6SRW687

6SRW687!

For the first time in 47 years, I don't have a State of There drivers license nor State of There car tags. The experience of becoming a State of Here driver represents a major life passage for me. Let me tell you how I got here and what it means to me.

As you may remember, I moved Here in October of 2010. Work took me back There for three months or so. So I really, in my heart, count January 2011 as the beginning of my sojourn.

Through a series of haps and mishaps, it took 9 months to secure the title for my terrific car. Not a big deal, you say, except Here has hyper-strict regulations about car registration: you have 10 days after entering the state to register your car in the State of Here! That puts the 9 month scenario into perspective, doesn't it!!?! Son-in-Law II nervously asked weekly about progress on the registration project. Daughter II (and I) lived in fear of being pulled over, especially because There state tags had expired--gulp! All of us (Grandson included) were, in fact, pulled over one evening while Son-in-Law II was driving my car. The local policeman gave us a warning ticket for a defective tail light without even mentioning the expired tags--WHEW! 

One day while Grandson was napping and I was engrossed in my latest Kindle novel, two police cars drove up in the complex's driveway. One officer got out and consulted with the other officer, who was checking information on his in-car computer screen. In the year that it took them to make a move, my heart stopped, began thumping again fast enough to accompany "Flight of the Bumblebee", I broke out in a uber hot flash which put all those menopausal ones to shame, and I was glad I was sitting down, because I was truly weak in the knees. I was convinced that my name was flashing on the computer screen along with the inscription - WARNING! FUGITIVE FROM CAR REGISTRATION PROCESS. APPROACH WITH CAUTION AND APPREHEND BY ALL MEANS NECESSARY! IMPOUND AND KEEP THE CAR UNTIL THE SECOND COMING.

The officers (after only 5 minutes or so, really) walked to the front door of the half-way house across the way from our place to gather a person who had failed to report to her probation officer. (Well, that was the story I made up in my mind, anway.) When she was placed into the back seat of one of the police cars, I drew a ragged breath. Thinking of offering a prayer of thanksgiving for being spared, I suddenly realized that even God would not accept that prayer, because I was continually committing the sin of breaking the law of the land.

That incident--I still have a sinking feeling as I write these lines--was all the impetus I needed. Move heaven and earth--no problem! So, with title in hand, I then entered the Bureaucratic Maze of Car Registration in the State of Here.

In order not to wait forever, I made an appointment online to visit my local DMV. I waited in the "appointments only" line to get a number, sat with others who had appointments, and was called after only 15 minutes or so. (While waiting, I noticed cob-web-covered skeletons on the back row of chairs, clutching faded numbers--obviously, they had not made appointments.) 

"Now serving A16 at Window 11." And the "gentlemen" on either side of me glared and barked, "That's you!" which roused me from my people-watching fog. Once at the window, I offered my drivers license from There. The nice young woman informed me that I would have to take the written test to get a drivers license and then we'd take care of registering the car.

Daughter II had prepared me that I would have to take the written test. The last time I had taken the written test was in 1964, when it included hand signals for turns. But I was prepared--I had perused the driver's manual--also online. This is what I thought I'd read:

• You must have multiple bumper stickers on your car, espousing every ism and cause, except the one with the fish or the cross.
• Pedestrians will dare you to ignore them and make you screech the tires to avoid them as they dash across the street anythere and anytime they well please.
• Bicyclists own the road--yes, literally! Oh, there's a lane for them, but do they use that lane? NO! And they wonder why they get killed when the idiots who are trying to get around the car right behind them veer around that car and squash them like bugs.
• Motorcyclists weave in and out of traffic between lanes, causing drivers to need a defibrillator to recover from cardiac arrest.
• Motorists forget to use their accelerators. Yes, that means when you go uphill on Highway 101, the traffic suddenly slows from 65+ mph to less than 50 mph with no notice and no cause except for absent-minded drivers.
• Motorists cut you off in traffic, go around you on the right while you're waiting for the car in front of you to turn left, then do a u-turn in the 7-11 parking lot in order to make a u-turn.
• Motorists use their horns instead of their brains because each of them owns the road.

Well, low and behold, the rules of the State of Here are just the same as those of the State of There!! Come to find out, drivers Here just choose to ignore the rules! You will be pleased that I aced the written test. Something to be said for driving somewhat sanely for all these years.

Then came registering the car. Having all the forms ready helped. I paid the car registration fee and then had to get the smog test done before registration could be completed. Smog test: something I knew nothing about. Son-in-Law II recommended a local guy who could perform the test and make repairs as needed.

So, off I go. Very nice people. (You know, I'm always on the look-out for "nice people" in the Land of Here.) Well, nice people, except for the two gargantuan poodles which "guard" the shop from the front office--but that's another story.... The guy does the smog test--and my car doesn't pass. To meet emission standards, I need either a state filter OR a federal filter. State filter is over twice as expensive the federal filter. Thank goodness, my car needs the federal filter. Once the filter is installed, I must drive the car on the highway for 100 miles to reset the car's computer. Daughter II was delighted at this news, because the nearest Chic-fil-a is 50 miles away from our home, and this was the excuse we needed for a field trip to chicken and sweet tea heaven. On my return to the car guy, he redoes the smog test, and my car passes. Now, this process has cost (a) the price of the original smog test; (b) the price of the filter replacement; and (c) the price of the re-test--in addition to the registration fee. But at least I have the needed certification for the completion of the registration process.

I return to the DMV--oh, yes, with an appointment, of course. And, at long last, I have State of Here license plates and drivers license. Well, I do have my old SC license, but the nice young woman at the DMV punched a hole in it over the expiration date, thus invalidating it forever. (I guess I'll save it for a relic that my grandchildren will toss out in 25 or 30 years.)

6SRW687: this makes it real. That, and the fact that the weight indicated on my State of Here drivers license is within 10 pounds of my actual weight!

I am now an official resident of Here--one of only 3 states I have lived in in my 63 years on earth. Ties to Back There that should be broken have been broken. I'm really HERE, and Here is home. The die is cast. I've cross the proverbial Rubicon. (Sorry, those are the only cliches that immediately come to mind.)

A sobering reality. Surely I can return. And yet, all I hold dear, dear, dear (except for the long-time friends and Daughter I and husband) is Here. From now on, my sense of Place will be tinged by cool foggy mornings, mild dry sunshine, rainy winters, mountains meeting rocky shore. By people of every color and shape and language. By the absence of gentile politeness in daily interactions. By commonality of faith in small communities.

And what's the result? Well, I've become a little more agressive driver. I speed up and go around slower drivers. Although Daughter II urges me in a loud voice almost every time she rides with me, I haven't learned to use the horn either as a warning or an expletive comment on the absence of others' driving skills. And I still let people in front of me way too much. Guess you can take the girl out of There, but you can't take There out of the girl.

What's next? Botox? Implants? Hmmmm....

Lovely Handwriting - Or Things I Owe to Having a Big Brother

I have lovely handwriting. Even letter spacing and height, strong right slant, open loops in b's and l's and e's. Little tips before the downward strokes of r's and s's. Several of my friends have enlisted me to address their wedding invitations. It's not calligraphy, just gussied up Palmer method script writing. (I'll attach a sample to this post for you to see.)

My flipcharts, when I have time to prepare them properly, are manuscript lettering with shading, and attractive bullet points. Marker colors are coordinated from page to page. 

Why is this part of my Invisible Tattoo? Well,

A. My father had a distinctive, elegant handwriting. Perfect Palmer method, actually. The words made even more significant by his bold strokes. It was as if you could hear his sonorous voice coming off the page.

I have pages and pages of his sermon notes--he kept pen and paper on his bedside table to capture thoughts that the Holy Spirit gave him during the night. [By the way-tongue in cheek-the formula for a good sermon is three points, a poem, and a deathbed scene.] So many of the notes contain a topic and three alliterative words to represent the points of a sermon.

B. I have a Brother who is three years older than I. He was three years ahead of me in school. When I was five, he'd come home from school and ask, "What's 2 + 3?" And I'd answer, "What's a 3?" And, of course, his reply would be, "You're stupid!"

So, one day he brought home his "real writing" book. It was a paperback complete with practice pages for manuscript and script letters and words. I took that book and went my "office" which was the space where the chair fit under my daddy's rolltop desk. I'd take the book and manuscript sheets--you know the ones with the two blue lines separated by a dashed red line where the lower case letters were supposed to reach--and practice my "real writing."

The first word I learned to write in "real writing" was Rex, from the title of one of my brother's comic books, Rex, the Wonder Dog. Over and over until the "R" was tall and rounded. Over and over until the "e" looped in a perfect oval, and the cross on the "x"  came in a straight diagonal line through the center of the roller coaster squiggle, and both letters touched the red dotted line every time, every time.

In addition to practicing on paper, I wrote on the window sills in my room and on the wood adjacent to the keys on the family piano. You can imagine how my stock soared with those antics!

Then I began first grade. And while the other students labored over their manuscript alphabet, every single day (including Saturday and Sunday) I wrote:

Dear Miss Riser,

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

Love,
Paula

As the years passed, I added more tricks to my handwriting repertoire. Instead of doodling in class, I filled page after page with upper and lower case letters. I learned to write all the lower case letters in script without lifing my pen from the paper. And the piece de resistance - writing the lower case letters in script BACKWARDS without lifting my pen from the paper.

I'm certain that my obsession with writing also contributed to my obsession with lovely paper and quality writing instruments. I have an endless supply of stationery, writing paper, sketch pads, notebooks, journals, accompanied by pencils and pens with just the right weight, just the right color/pattern, just the right ink, just the right point/nib. I'm pen and paper poor! (Although, you'd be proud to know that I gave or threw away a boatload of paper/stationery as I packed for the move Here.)

I've read that in order to become a master at anything--concert pianist, composer, golfer--it takes 10,000 hours of practice. If that is true, no wonder my handwriting is good.

What does it matter? Who cares? Well, my daddy did, and making him proud of me was one of the chief aims of my life. And, I care--it's a matter of personal style to make someone's name (their most important treasure) distinctive and beautiful.

And all because of my MEAN Big Brother!

The Land of :Ish

This past Sunday I facilitated the Spiritual Formation class (to those of you in the Southern Evangelical world: Sunday School) at the church I'm attending but haven't joined. The topic was The God of Forgiveness. I began the lesson by asking, "What is your pet peeve?" After class, a beautiful redhead came up to me, and in a "peeved" voice said, "I can't stand it when people are late to class. We have so much to share, and we always run out of time because they think starting time is only a suggestion!"

Well, to tell the truth, I'm right there with BR (beautiful redhead). And with good reason--or reasons:

• Per Myers Briggs, I'm a(n) ENFJ. My "J" factor is so strong as to be almost off the charts. This means that I like things in order, that I am neat (which I AM NOT!), and I want the rules to be followed, including people being on time--or early for appointments/meetings/etc.
• I come by promptness honestly. I was reared in a pastor's home. Daddy had to go to church early to make sure the building was open, the lights were on, the furnace (or air conditioning) was running properly before the members arrived for Sunday School and church service. Then he'd come back, and Mother would have us children dressed and ready to go at least 30 minutes before Sunday School began. (We lived only two blocks from the church, so travel time was minimal.) Why 30 minutes early? So we could sit quietly to remember what we forgot to do before going to church, what we forgot that we needed to take to church, but more importantly, to allow the Holy Spirit to prepare us for worship. No rushing around like chickens with our heads cut off, mad with each other, cramming into the car only to turn around for a forgotten Bible. Then, we'd make our way to church to be at least 15 minutes early to take care of any needs of the church members before services began.
• Mother was a wizard at meal management. She could put together a five course meal and make certain everything that was to be served cold got to the table cold, and everything that was to be served warm was piping hot. How? She worked backward in the prep schedule. So, salad was in the frig, having been made earlier in the day or earlier in the meal schedule; meat and potatoes were kept warm in the pot; and bread was baked last and served with fragrant steam rising from the basket. In like manner, I was taught to work backward in any schedule, determining how much time it would take for preparation in order for everything, including my toilette, to be ready before the determined deadline. (You'll not be surprised to know that I know the origin of the word "deadline", but that's for another blog.)
• Daddy and Mother taught me that being late was the supreme form of selfishness. Now, it was just fine if others kept me waiting (well, it wasn't just fine with my daddy, but I wasn't allowed to show temper like he did), but I was to arrive a few minutes ahead of the appointed time so that I was not the one holding up the appointment/activity/meeting.
• Then I married Him, the one who thought 15 minutes late was on time. And you can imagine how many times we wended our way to appointments/meetings with me fuming in silence while He pretended not to notice my angst. I remember one time in particular, we were listening to an AM station (yes, there were decent non-talk stations on the air way back then) which announced the time every 5 minutes. Just before the song ended and the time announcement was to be heard, He turned off the radio with a flourish. So, when I was once again on my own, I was relieved to return to my on-timeness.

Fast forward to Now. You know I'm Here, in what I call The Land of :Ish. Stores don't open till 10:00 a.m., but that's only a guideline, not a rule. So don't really come to buy anything until around 10:15 a.m.

I believe most of the residents haven't seen a sunrise in over 50 years, because Son-in-Law II has a rule that if we get to a breakfast place before 9:00 a.m., we can always get immediate service. It's true! Then the others saunter in, rumpled and wrinkled, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and ordering double shot cappucino.

Several months ago, I scheduled a meeting with one of the pastors of the church I'm attending, just to chat and to get to know him and the church denomination. I, of course, was a few minutes early. He called the church secretary at the appointed time to say he was stuck in traffic and would be arriving just a few minutes late. I appreciated the call and enjoyed getting to know the secretary while I waited for him. (She brings her dog to work every day--yes, a story for yet another blog.)

When he came into the office and apologized, he made note that I came to the meeting on time, commenting that promptness is not a universal custom. And just the way he said it let me know that only OLD people are on time.

Now, I'm not among the crowd that arrives 30 minutes before starting time, or eats dinner at 5:00 p.m. (Blue Hair time, my daughters call it). I truly do have a life and can find many fun and interesting activities to fill my time.

AND, an agreed upon meeting time is a PROMISE. People of integrity keep their promises. People who care about other people don't waste another person's time by being tardy. So, I may live in The Land of :Ish, but I will not be OF The Land of :Ish!!

Now, please excuse me while I go hit somebody with my cane!

Friends: Above and Beyond

This blog is about a group of women who are quintessential friends. What they have done is testimony of who they are. Let me tell you....

In 2001 I accepted a position in A Town 50 Miles Away (herein after known as ATFMA). Within a year I moved from a poisiton as an individual contributor to the manager of the department. For the next seven years I worked with a group of remarkable professionals--women who just needed to know what phenomenal skills and abilities they already possessed and that they had permission to use those skills and abilities to solve problems, acquire information, and perform their jobs with top-notch efficiency and effectiveness. All I had to do was to run interference for them and simply stand back and watch them excel.

In 2003 I made the life-changing decision to leave my husband--Him--and move to ATFMA. I rented a delightful apartment in ATFMA, cleaned out Our Home, and began the packing process. Because my co-workers were ATFMA area natives, I asked them about movers. They reacted with what resembled outrage, taking umbrage that I even asked them about such a thing. "Our husbands all have trucks. You will not hire anyone to move you. We will do it."

And they did. Over three weekends, they took turns. Not only did they move me to Lancaster, they moved Him to his new apartment in the Home Town, including a washer and dryer! When we got to Lancaster with the last load of my junk--they kidded me that I had more books than the law would allow--they stayed until the new chandelier was hung over the dining room table and the lock on the back door was repaired and secure (shout out to Husbands of Friends!).

These Friends took delight in my nesting process, oohing and ahhing over furniture arrangement, new accessories, and all the touches that went into making The Apartment mine. Over the years, they gifted me with a beautiful table for "just the right place," as well as tableware, decorative pieces, and curtains, duvet cover, and bed pillows. Oh, yes, and big metal letters of my favorite word--MORE.

As you can gather, we became more than co-workers, we became family. We celebrated work victories, marriage, grandbabies, birthdays, staff meetings--if there weren't an official reason, we made up reasons to celebrate our lives with each other.

In 2008 my run with The Company in ATFMA came to an end. Once again I was faced with moving, this time to Mother and Daddy's house, made vacant by their move to an extended care facility and made vacant again by Daughter I's move to The Far Country. Some of the Friends had moved on professionally to other departments, taking more senior positions because of their work in our department. Yet when moving time came, they were there once again, packing those same books, and all the additional stuff that I had accumulated in ATFMA. Real Friends, doing Real Friend work.

Fast forward to 2010. I'd been gone from the company and from ATFMA for two years. The Friends and I kept in touch, but we weren't in each others' lives like before. They continued to toil at the company as it had been gutted by a takeover. I worked again as an individual contributor in a place that did business by e-mail thereby precluding relationships.

On Christmas Eve Daughter II announced I was to become a grandmother, and life changed as I knew it. Over the next eight months a scheme was hatched for me to move to Here to be near The Grandson--oh, yes, and his parents, too. I packed the car and headed out, leaving the household goods to be packed and moved when the house was sold.

What I thought would be a long and drawn out process wasn't. After just a month or so of being on the market, an offer was made and accepted on the house. I made plans for a week-long visit Back There to pack up and close on the house. Enter the Friends!

Yes, they showed up once again. One Friend even supplied most of the boxes (thank you to Her Husband!). Starting at 9:00 a.m., by 2:00 p.m. they had the bulk of the stuff in boxes, having sorted the good, the bad, and the definitely ugly. And all the while, they laughed and joked and visited as friends do at quilting bees, barn raisings and dinners on the ground. They loved on The Grandson as if he were theirs--which he is partially. We stood in a circle, as we had many times before, and I repeated the words I had told God in different places at different times.

"Thank you, Lord, for these Friends. They cannot know what their friendship has meant to my life. Let them know that, no matter where I am, they will live in my heart."

"Back There" Is No More

Back There is no more. The house that was home to Mother and Daddy for 30 years is the new home to a 20-Something with sports and rock band posters. Cleaned to a sparkle by The Loyal Helper.

The stuff that made it their home has been sorted, sold, saved & stashed and discarded. The stuff that made it Daughter I’s home that was left behind from her move to The Far Country has been boxed for later retrieval when she lights closer and for a long enough time. The stuff that made it my home has been examined, found wanting and tossed or found essential, and boxed for The Long Move to Here.

Three trailer loads of trash. Papers frayed and yellowed with age. Every card sent to Mother and Daddy when the Youngest Son died as a baby in 1954. Cards sent to Older Son when he lay at death’s door in the Navy. Mother’s every Mother’s Day and birthday card. Pictures of younger selves, forgotten friends, landscapes never named. Receipts, bills, church bulletins, buttons, patterns, moldy damp books gritty with years of neglect and outdoor storage. Course syllabi with scribbled notes. Costume jewelry with missing “sets” or only one earring. Almost 100 pairs of the most elegant high-heeled shoes of very color and pattern every worn—to match the hats and gloves of every color. A box of cufflinks and tie tacks. 

You get the picture—80 years of the stuff of theirs—but not them, not their lives. Just stuff. So because it wasn’t them, tossing became a mindless, ruthless exercise to separate the exquisite wheat from the overwhelming chaff.

Since we became expert tossers, Daughter II encouraged, cajoled, wheedled until much of my stuff I thought was vital to existence as I know it also found its way into the trash heap. I actually threw away stationery—I know, it’s a shock. I kept panic at bay, quelled the urge to hyperventilate as the lovely sheets and envelopes and folders and such went to The Dump. I even gave away and tossed BOOKS. Sacrilege upon sacrilege!

What’s left? Daddy’s sermon outlines. Mother’s real jewels. An original Fiestawear wedding present vase. Silver, china, crystal. Enough to make Martha Stewart envious.

The saved stuff was gone within 4 hours of the movers' arrival. I went to close on the house, and when I returned, the rooms were empty and hollow.

I thought I’d be sad. I thought I’d be depressed. I thought I’d cry. Daughter II asked if the process was cathartic. Nope. It’s just one huge step to finally closing the Estate and, as Big Brother said, “getting on with your life.” I truly don’t feel anything right now. Except bone weary and brain dead. Maybe the Great Unpacking at the my place Here will trigger something. Maybe not.

Maybe I’m grateful for meds. For sure and certain I'm grateful for Friends. Read on….   

Waiting for My Eyes to Adjust

I start my day early--at dark:thirty--to keep on Eastern Time work schedules.

And I have a ritual that gets me started:
1. turn on the light - I can't sleep with the light on, so light helps me know it's time to get out of bed
2. splash water on my face - It has to be cold water to shock my system from the netherworld of semiconsciousness.
3. brush my teeth - now my mouth is awake, even if my eyes aren't
4. take meds - more on that in a later blog - thank God for meds!!
5. deodorant - preventative
6. perfume - a light scent that makes me know I'm getting ready for my Big Girl job
7. get dressed - once I've put my socks on, I'm ready for the day, with one exception:
7. make-up - I'm not fooling anybody at this point. It's just an effort not to scare small children and animals. And it tells me that my business day has begun.

Remember, it's still at least 3 hours before sunrise where I live, so the last thing before going downstairs to my desk is to turn off the bedroom light. It is then that I stand for a few seconds in total darkness until my eyes adjust to the night light in the hall so that I can make my way down the stairs to the first thing of my business day--coffee!

Being a charter member of P.O.E.M. (Professional Organization of English Majors--shout out to Garrison Keillor), the metaphor of waiting for my eyes to adjust resonates in my soul. 

That's what I've been doing since the first week of October! Waiting for the condo to look like home to me. Waiting for my room to be my room. Waiting for the view out the window--breathtaking though it is--to be the look of home. Waiting for the newness to wear off. Waiting to feel a sense of place, a sense of belonging, a sense of "rightness" to it all.

Friends say that it will take time and I know that. And, once things are settled from Back There, and I "have my things around me" (Maureen O'Hara in The Quiet Man), especially Mother's piano, Here will begin to feel like home. There are many "once"s that may have to happen MORE than once. I get that, both in my head and in my heart.

So, here I stand, in the dark, waiting for my eyes to adjust. Maybe that's why they've been water logged recently.... 

Why? Because!

My grandchildren will never know me as an adult, and that's not fair.

I always wanted to know my grandparents as more than the ones in Texas who shook their shoulders and turned red but did not make a sound when they laughed. They were the ones who snored so loudly I had a hard time going to sleep in the next room. Or the ones closer to us geographically. They were polar opposites: he big, raw-boned and brusque; she tiny and quick with a twinkle in her eye.

I heard recently--by the way, I remember a lot of what I hear so I can appear smart when I repeat it--that it takes only two generations for a person to be forgotten. That bothers me. No one should forget Roy Carroll or Jim Hall or Lois Anderson or Marguerite McCaskill or Hank Greer or Paul Bullington or Helen Maples. And to be perfectly honest and narcissistic, I don't want to be forgotten either.

Because I love my grandchildren (born and yet to be born). Because I've been invisible in many ways for a great deal of my life. And because they may one day wonder why they remember the words to songs that were written before 1950 or why symmetry makes a difference in sentence structure or interior design or why they bite their fingernails or--my goodness, there are so many "becauses" that I want them to know about.

And, I get to give them my version of stuff!