A book report on Peter Rabbit is the last time I’ve done one of these.
The name of the book about which
this book report is about is
How Doctors Think
which is about this – doctor.
If you want to find out more (and you should), click over to my Joy of WAHM-ing blog to read my BOOK REPORT. I’m going to make it a regular feature over there.
So, dramatic little Jeremy’s essay that I told you about in the previous post got me thinking that I should look back through my old high school and college essays for a fun re-writing exercise. And that’s just what I’m going to do here. This post is based on a college assignment to write a traditional 5-paragraph timed essay on the Eagles song Hotel California. I’m going to take the liberty of viewing that paper as a rough draft and editing it to suit my current writing style.
You can read the lyrics to Hotel California here first, if you are unfamiliar with the song. Or you can play the video below and listen to the words as you read my deep and meaningful analysis of a song that has been deeply and meaningfully analysized (I know it’s not a word, but it should be) many, many, times before:
***
Hotel California, a popular song written by The Eagles, tells a literal story as well as figurative one. Like most good literature, what may seem on the surface to be simply a song about a man staying in a hotel for a night, actually represents something much deeper. A good look at the lyrics in this song reveals a great deal about its author Don Henley; but a close look at the author reveals even more about the song itself.
The Hotel California receives a CoolRider who has stopped in for the night. It would be wrong to assume, however, that the “choice” of this hotel in particular has no significance. That our man gives into the pleasure and relief of stopping here for the night should come as no surprise as, it turns out, this place is at the heart of one man’s addiction. It is no coincidence then that the author suggests the street names for heroin (H) and cocaine (C) prominently within the tittle of the song – Hotel California (HC).
Once there, our CoolRider meets a beautiful woman who pulls him into the hotel, leading him by candlelight through it’s corridors. Only after he is deep inside the HC does he recognize the woman’s “Tiffany-twisted” ways. Soon her “pretty boys” will not leave him alone. The woman explains that his imprisonment is “of [his] own device.” Although our CoolRider rejects this, his attempts at escape prove futile.
Don Henley has gone public with his own drug use during the ’60s and ’70s noting that, “It was something that practically everyone was doing. It was a time when there was a generation that was coming of age and experimenting with whatever they could get their hands on.” He has made it no secret that the main theme of Hotel California is one of excess, although he has denied that excess is any more specific than that of the “high life in Los Angeles.” Still, knowing his history in one of the worlds most popular rock bands of the 1970s, one can’t help but read the symbolism on the wall of the Hotel California as something more sinister than “Hollywood excess” alone.
Continuing with our examination of the lyrics, we first observe our CoolRider noticing a “shimmering light” that leads him to the hotel where he finds he “had to stop for the night.” He then follows yet another shimmering light, that of a candle, deep into the corridors of the hotel. A shinning light is typically thought to represent goodness in literature. Here, however, the light becomes a lure. CoolRider allows himself to be lured under the pretense that the light is good. That is what he wants to believe, even as, upon entering the hotel, he still must ask himself if “This could be Heaven or this could be Hell.” It is his choice to discard his own warning.
He enjoys the hotel (the drug), “such a lovely place”, the pretty faces, the dancing and the sweet sweat of the summer evening. Still, he begins to hate his beautiful lady (his addiction). He realizes how deadly she can be. We know he sees the danger in her lies of pleasure as he talks about her pretty boys and “Mercedes Benz” (the bends is the term for the pain of rapid ascension experienced by scuba divers and commonly associated with recovering drug addicts). But, he is too far gone at this point to resist, asking the Captain to “please bring me my wine.” He seems to have grown weary of the struggle between himself and her pretty face; She, the addiction, calls to him, “wake[ing him] up in the middle of the night.” We can conclude that although our CoolRider hates the addiction, he still loves the drug.
Not surprisingly, they all end up at the “Master’s feast.” It is only when he sees the others fail to “kill the beast” that he makes a real attempt at resistance, “running for the door” desperately trying to “find the passage back . . . to the place he was before.” Before he met his addiction, before the drug came into his life, before the Hotel California. And, although he makes it back to the hotel entrance, the night man reminds him that while he is free to “check-out any time you like,” (rehabilitation) he “can never [really] leave” (the addiction).
Hotel California is more than just another great song from the ’70s. Besides being melodically sound, written in strong blank verse and ending in rhyme, the lyrics of Hotel California can be read and understood on a variety of levels. Don Henley expresses himself truthfully, thereby highlighting the beauty in the multiplicity of his words. It is writing to be valued for its beauty of form and meaning. A truly excellent piece of literature.
Jeremy’s essay here has me feeling pretty good about a) my writing skillz and b) my high school education. The biggest problem with Jer’s essay, as I said to the friend who brought his work to my attention, is that he really did an injustice by downplaying the dangers of “everything Spanish”. I think after reading his essay you will agree.
I also think he should have taken the fact that thanks to the “scientists” “everyone died” a tad more seriously. Other than that, his essay was . . . well if there was an English word for it, it would be “crap”. But there’s not. An English word for it.
I wonder if there is a Bulgarian word for it, you know, like how the Bulgarian word for “Can’t live” is “Ken Lee“.
Dearest Seattle,
Why do you complain when the warmth comes? The MidSeventies, after taking her cue from the ground hog this year, waited an excruciatingly long time to bare her skin in a pretty new sundress and you, Seattle, you took her for granted today. As though you think it a given that she will come back tomorrow. She may not.
TheSnow was here only two short weeks ago. Do you think he won’t come crawling back at the first hint you would have him? And Humidity – I actually heard you say his name aloud! After I stopped laughing I thought to ask how you could possibly think that Humidity (Humidity of all things!) came on the coattails of MidSeventies? How dare you even suggest it! Spend a day in Tampa in August and then we can discuss where Humidity rears his ugly head.
It’s true. Pollen seemed to arrive with MidSeventies, but you cannot blame her for his refusal to follow a restraining order. It is out of her control. Knowing what a sports fan he is, one could argue that Pollen’s arrival was correlated more so with the first games of the Mariners. Would you betray them because of it??? It’s true that complaints can be heard alongside the SoDo Mojo in the stands, but if there was a possibility that the Mariners would not play again tomorrow or next week, would that not affect the voracity with which you laid into them? Would you bite your tongue, just a little bit, and remember all the reasons you love them so? Like most sports fans, Seattle, you are superstitious and, therefore, I suggest, you would not jinx the Mariners by complaining of them upon their arrival just because Pollen chose to come to the games as well.
All I ask is that you show MidSeventies the same respect. TheEighties (and I’m not talking about the decade here) may come for a visit later this summer. Wouldn’t that be nice? A picnic just isn’t a picnic without “fun Eighties” after all. I’m sure CoolBreeze would not want to miss out on the good food and great laughs of a summer picnic. Please don’t jepordize the opportunity to have them here by gaining a reputation as an ungrateful host.
TheSnow, Cold, and Rain won’t be gone for long so don’t worry about them. The money will run out and living out of a suitcase will begin to take it’s toll. Vacations are nice, but sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti they will head back to their beloved Seattle sending MidSeventies and the rest south again sooner than one would expect (or hope).
Look, Seattle, I know you didn’t mean any harm by it. You probably had on a few too many layers because you just weren’t expecting her to be here and you were uncomfortable. She did not RSVP, after all. WeatherStation assured us all she would not make an appearance for a week or more at least. I get it. You, we, were unprepared. But, that does not excuse rude behavior. Seattle, I thought you knew better. Let’s all work just a bit harder to make her and her friends feel welcome in the next week or so as Cold and Rain finish packing and follow TheSnow to whichever destination it is they’ve chosen to enjoy this spring.
Sincerely,
Joy 
P.S. Photo taken one week later (Saturday, APRIL 19th). Well, I hope you are happy, Seattle. This is just depressing.
.JPG)
Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle;
Everything I do is stiched with its color. – Edna St. Vincent Millay
***
What makes a house a home? When there is nothing about it, in it, around it that doesn’t generate some kind of memory for you. When it is the backdrop to so many experiences, good and bad, with both friends and family, how can it not be defined as a home “where the heart is”?
In the “olden days” they used to refer to them as “the homeplace” where children were born and raised in only a few rooms. But that didn’t make it small, no sir. If anything, it was that much more full. The homeplaces of my grandmothers and the ones they created with their husbands to raise their children still exist, and now have taken on a magical, mystical dimension for me. I guess I’m an old soul to be so enamoured with those small, simple little wooden houses. Not much to look at by most people’s standards.
Only recently, now that Clara has come along, have I started thinking more about the “homeplace” concept and what makes a house a home. The house I grew up in – 124 Ridgeway Road – in Marietta, Georgia was most definitely a home, not just a house, but at the time I lived there it never occurred to me that it was MY homeplace. I always thought that the memories I had would travel with me where I went and the backdrop, the house, was not really so important. It was just a 70′s brick ranch, after all, in the middle of 7.5 acres on a hill with a super long curvy driveway that my brother and I MASTERED on bikes, skateboards, go-carts and the like. The house couldn’t be seen from the road, so, to others, I’m sure it was a bit intriguing to look up and wonder about it from down there. I never felt it lived to up to it’s intrigue, but that’s probably because it was ours and we knew it and the grounds inside and out, so where’s the mystery?
My mother, I seem to remember, made it clear that the purchase of the house was a decision my father had made, an “investment” for the future (and how). But, it was not the house my mother would have chosen had she had her druthers. The backdoor through the kitchen was the un-official entryway because the actual front door had no pathway of any kind leading up to it. It meant my mother always had to keep the kitchen tidy because, as is tradition in the South, you never know when someone might show up on your doorstep. There was no laundry room, just a washer and dryer in a traditional basement filled to the brim with, to the naked eye, junk (a glorious place to explore as a child). She hated the lack of a laundry room and the many stairs between the laundry hampers and the washing machine. This, I feel, influenced the way I thought of the house. Also, as I got older, I got interested in decorating and magazines like Country Living. Our house was nothing like those houses and, in my mind, had none of the architectural charm that even the small cottage-like homeplaces of my grandmothers had. So, I always assumed that my connection with 124 Ridgeway Road was only as a backdrop to the life that I was living and not much more.
After my brother and I were “grown” and long since gone from the house, my parents put it on the market, ready to cash in on the investment they had made. It was on the market for at least seven years (give or take). I think because it was up for so long, I never really believed it was “for sale”. I remember that when I would come home to visit from Seattle, as soon as we started up that long, curvy driveway (which somehow seemed to get shorter as I got older), I could begin to smell my home. Standing in the driveway, pulling out my luggage, I would take a few deep breaths and suck in the smell in the air, unique to my home. It’s the best way I can describe it. It was as though the air around the house had its own distinct flavor. Were that I could have bottled it! It would sell faster than Kramer’s “Ocean” is my sincere belief.
I’m realizing lately that I have many other memories of the house and grounds in which they play a starring roll, not just the set the scene. One of my favorite games as a child was to go out into the woods (the entirety of the 7.5 acres) and play “Timber” with my brother and friends. We would find the vine-y limbs of trees that had broken off but not made it out of the tangle of branches and pull and pull until they would fall on top of us. We would yell “Timber” and I usually would pretend that they had hurt me and fall to the ground. Brett or whoever would then have to come and “rescue” me! Then there were the races my brother and I had from the very top of the driveway to the bottom. It took us YEARS to build up the courage to do the whole thing WITH RECKLESS ABANDON – no brakes allowed! My grandmother tells a story of the time we were both very little on our big wheels or tricycles, just going down a portion of the driveway. We kept promising her, “One more time, Granny, one more time.” At the exact same time, we both took nose dives. So, there is my poor grandmother with two screaming toddlers and “lots” of blood trying to figure out if and how badly we were really hurt. She loves to tell that story and laugh at us for not listening to her and stopping before we bit it.
Two cats, Mister and Missy, and a dog, Heidi, are buried there. My brother and I had a shared ghostly experience there. (We were sitting in the den very early one Saturday morning before my parents were awake. We heard heavy footsteps on the roof and then a man fall off screaming “ahhhhhh” as he fell. We looked at each other scared to death, then found the nerve to run outside to see. No one was there! Mom and dad didn’t believe us, of course, but we never could explain how we both heard it if it didn’t happen. Da da dom!)
Even my “porn” name is based off that home. You know, the grade school game where you take as your first name the of your first pet – Heidi – and the last name of the road you live on – Ridgeway. Heidi Ridgeway. That’s a pretty good porn star name if I do say so myself. (Don’t worry, I’ve given up my “porn star” ways. Now my name – Joy Fisher – sounds like a movie star, or so says one of the Custom Fence Company vendors that I speak with every month. She tells me that every time I call in. I can’t complain. Now, if we can just work on the movie star lifestyle . . .)
The house at 124 Ridgeway Road did finally sell to a developer who planned to put up 47 town homes on it and my parents moved a couple hours further south to Fortson, Georgia. That’s been about, wow, two years ago already, I guess. Although the last few times I’ve been home to see family I’ve been at their new home in Fortson, I never really acknowledged the fact that my homeplace was gone. The developer still hadn’t begun building so the house was just standing there, still full of a number of things my parents left behind after years of accumulating stuff. I knew the house was going to be destroyed, ripped down when the bulldozers came in and I kind of liked the idea that no other family would live there and start building up a relationship with “my homeplace” and “my woods”. But when I heard a couple months ago that the house burned to the ground, I was suddenly very sad about it. We have no information on what happened there exactly and why it burned, but it felt like a tragic death in the family and somehow very unjust. That just wasn’t how my home was supposed to go. It wasn’t supposed to end like that.
This post is dedicated to my homeplace, the house where I grew up that became a true home and the most beautiful backdrop to the story of so much of my life.
****
Update: I’ve been to see the house since it burnt down and have pictures in this blog post here.
Not just an awesome band from the ’80s.
Nope. WAHM is how I’m classifying myself these days; a WorkAtHomeMom. After all, watching Clara all day is its fair share of work, not to mention I still do some work for the Fence Company, so I think I qualify. But, besides playing soccer 3 days a week, I’m also making time for fun stuff like writing, for myself mostly, just because I like to.
So, I started another blog dedicated to that task and signed up at Twitter to force myself to write something creative EVERY DAY (you can see my most recent Twitter posts under the slide show to the right). You can be the judge of whether I’m accomplishing that goal. The point of Twitter, if there is one, is to answer their question, “What are you doing?” in only 140 characters, which is about a sentence worth. Some folks answer the question, some ask questions to other folks -their “followers”, and one middle school teacher is using it as a writing tool for his students. I’m just using it for random thoughts that I think I might be able to turn into a more detailed post one day. Most of them I probably won’t ever do anything with and some of them don’t need any more than the 140 characters to say what needs to be said. That’s fine. Whatever. But, I must say, it’s starting to get addictive and it’s a fun challenge to try and say something other than what I had for lunch today.
Back to my writing blog, I wasn’t too sure what I was going to write about at first, but I think it will be a combo of rants on various topics, probably “mom-issues”, expanding or retelling the “stories of my youth“, and my own struggles with personal finance. You may have noticed that a number of the Other Great Blogs I’m Reading on the right there are personal finance blogs, so I’m taking that as a sign that I might have something to say on that topic, although I haven’t just yet.
Might I point out that there are some really great blogs out there and as I find ones that keep me coming back for more, I’m posting links to them on my blogs, so if you have a moment check them out and see if you might find them of interest as well. If you are reading any great blogs, I’d love to hear about it.
Ciao!
Here’s the thing. It takes a LOT of effort to do all the research that needs doing in order to get the REAL story on most things. And I usually just don’t have time. I just have time to know I’m not getting the whole story and to be skeptical when I hear blanket statements like, “PLASTICS HAVE BEEN LEAKING EVIL TOXINS INTO YOUR BODIES FOR YEARS EVEN THOUGH THE FDA SAYS THEY ARE PERFECTLY SAFE !!!”
OK, I admit I’m being a bit sensational. There is, after all, probably some truth somewhere to that statement and it is always good to question TheMan or whoever, but have you ever noticed how all the shocking revelations of consumer vulnerability come with more and more rules and regulations and the rights of someone (even Corporations are juristic people after all) being TAKEN AWAY? How often do our rights, once taken, ever get returned?
Do Laws ever get taken off the books? I mean, there are some crazy laws out there and, I don’t know about you, but although it’s probably a good thing that you could get into serious legal trouble if you are found driving with an uncaged bear in your car, if only in Missouri, I’m not sure I need a law to make that call for me or for you. And thank goodness I’m not a resident of Pittsburgh or I’d be doing life without parole for the amount of dirt under my rugs.
Whoops, I got off on a tangent before I even got started because my real issue with the question at hand – Are plastics that contain our food safe? – is that the information we are most likely to hear about it is BIASED or, at the very least, we are not given the full story by which to judge the true likelihood of its danger. I’m not arguing that there is nothing to the potential issue of plastics leaking toxins into our food. I took enough science (sans Creationism, thankfully) in school to think it plausible that changing its molecular state by freezing and microwaving it might make the argument quite plausible. What I’m arguing is that, like it or not, the responsibility of figuring out the truth about how serious an issue it really is falls on the you and I because 9 times out of 10 the information you are getting on it is biased.
We owe it to ourselves to know the bias behind our news so that our choices are truly OURS. TheGreatPlasticsNon-Debate is a prime example and qualifies as a post topic here because it is one of those hot button “mom issues” (think plastic baby bottles). You’ll find a lot out there about Bisphenol A (or BPA), a synthetic estrogen drug found to make a great plastic due to its durability. Known as polycarbonate in its hardened form, we come into contact with it everyday in our CDs, automotive parts, the resin lining applied to the insides of food and soft drink cans, toys, microwave ovenware and in many #7 polycarbonate bottles (including baby bottles, as noted above).
A friend sent me a link to The Green Guide which states the following about BPA/Polycarbonate:
Many studies have found that BPA interferes with hormones, as phthalates do, and a March 1998 study in Environmental Health Perspectives (EHP) found that BPA simulates the action of estrogen when tested in human breast cancer cells.
A growing number of scientists are concluding, from animal tests, that exposure to BPA in the womb raises the risk of certain cancers, hampers fertility and could contribute to childhood behavioral problems such as hyperactivity. A January 2006 EHP study on mice indicated that BPA alters the function of mouse pancreatic cells, which produce insulin, suggesting that the chemical may enhance the risk of developing Type II diabetes. Finally, an early 2007 study on BPA in rats found that it led to increased growth, suggesting that the chemical might trigger obesity.
But that’s all it says about BPA, even though that’s hardly all there is to say. It completely neglects to mention that the U.S. National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences (NIEHS), in an attempt to sort out the “truth” from the results of over 150 government funded experiments exploring the health effects of BPA, discarded many of the studies that indicated danger from the chemical, but accepted most of the industry-sponsored studies that showed no potential for harm in their initial review. The reason behind this? The studies showing BPA as harmful used the wrong method to deliver the chemical to lab rats. Instead of feeding BPA to rats by mouth (as the industry studies did) and in the same way humans would come in contact with the chemical, BPA was injected directly into the rats’ blood.
As reported on in this article, the panel of government reviewers noted, “‘We don’t inject BPA . . . we swallow little bits of it as molecules detach from the plastic in food and drink containers.’ The “pathway” of exposure makes a difference. When we eat it, our metabolism breaks down and excretes a lot of it. That doesn’t happen as readily if the chemical is shot directly into the bloodstream.” The NIEHS thus far has concluded that “there is ‘some concern’ that exposure to BPA in the womb causes neural and behavioural changes, but only ‘minimal’ or ‘negligible’ concern about other possible health damage.”
Gail Wood, a spokeswoman for Mead Johnson Nutritionals, a division of Bristol-Myers Squibb Company that manufactures baby formula, in the same article cited above, makes the following points on behalf of BPA-based plastics, specifically the resin liners applied to the insides of food and soft drink cans:
Her final thoughts on the debate: “The key take-away is that there probably are alternatives – not as good – and every alternative is going to have its inherent risks and benefits. . . I wish people who were scaring consumers would present more of a balanced story.”
I completely agree. Had they, I wouldn’t have had to spend all this time on a rant about TheGreatPlasticsNon-Debate! I wish there was a site like Truth or Fiction, Hoax-Slayer, or Snopes that I could go to quickly to find out not only if I’ve really gotten cancer from my optical mouse as that recently forwarded email suggests but what’s the FULL story on sensationalized topics like harmful plastics that may not be, scarce landfill space that’s not, and global warming that may not be because of us (inconvenient as that truth may be).
Why, by George, I think I’ve found my site! If you took the trip on the last two links, you found The Straight Dope. I bet Cecil can do a better job than I presenting the real deal on TheGreatPlasticNon-Debate. Think I should ask him? Probably, since I haven’t even started in on Phthalates yet. Lucky for you, I’m not going to either because I’ve proven my point, if only to myself, that there was, in fact, more to the story on those “harmful plastics” and right now my limited research has reassured me that not only did I not harm Clara by heating her formula, I can continue to heat my plastic bowls and plates (as long as they say “microwave and dishwasher safe”), freeze my water bottles, and eat my Spaghettios cold, straight from the can.
I’m struggling with what to actually do with this blog. I want to do some more writing and I thought I would have a lot of parenting stuff to write about (to go with my WAHM title), but so far I’ve found that either I’m not interested enough to sit down and write about “mom” stuff after doing it all day and/or a little too nervous to start an editorial/opinion blog. No one has asked me my opinion on the things I’m thinking about fleshing out in writing, so maybe I’m better off just keeping those thoughts to myself. Then again, it seems that there are plenty of folks out there who like giving me and anyone else who will listen their unsolicited advice. Maybe I’m just a little late to the fray, eh?
Actually, that turns out to be a pretty good lead in to one thing on my mind. I’m really noticing that there seems to be a a lot more people than I realized who are not satisfied until they have changed my opinion to their own. I’m not necessarily talking about actual friends and acquaintances of mine, either, just a general thing going on out there – in the articles and blogs that I read, to the “news” shows on TV, to magazines that I subscribe to, etc. Apparently, unless my opinion is yours, we are at an impasse and/or you think you are smarter than me.
What’s is that all about? Why is it so important to others that my opinion be EXACTLY like theirs? I get that people like to have connection and finding out someone has the same opinion as you on an issue is great validation. But, I have plenty of friends and family that I respect and care about just the same, even though our opinions may not always mesh. What’s up with the people who feel so strongly that my opinion must change to theirs during the course of our conversation? Can’t we all get along just as we are? In the words of my husband’s favorite band, people are people so why should it be you and I should get along so awfully if I don’t agree with you even a little or at all?
What I’m talking about here is the stuff that comes up between friends or people you’ve just met, your husband’s boss at the Christmas party, the local news, major newspapers, what have you. Take the news, for example. I mean, what ever happened to UNBIASED journalism and documentaries – the very definition of which is the presentation of facts objectively. At least with Michael Moore or Sean Hannity you know what you are getting into. No preconceived unbiased-ness there. Not like when Halloween comes around and articles in my Parenting magazine talk about the need to “go green” for Halloween and not give out candy. I mean, come on! It’s all fine and dandy not to give out candy, but don’t push that far left green stuff on me, dog. The entire magazine that month had a thousand articles about “going green.” Must you make me feel guilty at Halloween. Is that necessary, really?
Okay, so there is one example of what can lead to the type of conversations I’m talking about. The obvious topics are politics and religion. I know I’m not the only one who will often avoid conversations on these two topics like the plague, even risk coming off as not having an opinion at all, or (gasp!) pretend to agree with your opinion if I think the conversation won’t have time to get too deep, especially if it means we can all just get on with the party and enjoy ourselves. You know what I’m talking about. Since when is it socially acceptable to make everyone at the table uncomfortable because you want to argue with whoever is sitting across from you over politics?
But, I digress, because it’s really the subtle stuff I’m talking about – like parenting choices or recycling, for example. And here is where I can take this post back to having some WAHM relevance, because it was getting pregnant and becoming a FTM (first time mom) that brought these little “hot button”(?!) topics to my attention. Not that I had never noticed that when people get passionate about an issue they can tend to try and force their opinion on everyone else. I expect it with those aforementioned big ticket issues. But since becoming a mom, I’ve been more than a little surprised at how often and how fired up women (moms and non-moms alike) can get with one another about things that had never hit my radar before. In Mom World, if you are trying to get out there and make friends with the other moms and have a playdate with their kids, the topics of breastfeeding and disposable diapers are analogous to politics and religion. Stay away from these discussions at all cost, especially if you are on the unpopular side of the argument. If you can’t stay away from the discussion, you may want to tread gently until you know what side of the issue they are on. Then, adjust accordingly.
Actually, I’m pretty lucky in that I have a number of great girlfriends on both coasts who’ve became FTMs about the same time I did and even if I know we don’t necessarily agree on every parenting “issue”, I feel very comfortable discussing the issues with each and everyone of them. That said, I think most of us have come across another mom or dad or whoever, that has somehow implied that we were on the wrong end of one issue or another. I’m pretty much on the “wrong” end of every mom issue. Canned baby food vs. make your own: I make . . . a trip to the store for the canned stuff. Gerber is my friend, my really expensive, but very convenient friend. Breastfeed or Bust (pun intended) vs. formula fed: I was a formula fed baby (except for two months) as was my husband and brother and a number of others I know who all turned out just fine. Did I nurse Clara? TSYBB (That’s Something You’d Better Believe) but did I also formula feed her when we went out to restaurants or if I wanted to get out of the house for a bit? That’s a big 10-4, buddy. Vaccinations vs. Non-vaccinated: Are you kidding me with that?! Vaccinations, of course! Cloth diapers vs. disposable? Can you guess? Ya, you betcha, the Diaper Champ has a special place in my heart. To paraphrase one blogger in the “momosphere”, I’ll be the master of my garbage can, thank you very much! And if that means filling it full of disposable diapers, so be it.
And, while we are on the subject, if I don’t really feel like washing out the mayonnaise jar so it can go in the recycle bin but instead toss it casually out with the garbage, I refuse to feel guilty about that any longer. I do my share of recycling, of water conservation, of not wasting leftovers and all of that other stuff. My recycle and yard waste bins overflow by the time they are scheduled to be picked up every other week. Again, I digress . . .
I have researched my positions on all the above mentioned mom issues and have found plenty of validation in my decisions (here, here, here and here). And if you disagree with me on any of them, and this is the kicker, THAT IS A-OK WITH ME. You are perfectly entitled to be on the opposite side of those issues as I am. I actually do not mind one bit. It truly doesn’t bother me. I don’t think about it at night. In fact, I won’t even be thinking about it at all after I finish this blog post. What I think about is why does it bother YOU that I have a different opinion. (By the way, I hope you know I’m not talking about you, specifically, dear reader (unless the shoe fits – ha!), I’m talking the collective, plural “you” or whatever.)
What I’m asking is can’t we still find common ground if you want to vote for Barack and I am going to “throw my vote away” writing in Ron Paul ? Are we good if you go to church every Sunday and me, not so much? Fine by me if you fill up your garbage can with everything that can qualify as garbage so long as it doesn’t bother you that I keep food scraps under the sink until I can take them out with the yard waste, recycle the basics (unless it’s more effort than it’s worth) but have no problem with the fact that allegedly 50% of my household waste is made up of the disposable diapers we use for Clara. Are you cool with the fact that the chances of you changing my mind on any of these issues is slim to none, not because I won’t listen to what you have to say but because, chances are, you are not going to tell me anything I haven’t already considered? Because if you are going to get all fired up when I don’t agree with you on these things and try to put me down a little, make me feel stupid or like I don’t know what I’m talking about, especially in front of a group, well, I ain’t having that, see. That’s just NOT how I roll.
One thing being a mom has done for me is to really start making me define, for myself, exactly what my “life philosophies” are. When it comes to parenting, I’d say I’m practical. Pretty much, I take most situations and think about how my own parents and grandmothers raised their children in the poor, rural South. WWMGD? (What Would My Grandmothers Do?) I guarantee my mom wasn’t being driven all over “God’s creation” to music class and soccer practice and being otherwise constantly entertained. (And she didn’t raise us that way either.) Nor was she wearing the latest in name brand fashions at the age of two (or ever) and given the “hottest” toy on the market at Christmas time every year. That’s not to say that I’m not going to have Clara involved in some activities, like music and soccer, or that she will never be taken shopping or that she doesn’t already have WAY more toys that she needs, but I’m perfectly willing to close her off in her room for an hour or so with no television or friends or constant interaction from me. I have gotten a look a couple times now when I’ve mentioned that when I put Clara down for a nap and she doesn’t want to sleep that I just leave her in her crib for the two hours she should be sleeping. She’s not crying. She ain’t unhappy in there. She’s perfectly content, although she should be sleeping, to just be by herself playing her made up baby games or ripping pages out of the books I can’t seem to keep far enough out of her reach.
And I don’t want to get into a detailed political rant (though I certainly could), but I’m recently able to define my political philosophy better than I ever have in the past:
Don’t tell me how to spend my money and don’t tell me what to do.
I heard someone say this recently and I felt that it described my feelings pretty perfectly. I prefer to keep my money and make the decisions about where it gets spent. I think I’m better qualified to do so than the Federal government. At the very least, let’s keep it in our local and state governments who know what issues affect us right on our doorstep. Don’t tell me that I can’t have an abortion. I’ll decide that. Don’t tell me I can’t own a gun. I’ll decide that. Don’t tell me I have to recycle. I’ll decide that too. Agree with it or not, it’s simple. I’m pretty sure life philosophies should be simple little truths. You know, like, Confucius’ pearls of wisdom:
What the superior man seeks is in himself; what the small man seeks is in others.
We take greater pains to persuade others that we are happy than in endeavoring to think so ourselves.
Yep, my truths and your truths; they may not be the same. That’s okay by me. Is it okay by you?
***
Hmmm. I started off this post thinking I had nothing to say. I guess I showed me, huh?! It was liberating to write with no worries as to who I might offend! But, now, of course, I’m worried that I might have hurt your feelings and I should go back and take some of it out, water it down a bit, just so there’s no hard feelings. There is a time that I would have done that. But, that time has passed . . .
I’ve been spending a good bit of time in room # 5 of CCU at St. Francis hospital in Columbus, GA. My father has been here just a bit over a week and Clara and I flew in on Thursday. He was admitted for sepsis or septic shock and they finally found an abscess on his liver that was at least partially to blame. Once that was discovered and his medicines were adjusted accordingly, he began doing better and they are finally talking of moving him out of CCU and into a room (and also of sending him up to Emory in Atlanta where his transplant doctors will check him out).
All this is good news and mom, Brett and I have done our best to keep him company at the hospital while he recovers. Mostly just sitting in a chair beside his bed for hours at a time so that he can look over and know that we are there to support him when he wakes up a minute or two from his slumber (he’s been sleeping a lot the last few days as his body recovers).
Our schedule goes something like this: Mom and Brett (who’s now gone back to Alabama for the work week) go in the mornings from about 10-2 while Clara and I do our thing back at the house. After Clara’s nap, I’d head over to St.F while mom takes over watching the Clare-bear. I bring lots of reading material.
Tonight I was reading through my old journals and came across some things that made me laugh. So much so, that I felt like sharing. The first is a super silly poem that Chad wrote to me back in the days when we were newly “courting”:
I like to read
but I’d really rather knead,
my freshly baked dough
into a picture perfect Van Gogh.
Well, I really should see
how much work I shirk,
but it’s more fun rhymin’
than puttin’ in your timin’.
-CRF
Hilarious!! You see why I married him. I want more poems like that in my life. I didn’t remind him of this poem when I talked to him tonight. We’ll see how long it takes him to find it. . .
Okay, next are a few choice excerpts from my Oxford, England journal entries. Suzanne and I did a study abroad program my sophomore summer of college at UGA. Oxford the college is actually made up of numerous buildings referred to as “colleges”. Ours was Jesus College and there were about 21 of us in the group. Everyone had about 2 classes that summer, but classes were only held one day a week for an hour. That may sound like an easy gig (and it wasn’t bad, to be sure) but the hour of class was for the instructor to throw the work load on you. The rest of the week was yours to figure out how to get it done. Each class went on some excursion tailored to the history of what was being studied and there was free time on weekends and a couple long holidays to venture out on day or multi-day trips of your own making. Suzanne and I were a regular Abbott & Costello. I was probably Costello. Or Abbott. You decide. Here we go:
July 1, 1996
Dessert tonight was apple sauce on a pie crust with meringue topping. It was good, but I never would have thought of it. I was talking with Andy. He’s a grad student at Oxford. He was asking me if American girls danced around their handbags. I was like – “What?!” Apparently, “low class girls” in England tend to dance around their handbags. Go figure.
July 2, 1996
Went on a Oxford University walking tour today. Evna Waughner was our walking tour guide. She was very eccentric and it was hilarious! Here are some of the insane things she said, all of it stated very matter of factly:
“That gargoyle has two heads – it’s like mid-evil schizophrenia. Okay, let’s go!”
“Everyone should climb the outside to the top of the Radcliff Camera (the Oxford library). You need a grappling hook and two students have died, but you should do it anyway. To prove that you’ve done it you should leave something in the golden globe – like your underwear.”
July 3, 1996
Today I . . . went to Christ Church College and got the pictures I wanted. Then I went to dinner. The main course came and I wasn’t paying to much attention to what it was because most of it was covered in some unidentifiable sauce. So, I sliced off a chunk of what I thought was cooked apple sauce or some similar type of fruit. After a moment of chewing, it occurred to me to ask, “Is this fat?!?!” “Yes.” was the reply. My appetite was gone.
July 8, 1996
Today Suzanne and I went to Worchester College to eat lunch and study. We picked a pretty spot in front of the lake where there was a bench. As we were settling in, we commented on how cute the ducks were. We laid out all our books and papers in preperation of the work we needed to do. I had taken off my shoes and socks because it was so nice out. As Suzanne and I began to open our sandwiches, we noticed that the ducks and geese were making their way toward us. They surrounded us and were hissing and biting as Suzanne and I stood helplessly on the bench! It was a Kodak moment.
July 15, 1996
So, I have to confess that yesterday on our trip to Dover, Jason and I were making Suzanne the brunt of our jokes (as usual). Well, we got her good on this wooden dummy thing. Apparently, Jason had watched a documentary on the stress of students growing up in Japan. One boy was so lonely because he had no friends that he made himself a wooden friend. So, we were teasing Suzanne about having a wooden friend throughout the day and she continually denied the existence of said wooden friend. On the train ride home, Jason made a comment along the lines of, “You know, we’ve assumed it’s a he, but we’re not even sure it’s not actually a girl.” And Suzanne cried out, a little too quickly, “No! No! It’s a guy! It’s a guy!” We will never let her live that down.
Today I sent her an email response to a smart aleck note she sent me. It began, “If you are reading this it means you’ve probably put your wooden friend down for a nap. If you want, I can help you refinish him. All it would take is a coat or two of varnish. . .” POOR SUZANNE.
***
Here’s hoping Suzanne is still on speaking terms with me after reading this post. It will be a test to see how diligently she and her wooden dummy (not to be confused with her now husband – j/k Kevin!) are keeping up with my blog.
It’s been a long time since I’ve done one of these “write-y” posts and I like it. Think I’m going to get back into writing a little more in the near future . . .
My father is not dead. But, I wrote his eulogy anyway.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m certainly NOT ready and waiting for my father to die. In fact, I’ve recently flown across the country with my not quite two year old daughter to be with him as he fights his way back in the Critical Care Unit of St. Francis hospital. Finally, things seem to have begun taking a turn for the better. Of course he’s not out of the woods yet. But being here and close has eased my mind so much. Before that, from 3,000 miles away, I couldn’t get over the feeling of dread that the moment whose arrival I have dreaded for years might finally be upon me and that along with it regret – for not being near him when it happened, amongst other things – would follow quickly behind.
That’s when a tangent thought lead me to the conclusion that I needed to write his eulogy so that if he survived this I could read it to him. It seemed especially tragic to me that I might sit down to write it after he had passed and that he may never have heard what I would have to say about him. It is sad to me to think that the person being eulogized would never get the opportunity to hear that praise while he is alive and might appreciate or benefit from it the most. The ones left behind may find some comfort in a eulogy, but I’m not sure how much good it does the dead guy, if you know what I mean.
So, I sat down and wrote a eulogy for my father, not knowing if I may actually have to read it aloud to a group of mourners in the near future. I’m not even sure I could read it aloud to anyone at all if the worst should happen. Thankfully, that remains to be seen. For now, here it is – my written praise to my father – who at this moment is not dead and will turn 71 in less than a week.
***
Cecil Rudolph Kersey.
Some of you know him as Cecil, many of you know him as Rudi. I know him as Dad. I’m often told by my mother that we are exactly alike. While I don’t know that that is entirely true, I do know that many of his faults are mine, but I’d like to think maybe a little of his greatness is too.
Here is a simple list of some of the great things about my father you may already know:
He is loyal.
“Joy Lynn is out to Win!” This is a slogan he FORCED me to adopt when I was in the 6th grade and thought I might, maybe, consider running for class treasurer. He had every confidence that I could and would win despite my attempt to explain to him exactly where I fit in the social hierarchy at school – the word plebe comes to mind. Yes, for every reason I gave as to why I could not win, he responded with the reason why I absolutely would win. I didn’t, but that’s not the point. He was completely loyal to the underdog that was his daughter.
He recognized my “frienemies” before I did. The first one I can remember is Emily Rudd. He didn’t like her one bit. He was on my side before I was and I, of course, was on her side because what could he know? I came to find out he was right, by the way.
If Brett or I are ever rude to our mother, you bet dad is there to defend her (even though she is perfectly capable of doing it herself). He is loyal to her most of all, I think. He would do anything for that woman (including paint Roses for Hilda – an impressionistc piece I now have haning in my living room).
He loves to “pull your leg.”
Especially if he thinks he can get away with it and you are a gullible child. “Curiosity killed the cat, Joy and Brett.” That’s what he told us as we were getting out of the car to explore the local haunted house (at least it was in our minds). “Oh no! Whose cat,” we asked? “Who is Curiosity? I don’t care, I’m still going!” “Just remember, curiosity killed the cat, ” was all he would say. We never did explore that house before they tore it down.
And did you know that he was really the Incredible Hulk? Yep, he would stand here now and tell you that he had us completely convinced of this fact. (Not so. I was pretty sure it wasn’t true, but you know, I didn’t want to ruin it for Brett.)
He is into repetition. I’ll say it again – he is into repetition.
On my 16th birthday, he set the CD player on repeat to play “Sixteen Candles” ALL DAY LONG. Every time I hear that song, for the rest of my life, I will think of my father. My daughter will endure the same burden on her 16th birthday in honor of him. And it is primarily because of his love of repetition that Clara at not even two years old knows exactly who Papa is from 3,000 miles away. He’s “1, 2, 3, 4, 5!, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5!” repeated in a sing-song voice just like a once favorite, now long forgotten toy.
From these stories, it should come as no surprise that he loves children and dogs.
Cats? Not so much. I can’t tell you how many times he suggested the best place for our family cats was in the microwave. While it was on. He was half-joking, of course. In fact, he had just recently sent me a very detailed email about how to use my cat as a toilet brush. He assured me that both Harry and the toilet would come out “sparkling clean.”
He is a poet and a painter. (Seems this may be a requirement of carrying the Kersey name.)
Don’t be mislead,
Always plan for what’s ahead,
Danger waits for those who occupy an unmade bed.
There may be some wisdom in there from my father. It’s an acrostic poem he wrote, where the first letter in each line combines to spell a word. In this case, D-A-D – Dad.
He maintains and ongoing battle over the birdseed with any given number of squirrels each day.
But don’t think he didn’t respect this sworn enemy:
Bark held tight in close embrace,
Round and round in joyous chase,
But serious times soon come again,
Come so soon on Winter’s Wind.
Hidden in summer and in fall,
Nuts and seed, large and small,
Destined to be found again,
When Winter’s cold has crept within.
Buried secrets keep them fed,
While nature herself provides a bed,
In urban areas sometimes a friend,
Provides more food in constructed bins.
Intended perhaps for a feathered friend,
The squirrel seems somehow to always win:
Improving his larder by persistent attempts,
No obstacles to his efforts proving exempt.
He can’t hear worth diddly-squat.
And will never admit it. Whenever I call home to see how my parents are doing, mom asks the standard mom questions:
“How’s Clara?” Doing good.
“How’s Chad?” Doing good.
“Anything else I need to know about?” Not really.
“Do you want to talk to your dad?” Sure. Hi dad.
“How’s Clara?” Doing good. “What?” DOING GOOD!
“How’s Chad?” Doing good. “What?” DOING GOOD!
Now, if Chad happens to be in the room while I’m on the phone with them, all he hears is:
Doing good. Doing good. Doing good. DOING GOOD! Doing good. DOING GOOD!!
—
If you didn’t know all these things about my father – that he was loyal, liked to pull your leg, loved to repeat himself, could paint and write poetry – there is one other thing you may not know about him:
He can sometimes be stubborn.
If you know any Kerseys, then you know this is DEFINITLY a requirement of carrying the “Kersey” name. It’s funny that this, this flaw, becomes one of the most endearing things about him. A thing to look back on, to shake your head and laugh – just a little – at “how frustrating that man can be!”
I say to you now the same words that he wrote after his own father’s passing:
He is my father and I love him.
