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