Call Me, Maybe

 

Little Julie on the phone

The telephone and I have always had a fraught relationship, to put it mildly. As a child, I greatly resented the black plastic monster my mom seemed to be surgically attached to during her daily mega-chats with girlfriends. The three of us sisters would deliberately act up, just to try and lure her focus away, but to no avail. Joanie and Her Phone were an inseparable duo. 

Ironically, the night my sister Mo was killed, the phone was off the hook—the one night of Mom's life when she really needed to be available. Mom disconnected every night so that she and Dad could eat their TV dinners and smoke their cigs in peace; this particular evening, she forgot to put the phone back on, which led to the police arriving at 6 AM with the terrible news.

In later years, Mom and I would talk every Saturday morning while my kiddos watched cartoons. The long distance rates were down; we could chat without fear of running up the bill too much. I remember enjoying these leisurely talks, playing with the curling cord as we shared tales of our weeks. 

When did I start hating talking on the phone? I think maybe it was during my mental health crisis year, when suddenly everything I had loved, I now hated, and vice versa. I was super impatient when anyone called, and I could barely restrain myself from humming and drumming my fingers if the conversation lagged for a millisecond. Ever since, the internet has been my friend, email my preferred means of communication. Just think—I could send a message whenever I wanted, even if that was 4 AM, and the recipient could respond on their own schedule! Texting works too (although 4 AM is not the best time to attempt this). 

Now, four of my five children live away from me, at various distances, and I’m back on the telephone. Each of them has a different schedule (as does my sister C in Hawaii), and I’m constantly erring, sending greetings to a deeply sleeping person, or a working one. I now awaken before 5 AM, so any time after 8 PM is my twilight zone—sadly, the times my family is most likely to want to converse. I’ve been known to promise to call them back in ten minutes, only to fall fast asleep in the interim. Are my kids as annoyed as I was when Mom kept gabbing with Ann Marie or Joby? Probably!

I read science fiction about telepathy, and wonder if this cool brain-to-brain shortcut will happen in my lifetime. That would be so relaxing! But then my mind would be an open book (is that how it’d work?) and maybe my callers would be able to tell when I was irritated with them! Perhaps we’re better off with a gap between call and response, a chance to regroup and choose the best time to engage.

So, my kids: call me!! Other folks: let’s figure something else out!

Call Me (Petula Clark)

All Our Children

Children of Kabul (photo by Sohaib Ghyasi)

“All My Children” is the name of a long-running soap opera loved by my two sisters back in the day. What does the title mean? Given the tangled romantic encounters and relationships in these shows, it may have been main character Erica Kane’s assertion about her various offspring from her various paramours: “The kids of Pine Valley Elementary? They’re all my children (from different fathers).”

But seriously, for quite a few years I believed my maternal limit was reached after the birth of our fifth child. Indeed, there were times I felt I might have over-reached, especially when trying to get out the door with one in a front carrier, one in a back carrier and one holding each hand. “Are those all yours?” folks would ask, and exhausted me would hope they wouldn’t then give me a pop quiz about their ages. 

Over time, though, my “mom” instinct has only grown and expanded. I've thought of my children’s friends as “extra kids,” ditto my church families’ little ones. I rejoice when they get new teeth or learn to read or, later, finally get their driver’s licenses or open those college acceptance letters. Mind you, these young people have wonderful parents and don’t require any additional mothering; I just enjoy feeling like backup support, in the wings if ever needed. 

There is, however, another category of child: those without caring adults in their lives, or who are dealing with the trauma of separation from their parents. These are the ones I cry over, because as tough as childhood is, I cannot imagine navigating it without a grownup who loves them utterly—or knowing that the grownup who does love them, cannot be with them. 

I am filled with admiration for my friends who teach at-risk children, as well as the saints who become foster parents. I wish I could join their number, but honestly don’t think I could do the good job these kiddos deserve. 

Instead, I stuff teddy bears—and so do many of my church families. From a company that provides unstuffed toy bears, I order kaboodles each year, along with the fiberfill to plump them up. Working with police departments and children and family service agencies, these cute bears are then distributed. When a child, for example, must be removed from an abusive home, they are given a bear to hug and love during their time of transition. It is a tiny symbol of affection and stability—a toy that’s theirs alone, to whisper to at night and tote around by day.

Our current crop of stuffed animals is being readied for the Afghan refugee families about to be resettled in the Philadelphia area. Fleeing a horrible situation in their homeland, I pray these children will be comforted a bit by the teddy bears.

What if we ALL looked at EVERY child as our own? Love overflowing, love giving the next generation the security and affection they need…

What if that’s the secret to saving the world? 

Steve reading to Sheridan and his teddy bear

VBS: The Delta Variant

VBS 2011--happy singers (all 70 of them, packed in together--remember when?)

Over the past 20 years of my tenure at church, our annual summer Vacation Bible School has been a constant, but with some variants. As with all kid-centric activities, flexibility has been the name of the game, and I always expect to face a few  unexpected developments. Memories…

There was the kid-who-shall-remain-nameless who felt sick mid-morning, then promptly GOT sick—on the sofa in the pastor’s office. The pastor was out of town, and we MAY have just cleaned up and never told him. Possibly. There was the sweet 10 year old who, it turns out, was highly allergic to just one of the 47+ varieties of Pop Tarts (we usually provide a fun junk food breakfast for our teen counselor helpers prior to opening, and of course had unwittingly served up POISON that morning). And who can forget the jolly piggyback rides the counselors used to give their young charges throughout the sessions? Not I, not after one jolly rider pitched over the head of her counselor, and ended up looking like she’d been in a car accident. Luckily, she had incredibly cool and understanding parents, but it certainly could have gone the other way.

But, even if I had the flexibility of a top yoga teacher, I wouldn’t have been prepared for Delta. This experience has been akin to crawling ashore after a shipwreck, only to be hit by a dune buggy. You think you’ve made it home safe, then, whammo. But after cancelling 2020’s festivities, we really wanted to try and find a way to make VBS happen this summer. The result is a very scaled-down version of things. 

Yesterday was our kickoff. The day dawned sunny (yay!) and also blisteringly hot and humid (not-so-yay). At 10 AM our little friends arrived, sunscreened and masked up and ready for fun. 

On the plus side: the decision to limit the time to two hours (10-noon) was a wise one.

On the minus side: the way the temp rose, maybe those two hours should have been 4-6 AM (hey, I was awake!)

Plus: holding this in late August, we caught some families who’ve never been able to attend in late June due to vacation schedules.

Minus: we lost a number of families for whom June was the only workable time.

Plus: we gave everyone a personalized, filled water bottle to tote and hydrate through the morning.

Minus: we sent the bottles home to be refilled and returned tomorrow. Maybe we should have kept them at church?

Plus: We had the cutest puppet yet for gathering time (Sparky the Dragon)

Minus: We were short staffed, so I ended up being both puppeteer and puppet. Shari Lewis must be spinning in her grave.

To sum up: it went well, all things considered. And today, as I arrive at church at Delta Dawn (couldn’t resist) for another sanitized and cautious get-together, I will say a prayer that this surge too, shall pass, and our sweet kiddos make it safely to Vaccination Day.

VBS 2021--masked and distanced and outdoors

]

Sibling Revelry

Brotherly love, Summer 2021 edition

“You’d better get along with your sisters, girls. It will be the longest relationship of your lives—longer than with your parents, longer than with your spouses, longer than with your own children.” –Joanie (AKA Mom)

Growing up was no walk in the park chez Cunningham. My sisters and I were raised by overgrown children, Joanie and Tom, who meant well, but had zero control over the Monkey House that was our domicile. We girls truly loved each other (and our parents), but at times the impartial observer would be hard-pressed to guess that. 

I do remember playing elaborate games of Barbie and Ken with Maureen, though, and both of us doted on Carolyn, who was several years younger. But then came school, and suddenly there were friends to make, friends who were much more entertaining and glamorous than the kids we shared rooms and bathtubs with. For the remainder of our youth, we jumped when any of our buddies beckoned, leaving our siblings in the dust. We figured there’d be time, later, to nurture that “longest relationship of our lives.” Not then, however.

Mo’s death at age 23 was a massive wake-up call—our little circle was broken, forever. It took a year or so of grieving in our separate ways, but then C and I found our way back to each other, and a friendship that has sustained me in the 40 years since. 

My children similarly began as a very tight-knit crew, but as their lives expanded, those bonds were sometimes strained. Sheridan and Evan in particular were joined at the hip—until they weren’t. They grew to have separate social circles, and their “BFFs” were not always one another. As with my sister, our five have found their way back to amazing relationships, but I still recall the fallen faces of the younger brother or sister discarded by the older one in favor of his or her fellow third graders.

And here we are with Aiden and Peter. As the pandemic began, the boys had just returned from a visit to their family in Taiwan, and had settled back into kindergarten and preschool. Overnight, the shutdown happened, and then it was just the two of them as sole playmates, for months and months. Sheridan and Ya-Jhu homeschooled them, and they didn’t seem to miss being with other children (at the height of the COVID scare, we’d whisk them home if anyone else appeared on the playground). 

Fast-forward to Fall 2021, and their impending return to school. They are excited; Nana is a mess. I keep turning tender brotherly moments from the past year over and over in my heart, and I dread the boys’ separation. Deep down I know it’s good for them to socialize again (way deep down). But then there’s a moment like this recent one...

Peter, at almost five, has an adorably quirky way of pronouncing certain words, and he calls his brother, emphatically, “Eden.” I finally asked him why, and Peter responded, matter-of-factly. “I call him Eden because I love him!”

God bless you, “Eden” and Peter, as you step once more out into the bigger world. Never forget how much you love each other, my sweet boys.

Click Bait

Honey-lavender glazed donut—where is such deliciousness?? Click to find out!

The classic “gotta read it” headline immortalized in journalism classes was an old NYC tabloid one: “Headless Body Found in Topless Bar.” Now I ask you, aren’t you the least bit curious? Even though I’m revolted by my morbid interest, I confess I often read on when I encounter a boffo header. And, with the internet, click bait come-ons are everywhere; for example, email subject lines like one from a religious magazine that landed in my inbox this morning: “Is your smartphone causing you to sin more?”( Hmmm, maybe…only if “sinning” involves “cursing at my smartphone when the battery dies”).

Then there are those devilish online “rabbit hole” posts. You know the ones: there’s a picture of an actor you know can’t possibly be more than 50 years old, with the caption “At age 100, she’s still with her partner!” and then I begin clicking compulsively through 75 photos to get the juicy details, at the end of which I have totally forgotten the name of the 50/100 year old movie star I’m seeking an update about. And by then it’s 6 PM and I haven’t started dinner. 

I was thinking the other day—wouldn’t adding click bait headlines to my life spice things up? There are days when I’m hard pressed to imagine anyone more boring (boring-er?) than me, with my mind-numbing daily routines. But if I wrote about myself (which, if you’ve read even one of the past 472 posts, you realize is what I basically do) and then added a dash of intrigue, maybe I’d be able to imagine that I am, in fact, a creature of romance and mystery (or at least, that I’m not the most boring –boring-est—person I know).

So here are a few TRUE incidents from this past week, along with suggested headlines:

Terror on the Beach! Shark Bites Swimmer in Ocean City! Only 40 Miles from where Elise Stands with Her Toes in the Water! 

Frantic Treasure Hunt! House Key Mysteriously Disappears! Stolen by a Wily Thief? Or Left in the Glove Compartment of Car? Read On and Find Out!

She Was the Oldest Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre Cinderella Ever, and She’s Still with Her Prince Charming! You’d Better Sit Down Before You Check Out THIS Amazing Photo!

Tragic Missed Connection! Wi-Fi Woes Doom Long Distance Call with Long Distance Son! Will He Ever Contact Her Again?

Negligent Grandparents “On Duty” when Tiny Lego Disappears Up Little Grandson’s Nostril! ER Averted When Pa Turns Him Upside Down?

Nightmare On Highway One! Heavy Traffic on Friday Summer Afternoon Shocks Beach-Bound Driver! How Can This Possibly Be, Elise Wonders?? 

Walked an Hour Without Her Fitbit! Why Is She Convinced It Doesn’t Count? Exercise Experts Weigh In!

I think I’m on to something here, folks. Now all I need is to add a soundtrack to my life and it’s a whole new ball game.

What should my theme song be?  “I Will Survive?” “Mairzy Doats?” “Crazy?” Cast your votes and let’s make this happen!

My toes were probably shark-safe 

Word Perfect

With the Bruics, June 2017, Dingle, Ireland

While I consider myself truthful, I have been known to embellish things just a tad, only when such a teensy addition would make the story immeasurably better, of course. I often feel a kinship with storytellers of ancient days, sitting around ye olde fire. I’d begin, “So…I killed a deer today. Pretty much it.” “Tell us more!!!” my rapt audience would plead. “OK, well, the deer attacked me first, and wrested the bow and arrow from my hands.” “Wow!!!” “And after it was dead, I carried it 20 miles through the snow, uphill both ways.” “Now you’re talking!!” See what I mean? SUCH an improvement!

Whereas reporters have no such leeway. Much as I’m sure they’d love to add a pithy comment here, a hilarious anecdote there, they are duty-bound to capture what was actually said by their interviewees, and not a syllable more. No wonder I opted out of journalism school! 

There is a trend nowadays to add an element of reporting to personal essays, in order to make them more timely, and, therefore, marketable. Recently, a couple of my editors have asked that I get a quote from a source or two, to beef up my narratives. While I certainly comply, it is not without a decent amount of trepidation. What if I (gasp) misquote these people???  My M.O. is paper and pen, not voice memos and the like, so my post-phone call routine is to try my darnedest to decipher my scribble-scrabble that passes for notes. Did Pastor Mary really move to a “fram” in rural Ohio? Does Dr. Peters truly believe that artificial intelligence is good? Or, maybe, bad? Or, is he neutral about the whole thing? I write my pieces and hit send, dreading the possible fallout from my subjects. So far, everyone has been pleased…which means that I am way overdue for an angry email from an irate expert, who threatens to sue me for putting (the wrong) words in his/her mouth. 

I am currently writing an essay about my very favorite bed and breakfast in Ireland, where Rose, Julie and I stayed in 2017, for a publication called “The Heart of the Hotel.” In all my travels, I never encountered innkeepers with bigger hearts than Jimmy and Noreen Bruic, of The Forest of the Roses on the Dingle Peninsula. I referred to my four-year-old notes from our visit. I emailed Jimmy for some clarifications. Even now, as I am about to submit, I picture the kind and serene Mr. Bruic, his face uncharacteristically contorted in fury, accusing me of getting something (anything) wrong, thus ruining his business forever. 

“Practice makes perfect” (who coined that phrase? Need to give the proper credit to the author!) so I will press on, as a newly-minted member of the press. The writing game continues to evolve, and so must I. I am spending time today investigating recording devices, in my ongoing quest for accuracy. 

But I'd love to quote Jimmy as saying, “sure and begorrah.” 

Guess not. 

Stop the presses!! I goofed!!

Brave? Brave.

 

All right, one more time for the peanut gallery (very loud and very clear).

We do not say:

I’m so embarrassed about my heart condition

I’m ashamed about my cancer

I’d be mortified if anyone knew I get headaches

What’s the matter with her? She can’t handle a little stroke?

So why do we feel:

I’m so embarrassed that I have bipolar disorder

I’m ashamed that I have anxiety

I’d be mortified if anyone knew I get panic attacks

What’s the matter with me? I can’t handle a major depression?

Yet that’s exactly what our society continues to do: shames and criticizes and diminishes the struggles of those with mental health issues. Forces those people to go underground, to hide and lie about their conditions for fear of that shaming and criticism. 

Honestly, I hoped we were doing better. In the 15 years since I was diagnosed, and became active in the mental health community as an advocate, I’ve read and heard encouraging things. People of influence have spoken out about their conditions. In 2018 my show, This Is My Brave, featuring regular folks telling their true stories of mental illness, was presented to a sold-out audience in center city Philadelphia, and I’ll produce another one in 2022. Good, important conversations have been happening.

Now Simone Biles, one of the most gifted and hardest-working athletes in the world, has stopped competing in the Tokyo Olympics because she is fighting crippling anxiety. Unable to perform at the level she expected of herself (and, by the way, the public fully expected of her), she stepped aside and let her teammates take over in the race for medals (and, at this writing, they have risen to the occasion beautifully). 

And there has been a vicious backlash against her. “What’s brave about not being brave?” sniffed one clueless and nasty commentator. Would this have been his attitude if she dropped out due to a serious physical injury? I doubt it. There is an acceptable range of injuries and disabilities, and mental health issues and other “invisible” illnesses do not make the cut, very often. Instead, we are quick to label these people as weak, somehow lacking in character (or, I hate to say it as a church worker, but sometimes the reaction in religious communities is that his/her faith is deficient.)

By all accounts the world of top-level gymnastics is an incredible pressure cooker, also marred by sexual misconduct by trusted coaches. Is it any wonder that Biles struggled in that toxic environment? 

I don’t know what it will take to completely de-stigmatize mental illness, but I know we have to keep trying. If for no one else, for our young people, many of whom are in great psychic pain they are afraid to share, and are turning to drugs and even suicide. So…

Let’s make honesty about mental illness normal, and risk-free. 

I believe Simone Biles IS brave, and that this is a teachable moment for America.

The question is, will we learn?

Beach Ready

Normandy Beach, NJ circa 1960 with Mom and sister Mo--happily heedless!

Good morning! The sun has not yet risen, but I feel confident that situation will be different at 5:53 AM. I launch into my day down here in Lewes, Delaware, armed with the knowledge that my daytime high temp will be 88 degrees, but it will feel like 94, unless I stay in air conditioning, in which case it will feel like 68 (if Steve is home it will be briefly adjusted to feel like 88, until he leaves the room and I adjust it back down). 

The winds will be westerly at 6 MPH, a mere “2 fly” rating on the Damn Fly Meter (an Honest to God thing, kindly provided by the Delaware surf fishing website.) Note: west wind or “land breeze”= pesky flies on the beach. But I won’t let those nasty creatures spoil MY outing—I am marinated in Cutter repellent, as well as slathered in SPF 50 sunscreen (to guard against a cancer-causing sunburn). I wonder if this combo may, one day down the road, prove to have been toxic, but that’s a worry for another time! Why borrow trouble, I say!

Aiden and Peter are here, so I have to add a close look at the tide charts as well. I don’t bother when it’s just me. High tide is perfectly safe, after all, when viewed from under a beach umbrella many yards from the shoreline. The chances of my being carted off by a riptide, or walloped by a monster wave, are relatively small, because I never (ever) get more than my toes wet. But my little guys are fearless water venturers, so for them I vastly prefer the lowest of low tides. My favorite is the occasional sandbar, which on Lewes Beach can extend so far that you could probably walk on it to Cape May, NJ. 

How did I ever manage without this boatload of info when I was a young beachgoer? In the 1960’s, when it was hot, it was just plain hot, and I had no idea what a “heat index” was. When it was sunny, it was time to break out the Sea n Ski dark tanning oil of course, and indulge my fantasy of having the kind of skin that would NOT turn crimson and peel like crazy. We would SAY “those damn flies” when buzzing hordes arrived, but that verbal acknowledgement was as far as it went. Wind speed and direction? That stuff was for sailors, right? I only noticed if my beach umbrella actually uprooted and blew away. And while even back in ancient times there were still both high and low tides, I never recall checking the status prior to arrival, so the size of the waves was always a surprise. 

Today, I have to allow at least 45 minutes for a thorough check of conditions, and equally thorough preparation to deal with those conditions, before going outside. Which means that, by the time I’m beach ready, conditions may have CHANGED.  

Then what?

Damn Fly Meter Logo--love it!!

En Route

 

Smiling Peter age one...we could (usually) figure him out!

As we approach two years since we first planned our since cancelled, COVID-cursed trip to Germany/Austria/Hungary/Czech Republic, and we dare envision another rescheduling for Fall, 2022, I am taking stock of my diminishing mental capacity, especially where foreign languages are concerned. I am still royally stuck at the very bottom of the Chinese 101 class, even as my high school French rapidly recedes in the rear view mirror of my brain. Like playing piano and parallel parking, it’s becoming quite clear that I will never achieve competence, much less mastery. 

As a traveler, I realize that English is the Open Sesame to most places on earth, but how do I meaningfully communicate with someone who is haltingly expressing him/herself to me, yet also obviously letting loose with a fluent cascade of Words with Friends? Everywhere I go, these same folks chatting to one another rapid-fire in their native tongues are, I assume, mocking me. “She just asked for a poached book!” they will chortle. “And did you hear her massacre ‘buona notte’? Hilarious!”

But I recently discovered a lovely little film that tackles language barriers head on (and removes said barriers). “En Route” tells three short stories of train passengers who don’t speak one another’s languages, yet come to understand each other in profound ways. A crying British baby is soothed by the magic tricks of a Roma woman. Two melancholy people, a young Assyrian man and an older German woman, intuit each other’s emotions while sitting across from one another in a train compartment. In the most delightful segment, an animated deaf couple helps a befuddled young Asian traveler head in the right direction to Genova.

Would that life was like that magical train trip! We humans would be able to transcend our misunderstandings and help one another along life’s journey. Such a shame that could never happen! But wait…

Why not?

What if we looked at language, not as a private club for the cognoscenti, but as a convenient short cut to comprehension—and not always really necessary? What if we realized that we can all easily find workarounds, even when we don’t know the grammar or syntax? Babies have no problem making their feelings known, right? And last time I checked, newborn infants do not yet speak the King’s English, but darned if their parents don’t do a more than adequate job figuring out their needs! For us older people, gestures and facial expressions work wonders, especially when paired with an intense desire to be understood. 

We are all en route, on life’s mystical train, destined for the future. Our traveling companions hail from all over, and at first communication can be tricky. But as our journey goes on, we discover our ways to connect, don’t we? 

So, as I once again spread out the European travel brochures, and stress about the foreign street signs and menu items, let me rest assured that we humans will always find our way through the world. 

One family. Understood.

"En Route"

(enjoy this sweet short film)

Cool It!

Once in a while I will encounter Life’s Big Questions: would you rather be too hot or too cold? I always ace the answer (“Neither”) and move briskly on to: would you rather be too short or too tall? Eat just ice cream or just pizza for the rest of your life? Live with only one arm, or one leg? (“Tall, pizza, arm—as long it’s not my writing arm. C’mon, what else have you got?”)

But, truth be told, while I do prefer tropical to Arctic climes, in reality I’m only happy in the hot weather when there’s air conditioning close by. I’m old enough to recall the signs on the deli doors in NYC, courtesy of Kool cigarettes “Come in, it’s Kool inside (air conditioned!”) We lived on the 7^th floor of a Manhattan apartment building, and long summer nights would find my sisters and me sprawled on the living room rug, fighting over which sister was hogging all the "chilled" air from the big box fan. Our early cars were air cooled by opening the windows as we hit 60 MPH, an experience much like putting your head inside a clothes dryer. My point is, I remember when A/C was not a given.

Moving South in the late 1960s, we got lots of summer sniffles from our travels (freezing store to sweltering parking lot and back again); it was in “Hot-lanta” that my addiction to freon really took hold. As an adult, I may have only enjoyed the central air life in the summers at the shore, but it was enough to convince me that life as a human stir fry was no life at all. 

Steve, on the other hand,  literally NEVER feels the heat. A visit to his home office in July renders the unlucky visitor flushed, disoriented and dizzy, while hubs hunches over his computer keyboard, completely oblivious to the scalding temps. 

In recent years, climate change (and I’m sorry but yes, it is a thing) has taken expected weather patterns, shaken them up and spilled them haphazardly across the landscape. Just a couple of weeks ago, a “heat dome” settled over Evan’s new home, Portland, Oregon. Oregon summers are usually quite temperate (highs no more than 80); suddenly the thermometers were soaring to 112 degrees. I panicked, picturing my son collapsing from heatstroke. It seems, however, that Ev is not quite as bothered as his mother. He weathered the weather just fine, he told me on the phone, as I sat not two feet from the “High Cool” setting on my window unit, yet still sympathy-sweating.

Summer is only two weeks old. It’s bound to get hotter, and I am bound to find myself in an un-air conditioned setting from time to time. At those unfortunate moments, I will fall back on my Catholic upbringing and “offer it up” for the poor souls in Purgatory.

But I’d still rather figure out a way to air condition Purgatory, so that we’d ALL be comfortable.

My two cool cats, "digging" the Lewes Beach sandbar