and 2., we know someone who has a large family trust, and was willing to loan us the money at just over bank interest rates.
Which, of course, got me thinking; the price and payment should have put the condo in the price range of people with limited incomes. Someone working for minimum wage, or just over, could afford it even without making 40 hours a week; they'd probably need 30 or so - and that's a single person (or couple with a single income). Then there'd be more owner occupied units, too, so everyone would be happy, right? But here's the thing: if middle aged people with great credit, low debt and no current mortgage couldn't get financing, how could somebody young, working in a fast food place, qualify? Banks don't want the loan, and young people (let's face it, any people) are unlikely to know someone wealthy enough to give them a private loan. See the problem?
And it's not like this was a slum that no one would want to live in. Aside from the fact that I'd personally be happy there (or I wouldn't have bought it), looking for renters was a stark contrast to looking for renters just two years earlier. We heard from friends, relatives, acquaintences, strangers, and friends and relatives of our friends, relatives and acquaintences. We were again asking only a bit over our payment, but this time, nobody asked if we could go lower or said, "It's cute, but I can't afford that much." We had families of three and four asking if we'd consider them, even with only one bedroom. I felt quite overwhelmed by the need, and referred everyone to our property manager. She did all the credit checks and made the final choice.
What had changed? Rents in our area skyrocketed, with the news that a couple of large companies with good wages were going to be locating here. Many rental prices doubled; some tripled. Renters who'd been in the same place for years suddenly could no longer afford their homes. We made the national news for our "housing crisis." And everything new being built was "luxury units," because, "that's where the demand is."
This, of course, is not true. It's where the money is.
In making inquiries about putting a house on an inherited piece of land, one of my family members found out that even owning the land free and clear doesn't make things easier. In asking about the cost to put a modest sized home - less than 2,000 square feet - on the vacant land, the answer from the owner of a local construction company was, "Here's the approximate cost per square foot. But I can tell you right now, nobody's going to be willing to work on a house that size. The money is in 3,000+ square foot custom and executive homes. No one's going to turn down one of those to come build a smaller house, especially one without the high end finishes." The same applies for apartments; nobody wants to build units for baristas, maids and fast food workers, because the money is in "luxury units." This is true no matter how many hotel rooms, fast food restaurants, discount stores and gas stations (and their employees) there are in my city (that depends on tourism).
Of course, it isn't just my city. My brother lives in another state. He is recently retired; he's living on Social Security and a small amount of savings. He's rented the same home for years. (He previously owned a house, but lost it in a contentious divorce with an ex who exploited a legal loophole to take virtually everything.) For years, his rent remained the same. Then, the landlord died, and the heir "doesn't want to be a landlord" (which is absolutely his right), so he's selling the house. This means that my brother was dumped back into shopping for a home literally decades after he last had to, he's been paying 1990s era rent, and he has no wiggle room in his budget. Oh, and throw in a looming deadline.
Waiting lists for low income senior apartments are 2 years long. Most senior housing in his state is in mobile home parks, meaning that he'd have to buy a mobile home and then rent the space, putting himself at risk when the lot rent goes up (and you know that it will go up). Plus, lot rent was often more than he had available, more than the rent he'd been paying. (Plus, after he dies, he couldn't pass the house down to anyone, unless they were over 55.) There are programs designed to help low income seniors buy homes, but they will not cover condos, mobile homes, factory built homes, or older houses. There's renter's assistance, but it will not cover living anywhere owned by a member of your family. You know - you can't get help for anything that would actually be affordable for a senior living on Social Security.
He got one call back from a woman with an assistance program who said, "Oh, sure, we have a great house right in your area that I can get you into." The mortgage would have left him with $400 a month to cover everything else - food, utilities, gas, clothing, medical care. That's not doable. Just his glasses and dental care could potentially eat all of that up, if he needed them both in the same month. He lives where it not only snows, it snows a lot, so he needs heat. You can't even eat ramen noodles and take the bus on $400 a month.
He has siblings, he has other family members; he immediately had offers to live in 3 different homes, rent free. But, all of those would mean moving to another state, shopping for doctors (he's diabetic, he has an ulcer that tends to bleed, and he has a heart attack and bypass surgery in his past), giving up his friends and what he loves, hiking and photographing his area. I mean, it's certainly doable. But, aside from concerns like doctors and interstate moving costs, a man who's lived on his own since the last century does not want to move into somebody's spare bedroom, like he's a college kid.
He panicked, the rest of the family panicked, everyone scrambled, there was a deadline. Do you know what - who - saved him? Our grandmother and our mother, who've been dead for years.
Grandma had a vacation home - what we call a cabin and she called a cottage. When she died, our mom put the money from the sale of the cottage in a separate account, and just let it sit there. When Mom died, it went to her children. Some of it was still left - almost enough for a down payment on a home. But, my brother couldn't qualify, because he was retired, on Social Security. Family members offered to buy a home, but the one he wanted was a factory built house, and the bank wouldn't let them buy it unless they were going to live in it. The bank would approve them for other homes, but then my brother couldn't afford the payments, and nobody in the family can afford to make them for him. But, with Grandma's money, and relatives willing to co-sign, and the bank being happy because one of the applicants was going to live in the house, and family members being able to pitch in the rest of the cash needed, he now has a home.
It's a beautiful home, he owns it; this is a happy ending. But, in the middle of all of this, we were stopped at the McDonald's attached to the store where we were grocery shopping. There was a woman who appeared to be homeless, sitting at one of the tables eating food she'd gotten in the store. My husband bought her a McDonald's meal and a drink, so she'd be a customer, and get to sit there and have a meal out of the January cold. We've done stuff like this before. But, as he sat down, my husband said, "I just had to. I look at her and think, if everything didn't work out, that could be your brother."
Without so many pieces - my grandma, my mom, sellers who were willing to come down on price, a realtor who worked his butt off looking for inexpensive properties, mortgage company employees who worked their butts off to get financing that worked, and relatives willing to put up money and co-sign, and other relatives willing to offer a free room if the purchase fell through, yeah, my brother could be homeless. I feel that reality on a gut level.
Our oldest brother is in his 70s. He has more education than my husband and I combined, is multi-lingual, has a great work ethic, has an educated, hard working wife, and told me the last time I talked to him that neither he nor his wife was able to retire, that they probably never would be. Why? Their home - a modest, older home - still has a mortgage. Instead of paying it off, they've helped their children and grandchildren over the years. So now, they keep working, instead of retiring - but everyone has somewhere affordable to live.
If we either rented or sold our condos for market rate, my husband could retire now. Instead, he keeps working, and we rent below market rate, so that others can have affordable homes. Because if you work, but can't afford anywhere to live, it's not just you who suffers. Society starts to crumble.
We don't all own a Bailey Brothers Building and Loan. We all ride on the choices of our parents, our grandparents, our great grandparents. But we can all try to make it easier not just for us, but for everyone else.
Saturday, October 19, 2019
Understanding
Years ago, my husband and I went with some friends to see a stage show in a neighboring city. One friend was considering directing the show, and wanted to look at a production before making the final choice.
The show is called "Six Women With Brain Death," and it's very funny. In one scene, a character is onstage alone, cataloging her life's woes - failed marriages, sullen, uncooperative kids; just normal, everyday stresses, undoubtedly aggravated by her own responses. Addressing the audience directly, she laments, "Oh, I know that you could understand what I'm going through - but you probably don't."
I do not have a delicate giggle of a laugh - I have a belly laugh. I guffaw. At that point I simply howled with laughter. It was loud and unrestrained. It was also the only laugh in the theater. No one else so much as sniffed or smirked. I, on the other hand, was tickled to my core. There are few statements that I find to contain more truth than that one - and the truth is funny. So, in this crowded theater, I alone laughed without reservation, and the sound echoed through the quiet auditorium.
The actress onstage did something that actors are trained to not do; she turned, looked right at me, and broke "the fourth wall" (the imaginary, transparent "wall" separating the stage from the audience). Pointing straight at me, she said, "Except for you, ma'am." Then she went right back to the script.
To this day, I cannot imagine why no one else thought the line was as funny as I did. The human condition demonstrates, over and over, that while it is theoretically possible to understand others, in practice it's more miss than hit.
I never can wrap my head around people explaining how intolerable a situation was, and why they had to flee from it, by saying, "I just felt so alone." To me, that's just as much a given as saying, "I was breathing." I'm not entirely sure that it's possible to not feel alone. We're each alone inside of our heads. It just seems like biology to me.
What I think they might mean is "alienated." I totally do know how that feels - the feeling that you don't fit, you never will. On the other hand, that just seems expected, too. I have never met a human who said, "I always felt so connected and understood." Does anyone feel like that? Ever? If they do, it certainly isn't in school, or as the new hire on a job, or as a newlywed, a new parent, a new arrival to a new town/country, or, really, most other circumstances in life. It isn't as the artistic kid in a family full of ranchers, or the kid who hated school in a family full of PhDs, medical degrees and law degrees. It wasn't when you carefully chose an outfit, and everyone at the function looked horrified by it. It wasn't when you tried to explain your feelings to your parents, or to your children. It wasn't when you stood in a meeting or social activity or family gathering counting the minutes until you could leave. These experiences are universal. I am really not sure that their lack is.
Sometimes, someone will explain their divorce by saying, "I felt so alone, even when my spouse was there." Again, while I understand that they're sincerely in pain, it doesn't compute. While I adore my husband, he does not instinctively understand me (or anyone else), or I, him (or anyone else). He likes surprises; I like predictability. When I'm cold, he's hot. He likes loud; I like quiet. He's chatty; I'm not. We spend a lot of time wondering what in the world is up with the other person.
Often enough for it to be an expected occurance, not a deviation from the norm, in my memories of growing up, I'll forget that other people experienced something with me. I'll tell a story about my second grade teacher, and someone will say, "Oh, yeah - and remember the time that she..." Well, sure, I remember the time, but I'd forgotten that my friend was there. I've done this with my sister, too. I'll be talking about a family vacation, and she'll chime in, and for a few seconds I'll think, "Was she there?" Of course she was, we're siblings, it was a family vacation, but when I look in my mind, I see me there, by myself. This will happen with my husband, too. I'll forget that he experienced something with me, until he starts talking about it.
Now, before you decide that I'm terribly lonely and depressed and need a party or something, alone does not equal sad and lonely. I like being alone. My mother, my brother, my son - we're pretty solitary beings. We enjoy solitude. Solitude is less lonely than being surrounded by people. So when I say "alone," it's likely to mean "tranquil, relaxing, calming." As I said, "alienated" is something else entirely. Being alone is not a cry for help, at least not to me.
My husband is also sure that his highest good as a husband is to read between the lines and ferret out what I "really mean." I think the highest good of a spouse is to listen to spoken words, exact words, and believe them. (I mean, why would anyone not want to be believed?) This means that we are constanly irritated. He'll try to figure out what I'm not saying, and act accordingly, and my reaction will be, "Did you not listen to me?"
The reverse is also true. He'll say something like, "I wonder if the Christmas lights still work," then be annoyed that I did not hear, "Tomorrow after I'm off work, I want to shop for lights."
"I told you that we needed to buy lights! You knew I wanted to do that this afternoon!"
"No, you wondered out loud if the old lights still work! That's not planning a shopping trip, much less planning an exact time for shopping!" He is just sure that "it was implied." Why else would he bring it up?
Maddening.
A significant number of people who've known me for years are sure that they will know what I'm thinking, or doing, and why, but they're really bad at it.
I was once invited to an event that started with a tour of a local brewery, then ended with dinner. I showed up in time for dinner, and one friend said, "Oh, come on. You mean to tell me that your religion forbids you to even be in the same room as brewing beer?"
Wow; just so far off anything resembling accurate. I said, "No, it doesn't. I just have absolutely no interest in a brewery, so I'm not going to spend my time touring one." I cannot imagine that this was not obvious. My friend looked startled, and mumbled, "Oh. I guess."
(I think that, many times, when someone tells a story about how they knew this one person who was {fill in the blank}, and they saw their religious restrictions/weird behavior with their own eyes, it stems from an event like this where someone did not ask, but simply assumed.)
I'll tell a story, or write a Facebook post, and people who have known me for most of my life will say, "Oh, I know you! At that point, you (fill in the blank)" - and they will be so far off the mark, they're not even in the ballpark anymore.
I do the same thing. I'll assume that someone will be thinking or doing what I would do in their situation, and I will be so wrong. So very wrong.
This, folks, is why that line was so funny. Because you could understand what I'm going through, but you probably don't - and vice versa.
The show is called "Six Women With Brain Death," and it's very funny. In one scene, a character is onstage alone, cataloging her life's woes - failed marriages, sullen, uncooperative kids; just normal, everyday stresses, undoubtedly aggravated by her own responses. Addressing the audience directly, she laments, "Oh, I know that you could understand what I'm going through - but you probably don't."
I do not have a delicate giggle of a laugh - I have a belly laugh. I guffaw. At that point I simply howled with laughter. It was loud and unrestrained. It was also the only laugh in the theater. No one else so much as sniffed or smirked. I, on the other hand, was tickled to my core. There are few statements that I find to contain more truth than that one - and the truth is funny. So, in this crowded theater, I alone laughed without reservation, and the sound echoed through the quiet auditorium.
The actress onstage did something that actors are trained to not do; she turned, looked right at me, and broke "the fourth wall" (the imaginary, transparent "wall" separating the stage from the audience). Pointing straight at me, she said, "Except for you, ma'am." Then she went right back to the script.
To this day, I cannot imagine why no one else thought the line was as funny as I did. The human condition demonstrates, over and over, that while it is theoretically possible to understand others, in practice it's more miss than hit.
I never can wrap my head around people explaining how intolerable a situation was, and why they had to flee from it, by saying, "I just felt so alone." To me, that's just as much a given as saying, "I was breathing." I'm not entirely sure that it's possible to not feel alone. We're each alone inside of our heads. It just seems like biology to me.
What I think they might mean is "alienated." I totally do know how that feels - the feeling that you don't fit, you never will. On the other hand, that just seems expected, too. I have never met a human who said, "I always felt so connected and understood." Does anyone feel like that? Ever? If they do, it certainly isn't in school, or as the new hire on a job, or as a newlywed, a new parent, a new arrival to a new town/country, or, really, most other circumstances in life. It isn't as the artistic kid in a family full of ranchers, or the kid who hated school in a family full of PhDs, medical degrees and law degrees. It wasn't when you carefully chose an outfit, and everyone at the function looked horrified by it. It wasn't when you tried to explain your feelings to your parents, or to your children. It wasn't when you stood in a meeting or social activity or family gathering counting the minutes until you could leave. These experiences are universal. I am really not sure that their lack is.
Sometimes, someone will explain their divorce by saying, "I felt so alone, even when my spouse was there." Again, while I understand that they're sincerely in pain, it doesn't compute. While I adore my husband, he does not instinctively understand me (or anyone else), or I, him (or anyone else). He likes surprises; I like predictability. When I'm cold, he's hot. He likes loud; I like quiet. He's chatty; I'm not. We spend a lot of time wondering what in the world is up with the other person.
Often enough for it to be an expected occurance, not a deviation from the norm, in my memories of growing up, I'll forget that other people experienced something with me. I'll tell a story about my second grade teacher, and someone will say, "Oh, yeah - and remember the time that she..." Well, sure, I remember the time, but I'd forgotten that my friend was there. I've done this with my sister, too. I'll be talking about a family vacation, and she'll chime in, and for a few seconds I'll think, "Was she there?" Of course she was, we're siblings, it was a family vacation, but when I look in my mind, I see me there, by myself. This will happen with my husband, too. I'll forget that he experienced something with me, until he starts talking about it.
Now, before you decide that I'm terribly lonely and depressed and need a party or something, alone does not equal sad and lonely. I like being alone. My mother, my brother, my son - we're pretty solitary beings. We enjoy solitude. Solitude is less lonely than being surrounded by people. So when I say "alone," it's likely to mean "tranquil, relaxing, calming." As I said, "alienated" is something else entirely. Being alone is not a cry for help, at least not to me.
My husband is also sure that his highest good as a husband is to read between the lines and ferret out what I "really mean." I think the highest good of a spouse is to listen to spoken words, exact words, and believe them. (I mean, why would anyone not want to be believed?) This means that we are constanly irritated. He'll try to figure out what I'm not saying, and act accordingly, and my reaction will be, "Did you not listen to me?"
The reverse is also true. He'll say something like, "I wonder if the Christmas lights still work," then be annoyed that I did not hear, "Tomorrow after I'm off work, I want to shop for lights."
"I told you that we needed to buy lights! You knew I wanted to do that this afternoon!"
"No, you wondered out loud if the old lights still work! That's not planning a shopping trip, much less planning an exact time for shopping!" He is just sure that "it was implied." Why else would he bring it up?
Maddening.
A significant number of people who've known me for years are sure that they will know what I'm thinking, or doing, and why, but they're really bad at it.
I was once invited to an event that started with a tour of a local brewery, then ended with dinner. I showed up in time for dinner, and one friend said, "Oh, come on. You mean to tell me that your religion forbids you to even be in the same room as brewing beer?"
Wow; just so far off anything resembling accurate. I said, "No, it doesn't. I just have absolutely no interest in a brewery, so I'm not going to spend my time touring one." I cannot imagine that this was not obvious. My friend looked startled, and mumbled, "Oh. I guess."
(I think that, many times, when someone tells a story about how they knew this one person who was {fill in the blank}, and they saw their religious restrictions/weird behavior with their own eyes, it stems from an event like this where someone did not ask, but simply assumed.)
I'll tell a story, or write a Facebook post, and people who have known me for most of my life will say, "Oh, I know you! At that point, you (fill in the blank)" - and they will be so far off the mark, they're not even in the ballpark anymore.
I do the same thing. I'll assume that someone will be thinking or doing what I would do in their situation, and I will be so wrong. So very wrong.
This, folks, is why that line was so funny. Because you could understand what I'm going through, but you probably don't - and vice versa.
Monday, October 7, 2019
Supervising Adult
When I was in high school, I competed in speech and debate. So, when the chance came up to coach high school speech and debate for the homeschool team, I was all over it.
The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.
When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.
Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.
I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.
During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.
It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.
My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."
So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.
Yes, I am that naive.
We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.
I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?
Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?
I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.
"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right? I mean, we just ignore the drunks.
And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.
As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."
"Littered?"
"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.
"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."
My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.
At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.
Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"
No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.
After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.
I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.
Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?
Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.
The first year we went to the state competition, I had one competitor, and the tournament was held locally. The next year, it was in Las Vegas; the state competition alternates years - Reno, Vegas, Reno, Vegas - so that everybody has to do the same amount of travel, and the burden of hosting and finding judges, lodging discounts, etc. isn't always on the same teams.
When you grow up in Nevada, going to Las Vegas isn't as exotic and exciting sounding as it is if you grow up elsewhere. Plus, I don't drink, or gamble, or go to strip clubs, so a lot of the "traditional" Vegas stuff isn't even on my radar. It's not like I had to make an effort to be on my best behavior, or to shield the kids, by avoiding that stuff - avoiding it is my normal behavior.
Which, in hindsight, meant that I might not have been as vigilant as I might have been.
I coached with a close friend, one I've known since we were both teens. Later, we brought in a university student to help coach. Homeschool classes - we taught speech and theater at a co-op - and clubs can be more casual than they are in public or private schools. The students on our debate team called us by our first names. One of our students chose the "call to order" term we used (which was the word "potato"). We didn't make them approve their performance scripts or speeches with us before competition. We didn't give grades, just kept track of the points they earned with the national organization.
During that second state tournament, all of our kids were eliminated from competition by Saturday evening. We gave them a choice - stay and watch the rest of the competition, go back to the hotel and hang out at the pool, or go do something Vegas-y. The majority of the kids chose a trip to the Las Vegas Strip. The rest voted for the hotel pool. My co-coach LaRena would stay at the hotel. The 20 year old coach, Rachel, and I would take the other kids to the Strip.
It didn't seem like an inappropriate or risky choice. To me, the Strip is the Bellagio fountains, the M&M store, the habitat for Sigfried and Roy's tigers, the roller coaster at New York, New York. All of the things that we usually do are totally kid appropriate. I tend to forget how much there is that's not "family friendly." That was my first mistake. My second was in not thinking about how different a Saturday night might be, as opposed to, say, a Tuesday afternoon.
My third was in not taking the date into consideration. It was St. Patrick's Day. I have sincerely never equated St. Patrick's Day with alcohol. I don't drink, remember? At all. We spend our St. Patrick's Day eating corned beef and watching "Darby O'Gill and the Little People."
So, off I went, on a Saturday night, with my minivan full of kids, to the Las Vegas Strip, on St.Patrick's Day.
Yes, I am that naive.
We drove through town; I don't see well enough in the dark to drive on the freeway after dark. I put my Veggie Tales "Veggies Sing the 80s" CD on; Rachel still hasn't forgiven me. The plan was to park at the Miracle Mile shopping center, then head to the fountains and the M&M store. We were just hitting Las Vegas Boulevard when an outraged voice from the back seat said, "Is that someone's butt on that billboard?" The girl speaking is an only child, homeschooled all her life, from a very conservative, Evangelical Christian family - in short, a very sheltered girl.
I looked out the window. Yes, indeed, 40 feet tall or more, there was a close up of a woman's butt, wearing a thong that provided zero coverage. "Yes, that's someone's butt. It's probably best to avoid looking at the billboards." Oh, dear, I thought, I've forgotten to factor in billboards. That includes the rolling billboards advertising brothels that cruise up and down the Strip. (For businesses that are an hour or more outside of town, they advertise rather aggressively.) I tried to remember if the clear plexiglass trailers with strippers in them were still allowed to cruise the Strip. Those were banned as being traffic hazards, weren't they?
Oh, dear. But we can avoid billboards, right?
I couldn't quite figure out why it was so crowded. It was March! Who travels in March? We finally made it to the parking garage, and I started to get a real sense of how very crowded it was. There were almost as many people milling about as there were cars. They all seemed to be intoxicated, despite it being only about 7:00 PM. So many of them were carrying plastic cups that were two or three feet tall. And the hats and the feather boas - "Is it a bachelor or bachelorette party?" I wondered out loud.
"It's St. Patrick's Day. Didn't you notice that everything's green?" Oh; no. I hadn't. But it'll be fine, right? I mean, we just ignore the drunks.
And the street performers; oh, my. There are always people in costume posing for photos for tip money. There might be superheroes, Disney characters, or "showgirls" - not the actual showgirls from splashy casino shows, but people in spangled bikinis and tall, feathered hats. That night, it seemed to be mostly showgirls in thongs. Great; now we had to avoid actual butts, not just butts on billboards. Which shouldn't be too hard, normally, but there were so many people. We were jostling, constantly bumping into someone.
As we made our way through the crowd, one of my students, Kyle, said, "Sharon, I'm sorry. I just littered."
"Littered?"
"Yeah. This guy handed me a card, and said, 'You want a coupon?', so I just took it. But I looked at it and went like this." Kyle mimed bringing the card up in front of his face, his eyes widening, then tossing the card aggressively to the ground. Now, I feel sincere ire for litterers. They're inconsiderate and impatient and I have no patience for them. But I knew exactly the cards he was talking about. If you've been to Vegas, you probably do, too. They're soft - or even hard - porn, advertising strip clubs or sex shops. They're only supposed to hand them to those 21 and older, but Kyle's tall - or, they didn't care. Many people do exactly what Kyle did, so the sidewalks on the Strip are papered in them. During daylight, it's less aggressive, but after dark, someone might shove one of them at you two or three times on a block. I was totally OK with Kyle littering.
"Yeah, lots of people will try to hand you things. Don't take anything from anybody."
My husband and LaRena's husband started walking one in the front of our group, and one in the back, to fend off anyone aggressive. Mark's a cop, and Dan's big, so they tried to look appropriately threatening. Still, I was the coach, the one responsible for the kids - I experienced stress.
At this point, I started repeating over and over, both out loud and in my head, "Just get to the fountains. We just need to get to the fountains." Then, I was sure, we could spend half an hour watching the free fountain show, unmolested.
Of course, I was wrong. As we hit the sidewalk in front of the fountains, a limousine pulled up, actually onto the sidewalk, so close to my kids that they could touch it. Just as I was feeling outraged because whoever it was might have hit my kids, who drives on the sidewalk, who lets them park there, the driver got out and started shouting through a megaphone. Directly into the faces of my teenage students, he yelled, "Free rides to the Hustler Club! Best show in town!"
No one, I thought, is ever going to let me supervise their kids again. They'll tell their parents, and I probably won't be allowed to teach at co-op. Most of my kids came from religious families, families who really live their religion, families who opted out of public education because they wanted to protect their kids. And what did I do? Bring them to the Las Vegas Strip, where they got an education in intoxication and strip clubs.
After the fountains, I abandoned plans for the M&M store. We went to McDonald's, where I bought everyone a soda or an ice cream. Then I hustled everyone back to the car, like a mother hen with her chicks. I could feel my blood pressure go down as we headed back across the valley.
I coached for four more years, so I guess that nobody complained.
Look at those kids. They're pretty great. They don't look scarred, do they?
Except for the Veggie Tales thing. I don't think Rachel will ever forgive me for that.
Sunday, September 29, 2019
It's OK
I spoke to a friend recently about a family member of theirs who's going through a hard time. A mother and adult child had an argument - an ordinary kind of argument - but Mom passed away unexpectedly the next day, so this meant that the last thing that they ever said to each other was angry (and maybe unkind). This sent the child into a tailspin. Child is having a really hard time coping with the idea that they "never got to settle things;" they worry that the relationship is somehow frozen in that angry moment, and can't ever be fixed.
I can't speak for their mom, but I can speak for me. I think a great deal, the older I get, about Aging People Stuff. I probably make people uncomfortable, because I get pretty effusive about telling people that I love them (you've gotta say it!) I also tell my kids what to do if I'm senile, what I want at my funeral, stuff they might need to know.
Here's what my kids, my family, my friends might need to know if I die after we've argued: don't sweat it. Seriously. I won't. Our relationship is what took place over the whole time we knew each other, not on one day.
Plus, if you ever made the mistake of thinking that I never argue with people, give that up right now. I disagree with most people about something. I have very little filter. Pretty much daily, I tell someone that they're wrong, or they tell me that I'm wrong. Plus, I'm a stubborn person, from a long line of stubborn people. Heads get butted, feelings get hurt.
I don't really know what it would look like to always agree with people. I grew up practicing a religion that was different from the other members of my household. I don't belong to the same political party as my husband. There are more people in my life who differ from me than there are people who are similar.
That's undoubtedly why I don't get overwhelmed by differences. I just expect them. And sure, there are people whose company I don't enjoy. But I don't wish harm on any of them. I hope that they live happy, healthy lives. I just don't need to be in the same room with them while they do it. But, lemme tell you, that list is so small, the chance that you personally are on it is next to nothing. And, I can't think of a single person to whom I couldn't be civil - and times that I choose not to be, anyway.
There will be arguments, hurt feelings, the stuff of being human. And that, too, is expected. So, I don't really need to "settle" things. I'm not waiting for an apology. (If you're waiting for one, know that I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt, sincerely. But you don't need to please me, and I don't need to please you.)
I don't plan on any "saying goodbye" scenes before I die, either. There will be no calling people to my side to impart last words of wisdom or love or anything else. If I think it really needs said, I've said it. I'm not waiting to hear you validate me.
So, look, whatever either of us may have said or done or not, we're good. It's OK.
If your mom or dad or best friend or boss or anyone else left unfinished business, I'm really sure that they want you to let it go. They knew what you wanted to say. It's alright. Don't lose any sleep over it. It doesn't define your life, or theirs.
It's OK.
I can't speak for their mom, but I can speak for me. I think a great deal, the older I get, about Aging People Stuff. I probably make people uncomfortable, because I get pretty effusive about telling people that I love them (you've gotta say it!) I also tell my kids what to do if I'm senile, what I want at my funeral, stuff they might need to know.
Here's what my kids, my family, my friends might need to know if I die after we've argued: don't sweat it. Seriously. I won't. Our relationship is what took place over the whole time we knew each other, not on one day.
Plus, if you ever made the mistake of thinking that I never argue with people, give that up right now. I disagree with most people about something. I have very little filter. Pretty much daily, I tell someone that they're wrong, or they tell me that I'm wrong. Plus, I'm a stubborn person, from a long line of stubborn people. Heads get butted, feelings get hurt.
I don't really know what it would look like to always agree with people. I grew up practicing a religion that was different from the other members of my household. I don't belong to the same political party as my husband. There are more people in my life who differ from me than there are people who are similar.
That's undoubtedly why I don't get overwhelmed by differences. I just expect them. And sure, there are people whose company I don't enjoy. But I don't wish harm on any of them. I hope that they live happy, healthy lives. I just don't need to be in the same room with them while they do it. But, lemme tell you, that list is so small, the chance that you personally are on it is next to nothing. And, I can't think of a single person to whom I couldn't be civil - and times that I choose not to be, anyway.
There will be arguments, hurt feelings, the stuff of being human. And that, too, is expected. So, I don't really need to "settle" things. I'm not waiting for an apology. (If you're waiting for one, know that I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt, sincerely. But you don't need to please me, and I don't need to please you.)
I don't plan on any "saying goodbye" scenes before I die, either. There will be no calling people to my side to impart last words of wisdom or love or anything else. If I think it really needs said, I've said it. I'm not waiting to hear you validate me.
So, look, whatever either of us may have said or done or not, we're good. It's OK.
If your mom or dad or best friend or boss or anyone else left unfinished business, I'm really sure that they want you to let it go. They knew what you wanted to say. It's alright. Don't lose any sleep over it. It doesn't define your life, or theirs.
It's OK.
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