Memento Mori

Saint Oswald's Churchyard Grasmere, UK

Cemeteries are not usually very entertaining. I have been to my fair share of graveside services for folks I knew and loved over the years, and I readily acknowledge the solemnity of these places of remembrance. When we lived in Massachusetts in the 1970s, making grave rubbings was all the rage, and teenaged me visited churchyards in Boston, Concord, Plymouth, etc. to gather rubbings of epitaphs engraved on stone. There were prominent people and families galore in my collection, from Thoreau to Emerson to Alcott. There were also the heart-tugging memorials to deceased babies and children (SO many too many of those).

In my own family, we’re more fans of cremation than burial, so very few tombstones for us. However, my sister Maureen is buried at Arlington Cemetery in Atlanta, GA. When she was killed in 1981 at age 23, there was no hesitation about her marker. Mo was devoted to Saint Therese (the “Little Flower” of Jesus), whose feast day (October 1) was the same day as Maureen’s death—and Therese was Mo’s age! Hence the inscription: “Our Beautiful Little Flower” marking the spot where my sister was laid to rest. I go there whenever I return to Georgia, and am comforted by the lovely site, on a hill by a pond, with tall Georgia pine trees all around. And the fact that the entire hillside, once rather bare, is now totally covered in graves, is mute testament to the large number of people who have left this earth over the years.

 

Gone, for the most part, are the days when families habitually brought flowers to Granny and Gramps at Meadowview Cemetery on Sunday afternoons. We 21^st century denizens HATE to be reminded that we will die at some point, and besides, Sunday afternoons are for football on TV, right? 

 

I am personally torn, as I reckon with my mortality. I would much rather be cremated/donated to science than placed in a casket and buried six feet under. Yet, there is definitely an urge to have some sort of permanent memorial for posterity—you know, a sacred space where my children can feel sufficiently guilty over NOT visiting. 

 

My solution? A website with a virtual tombstone! Not sure if I just invented these, or if they are already a thing, but what a cool concept! Meeting my descendants where they are, which is onscreen! And this way I can program a changeable series of snappy sayings too! Imagine my busy, but bereft, kiddos, grabbing their phones to play Candy Crush—but first they pop over to momsrestingplace.com, curious to see what witty/sentimental inscription is posted today! In less than two minutes I am remembered, often with a chuckle, with no need to make any effort, or travel anywhere at all! 

 

Kicking around a few ideas for online epitaphs:

 

ELISE SEYFRIED (1956-20__?)

 

HAVE AS HAPPY A DAY AS POSSIBLE, CONSIDERING I’M DEAD!

HERE LIES THE WORLD’S GREATEST MOM--THIS IS MY REWARD?

SORRY/NOT SORRY YOU’RE SO SAD!

 

Your suggestions welcome!

Walking on Eggshells

photo by Peter Werkman on Pexels

I believe that all of us, at some point in our lives, have to deal with explosive people. You know, the easily angered, in extreme cases road-ragey types. Most of the time we can navigate fairly well (with a work colleague or even a difficult family member), but it often means making an extra effort not to trigger an outburst. So we tiptoe around, walking on eggshells as it were, to keep the peace.  

That kind of eggshell-walking just enables the offending person to keep on being—offensive. And it is so exhausting, always having to anticipate and try to head off trouble at home or work. I always considered myself more of an eggshell-walker, than an offender. But now, to my everlasting regret, I look back at my childhood, my marriage, my parenting, and see a very strong, rather demanding, personality (mine). When I was a kid, there was a lot of yelling and fighting at home, a verbal free-for-all, and each of us participated. I learned to be the best in the family at this game, giving as good as I got, and when I was in a certain mood, I knew that others would try to avoid my wrath. 

 

My early marriage to Steve was an attempted escape, not just from a chaotic home, but from a part of myself I hated. Alas, “wherever you go, there you are” proved true, and soon I was picking fights and insisting on winning every argument. Luckily our union survived, and it has been the greatest gift of my life. Not only do I have a world-class husband, but we were able to have our five amazing children. 

 

Raising our kids, I tried not to be an eggshell mom, but I could never be a sweet and gentle and permissive parent, not for long. I was never at all abusive, but I was fairly strict, and didn’t shy away from a confrontation, often ending with a too-loud, “BECAUSE I SAY SO!!” Do I feel my brood was afraid of me? Maybe. Sometimes. When those eggs cracked and crunched underfoot, I did not react very well. Of course, menopause and my mental illness did nothing to help the situation.

 

Nowadays, my moods have regulated much better, and the idea of shouting matches has zero appeal. But I do hope my attitude doesn’t devolve as I age. I would really hate to be the miserable old woman in the nursing home (the one everyone goes out of their way to avoid). 

 

We all need to stand up for ourselves in this world, for sure. But we also need to be there for one  another—and that involves copious amounts of kindness and empathy. It’s an age-old problem, painfully obvious in our current, bitterly divided world, and I wish we could solve it. 

 

We’ll continue to deal with eggshells as we bumble our way through life. But maybe we can find a way to use those proverbial eggs, to make each other omelets. 

Dimitri is counting on us to figure it out

Signs, Signs (Everywhere, Signs)

 

But I Speed Up for Scarlatti?

I come from superstitious Irish Catholic stock. My family tends to see signs from God (honestly? It’s usually the Blessed Virgin Mary) EVERYWHERE. You think that photo of the piece of toast that looks like Jesus is silly? I don’t! Why wouldn’t our Lord show up on my breakfast table to encourage me/warn me/whatever? I'm super big on statues that cry real tears and miraculous cures at Lourdes, and even though I’ve been Lutheran for decades now, I still believe in Messages from Above.

 

But this post isn’t about THOSE signs. No, this concerns the more commonplace signs one might encounter in a store window or on a car bumper. “No shoes, no shirt, no service!” scolds a sign outside a clothing store in the mall. I can’t help but think this is a poor idea—I mean, don’t you WANT shoeless, shirtless folks to enter your emporium in need of purchasing those exact items? Back in the day, dry cleaners offered “One Hour Martinizing!” Maybe they still do? I may award a complimentary martini (get it?) to the first reader who can explain what the heck martinizing is.

 

I am often amused by the stickers affixed to the cars in front of me on the road. There’s the “Student Driver” (I REALLY need to get one of those for myself, so that people stop expecting me to be a good automobile operator!), and the “Honk If You Love Jesus!” (I worry about that one, because what if the honking is because there’s a significant road hazard up ahead, and I just blithely assume it’s the other driver merrily toot-tooting in praise of the Lord?) Then there’s the ancient VW bug with so many old, peeling stickers (most involving the Grateful Dead) that the vehicle’s color is impossible to ascertain. 

 

It's Election Season once more, so many yards are festooned with political signage. I am very sad that posting a sign in support of your favored candidate or party now IMMEDIATELY invites animosity, and even theft of said placard. I read about Ye Olden Times, when one neighbor had a Goldwater sign and the guy next door had one for LBJ—and NOTHING HAPPENED. They even remained on speaking terms, arguing only over borrowed and unreturned lawn mowers! 

 

I am reluctant to put up any kind of sign, because frankly I’m not passionate enough about anything to risk trouble—oh, I’m Pro-Ice Cream and Anti-Tofurkey, but I’m not going to scream my preference to the world. I’d rather remain an enigma, a woman of mystery. Let others plaster their yards and cars with their opinions. I’ll leave you guessing! It’s safer that way.

 

Seriously though, I know I’m being cowardly, and right now none of us can afford to be that. At the risk of alienating my fellow travelers, I really should put out a lawn sign or two, just to take a stand. 

 

What do you think of:  “In This House, We Support One-Hour Martinizing”?

 

So there!

 

I feel much braver already.

Safety First!

In uniform, ready for duty!

Most of the time, and in most places, I have felt relatively safe through the years. I credit much of that to my intensely risk-averse personality. It would never occur to me to approach a ledge at the Grand Canyon, jump into a zoo enclosure with a tiger, or even park for two hours and one minute in a two-hour parking zone. Since I began traveling abroad, I came to realize that the United States has SO MANY WARNING SIGNS, everywhere. Sure, it’s most likely due to our very litigious culture, though I like to think it's because Uncle Sam just really loves me lots.   

Whereas in other lands, safety measures are largely left to the individual. I’ll never forget being at a waterfall in Costa Rica. The steep cascade of pounding water could definitely break your neck if you stood under it, and sure enough there was a sign, in Spanish. But did it say “Beware of dangerous waterfall?” Nope! It translated as “No kissing.” The real risk was being swept away, not literally, but romantically!  

As a mom, I did my darnedest to keep my little ones from harm—though looking back at the primitive car seats, cribs and high chairs of the day, maybe they weren’t quite as safe as I thought they were. We actually never bothered to take the outlet covers and safety cabinet locks off, even though we went 15 years without a small child in the house. We have smoke alarms and carbon monoxide detectors and motion-sensitive lights in the upstairs hallway. The most dangerous activity of my adulthood was wearing stiletto heels during my bipolar manic episodes. Now, I cannot imagine risking a twisted ankle for the sake of fashion, and feel much more grounded wearing flats.    

I will leave a discussion of gun safety, and our horrific gun-worshipping culture, for another time and forum (though, you may have gathered, I have intense feelings). I remember when nearly all discussions about safety at school revolved around the dire consequences of “running in the halls.” Mind you, running around on an asphalt playground at recess was considered A-OK, but you picked up your pace heading toward the cafeteria at your peril.   

Aiden is now in fifth grade (“senior year” at our elementary school), and the first week of class he received the dayglo yellow belt of the safety patrol. He will proudly perform this sacred duty until the holiday break, and so far he seems to be doing a fine job preventing running in the second grade hallway. That is Peter’s class hallway, so hopefully he won’t push against big bro’s rule enforcement.   

I think giving the children a taste of responsibility for other people’s well-being is a fabulous idea. As human family members, we all should be caring for one another, every minute of the day.  Let’s model a world where we each don a symbolic yellow safety patrol belt, and create spaces where we all can thrive, and live in peace.

This was the waterfall! Yikes!

Menopost

Yeah, no

 (image by Jimbo457 on Pixabay)

“There is no greater power in the world than the zest of a postmenopausal woman.” That quotation appeared in a 1992 New York Times opinion piece, “Mighty Menopause.” Wow!! I never knew about my amazing superpower!! And here I was, making notes about my slowing reflexes, my fading memory, my glacially paced metabolism. All this time I have paid my turbo-zest no heed whatsoever!! Perhaps because it has been so well hidden!

To be fair, my menopause was a tad extreme, ushering in my bipolar disorder. I didn’t know if I was having a hot flash, or my brain was overheating because I hadn’t stopped talking in 72 hours. Somewhere in there my child-bearing years came to an end, but with five young kids I scarcely noticed a fertility slowdown. Frankly, that whole time of my life was a giant mess, and I have memory-holed most of the misery. 

 

But now I am enlightened, and called to embrace my post-menopausality! Though I had a really rocky journey through my change of life, no matter! Time to rev back up and conquer the world! I do wonder how the guys would fare after the massive physical and mental upheaval we gals endure. What is their MENopause like? If it’s anything like ours--and it isn’t--I feel like they might need at least a decade or two to recover from the bizarre menstrual cycles and massive mood swings, and society would emphatically NOT expect them to perform better than ever before. 

As women, we are eternally held to a higher standard of achievement (sometimes, alas, by other women), so why should our Fabulous Fifties and Swinging Sixties be any different than our earlier, frenetic years of accomplishment (climbing that steep corporate ladder in our heels--carefully!--random babies clinging to us, while still remaining fetchingly feminine?) 

 

Don’t get me wrong. It is truly wonderful to have a Presidential candidate who is a postmenopausal woman, not to mention older female powerhouse CEOs, doctors and artists. I’m honestly thrilled at the progress, but there’s a teensy part of me that wishes for fewer role models in my age group. Wouldn’t it be relaxing to settle into our advancing maturity the way our grandmas did, rocking those flowered aprons and orthopedic shoes? After countless years of go go go, is there NEVER going to be a rest stop exit on the highway of life? You know, with bathrooms and gas stations and coffee? A place to take a breather, to be, maybe, a little less zesty for a bit? Are we ALL expected to channel Jane Fonda, who’s still impossibly sharp and chic at age, what is she, 120?

 

Today I am announcing the birth of a new (slower) movement: Postmenopausal R&R. Our choice of course, and some will still scurry hectically along, but let’s not stigmatize those women who decide to dial it back a bit, as our calendar pages turn. 

 

Who’d rather think of Zest as just a brand of soap.

Focacciart

My Still Life with Veggies

“I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.”—Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty is one of my favorite writers. She was a master of the short story and the novella, the brevity of which I, with my ADHD, find endearing. Her backdrop was the mid-20^th century American South, her subjects the (many) eccentric characters to be found there. I direct you to any of her works—there’s the Pulitzer-winning The Optimist’s Daughter, but then there’s also The Robber Bridegroom and The Ponder Heart and Delta Wedding and and and…

 

I love the above quote, and the image of Eudora doing battle with her experiences (which we all do, no?), trying to wrest meaning and beauty from them. There are times when we are the losers, and we emerge from the conflict bruised, battered, and as confused as ever. But there are other times when we engage with some really tough stuff, and find the nugget of meaning and beauty hidden within. 

 

So what does this have to do with Focaccia Art?

 

During the height of the pandemic, a lot of us creative types struggled to make artistic sense of the difficulties we were facing. I know I wrote a lot, including several one-post-per-day blogathons. Others (like my Rose) returned to pursuits such as sewing, or picked up dusty musical instruments to practice. Still others began or continued rigorous fitness regimens, or adopted pets. Many of us emerged from the darkness of COVID lockdowns with new insights; some of us emerged with unwelcome new poundage as well (not ME. Some of us. Well, OK. Me.)

 

As much time as I spent in my kitchen whipping up calories, though, it never occurred to me to use a slab of bread dough as a canvas for vegetable art. But it was, apparently, a 2020 thing. I recently stumbled upon several Pinterest pages of gorgeous designs crafted with peppers and olives and parsley sprigs. Amazing!! It was like that ephemeral Buddhist sand art (painstakingly created, and quickly destroyed), but edible. I decided to give decorative focaccia a whirl last week when Patrick and Ashlyn came for dinner. The whole process is very Zen: you can’t begin to place your designs until after the second dough rising, and then you only have about 30 minutes to complete your handiwork and get it in the oven (over-risen bread dough is a flop). I sketched out my flower garden, then carefully (but hastily) placed each item. 

 

I was inordinately proud of my baked result (though it was very “loving hands at home,” compared to the kitchen artistes who duplicate Monet water lilies and Van Gogh starry nights.) And my culinary experiment lacked the poignancy of those created in those weeks and months of isolation (I could run out, unmasked, to buy more yeast any time). But nevertheless I, like my idol Eudora, did confront an experience--in my case, dinner for loved ones--and resolved it as a sliced red onion that looked, if you squinted, if not like art, at least a teensy bit like a tulip. 

 

 

The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty

 

 

 

 

Taking the Fifth (and the Second)

Aiden first day of kindergarten, September 2019

While much of my elementary school experience is a mental mush, for some reason my recall of both second and fifth grades is clear. In second grade at Epiphany School, I was just six years old. Academically I excelled (though the 1963 curriculum for grade 2 is more like what today’s toddlers are expected to tackle). There was lots of Dick, Jane, Spot and Puff (Puff? Was that the cat?), some SUPER simple math, and our first spelling bees (which I adored). Oh, and the Baltimore Catechism, which we parroted without a clue about what we were saying: #57: Q. What is venial sin? A. Venial sin is a slight offense against the law of God in matters of less importance, or in matters of great importance it is an offense committed without sufficient reflection or full consent of the will. Alrighty then.   

My teacher was Alice Mullally, whose name sounds sweet and mellifluous, but who was actually a tough cookie. Miss Mullally had taught my dad back in the Mesozoic Era; when I asked Dad what he remembered, the only thing was the day his classmate accidentally drove the sharp point of a protractor into his palm. No such bloody drama occurred when I was in Miss M’s class, but I remember seeing past her gruff exterior early on, and realizing she really did like kids (sorta).   

Then came nuns, for third and fourth. Fifth grade was Miss Hibbert, my second lay teacher. She awakened in me a lasting love of creative writing, and gave us more challenging books to read. She was also cut from the “strict but fair” cloth, but I was fond of her. At the end of fifth, I still had three more elementary school years to go, so growing up could wait awhile longer.  

In contrast, this is Aiden’s last year in elementary; Sandy Run Middle School looms for next fall. I’m not a huge fan of 6-7-8 middle schools; it seems unfortunate that the three most difficult years of childhood are isolated in one building. But meanwhile, I know he’ll do just fine this year as one of the “Big Kids” at Jarrettown.

Peter starts second (he missed the kindergarten cutoff with a late September birthday). Peter is bright to begin with, plus he has been successfully keeping up with Aiden his whole life, so he presents to the world as a much older child. His teacher, Mrs. Caviston, was his dad Sheridan’s and Uncle Evan’s kindergarten teacher back in the day, and she was Julie’s second grade teacher too. If she doesn’t receive a medal for teaching four Seyfrieds, I will buy her one.   

What will stay with my guys, I wonder? Memory is so strange, images and voices drifting through our brains, often randomly. My primary prayer for them both is a year of friends, fun and the joy of learning. If that’s all they recall in the future, that’ll be plenty.  

 Oh, one more prayer: please Lord, no protractor incidents!

the boys at Funland August 2024

Ramblin' Woman

for God's sake, Elise, shut up!

We won’t get into the political scene (promise), but I must take a moment and defend old #45 for one thing—his rambling digressions at rallies. For you see, I also have been known to take my listeners on a bit of a ramble now and then. I’m sure the Former Guy is, like me, just uncomfortable with silence, right? My subject matter could not be more different, but I too am guilty of talking onandonandon, at dinner parties and random bump-intos at grocery stores. “How’ve you been, Elise?’” is all the encouragement I need, and then I’m off to the verbal races. 

It's merely that my jam-packed life provides so much fodder—my writing challenges and successes, my speaking gigs, book readings, the classes I’m teaching! Then there’s the fam, from Stevo’s forays into the world of film work and Sheridan’s latest compositions and Evan’s Pacific Northwest tour guiding, to Rose and Julie’s Brooklyn adventures and Pat’s new sales career, not to mention significant others Ya-Jhu, Amrit, Ashlyn and Gil! And grandkids Aiden and Peter’s funny and endearing exploits. Did I tell you we have a new grandbaby coming in a month? And pets! There are three dogs and a cat among the brood, all with fascinating stories I can share! And…wait! Where are you going?

 

Yes, as I babble on, I know I’m once again guilty of oversharing. Even I get bored rolling into yet another tale from the Elise Chronicles. But all is not as it seems. I truly want to know what’s going on in my companions’ lives! And I do ask (eventually). Is it my fault that my “How’ve YOU beens?” are usually met with a compact paragraph or two? And then the dreaded silence looms once more, and I am forced to continue my saga of my travels. My unsolicited movie and book reviews. My random childhood memories! And…I see you drifting towards the exit! Get back here, friend!

 

My recent big project, writing the 100^th anniversary book for a country club, includes interviewing large numbers of club members and staff. So I’ve had over 40 convos with folks about their reminiscences. I always manage to get through the questions and their answers, but my subjects never escape without at least a small dose of my own commentary:”You have three grown children! That’s wonderful—I have five!” “You’ve been coming to the Delaware shore for 30 years? Wow! It’s 43 for us—and did I mention we produce the children’s theatre here?”

 

I have numerous dear friends who I consider amazing listeners. Now I realize—to be my dear friend, you’re kind of forced to be a good listener. Which is really unfair. So—I’m turning over a new leaf! Going forward, sit next to me at dinner, or stroll through the neighborhood by my side! You’ll have all the time and space you need to chat! Or we can be quiet! That’s great too!

 

What’s my plan?

Simple. 

 

I’ll just duct tape my mouth. 

You Had to Be There

Can you read that? Trust me, it's not worth it!

My first experiences with “comedy” included watching those horrible, sadistic Three Stooges on TV. Even at age four, I was repulsed by their face smacking, hair pulling, nose twisting antics. Even now, knowing that there are people walking around who think “Jackass” is funny, I am appalled that what the Stooges did was considered hilarious.  

More understandable, I suppose, were the fans of the misogynist comics of the 1950s, Milton Berle, Henny Youngman and the like. But did ANY woman really find “Take my wife. Please” humorous? And, on the flip side, how about Phyllis Diller’s painful routines featuring her hubby “Fang”? Was EVERYONE that miserable with their spouses? 

 

Steve, being older than me, remembers enjoying early Bob Newhart and Nichols and May (and much of their material stands the test of time). By the time I could purchase albums, I went for George Carlin and Martin Mull and Robert Klein. What was once considered outrageous, now sounds quaint (Carlin’s Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV still has some shock value, but several of the words are commonly used now by all kinds of people). 

 

Looking waaaaay back, I found some Victorian humor that is mildly amusing, believe it or not: 

“I once loved a young girl, but, alas! she wasn’t made for me.”

“Then you didn’t marry her?”

“Yes, I did. That’s why I know.”

...though most of it is stilted and quite un-funny to modern sensibilities. 

 

And yes, I know Shakespeare wrote comedies, and some situations and lines are recognizable as such. But, try as I might, I cannot laugh helplessly at: 

“Thou Banbury cheese!” (from Merry Wives of Windsor. Maybe Gorgonzola would’ve worked better?)

 

Here in the 21^st century, there is so much comedic material out there that it’s like a firehose: standup, videos, improv, and so on. Emerging as a well-known name in such an overcrowded field is so much harder than it was back when your choices were whoever made it on Ed Sullivan. I can’t help but wonder who the comedy stars of tomorrow (i.e. 50 years from now) will be. And what material will audiences find so knee-slappingly funny? 

 

A few guesses:

 

Climate Change (“Hey, has anybody seen where Florida went?”)

Pandemics (“I’m old enough to remember when we only had one at a time!”)

A.I. (“My next joke is of unknown origin, and it isn’t remotely funny, but I’m programmed to deliver it anyway.”)

V.R. (“Put on that big clunky headset and it'll feel like you’re one of the Three Stooges!”)

Space Travel: (“To the moon, Alice!”—sorry, wrong century)

 

And the comedians themselves? I predict they’ll all be triple or quadruple threats, like our 52nd President Taylor Swift, cracking boyfriend jokes as she powers through her 43-song concert set and cures cancer. 

 

In truth, I have no clue what will tickle the funny bones of the future.

 

But if 2100 does call, I’d better be ready with a zinger or two.

 

“Thou cell-cultured meat!” 

 

Thank you. I’m here all week.