I heard rumors that the speaker at our Business and Professional Women’s meeting, Vickie Weaver, had asked for clown noses for each person in attendance. My first reaction was a mental rolling of eyes and words raced through my brain that I won’t put in writing.
I’ve always enjoyed humor and having fun, but usually avoid acting silly. Clown noses sounded pretty ridiculous.
Vickie presented the first part of her program on “The Art of Laughter” touting the therapeutic benefits of laughter. We’ve all heard about life threatening diseases being cured after a person watched several days of slapstick comedy.
The dreaded moment arrived and clown noses were distributed. We opened plastic wrappers and plunked the red sponge noses over our real noses. Immediately, cell phones were removed from purses to take advantage of this photo op. I seriously hope there are not pictures of me on You Tube wearing a red sponge-Bob nose.
I’m pretty sure our honored guests for the evening—a table of men, the chicken fryers from last fall’s fundraiser—thought we had lost our minds. A couple of them tentatively put on their noses, but they didn’t jump up like the rest of us to learn a variety of laughs.
My favorite was the one that ended with throwing our hands in the air and shouting “Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!” Other favorites were the “hand shake” and the “thumbs up” laugh.
I laughed so hard my sides hurt and the muscles on the back part of my head began to ache. I’m sure the good endorphins helped us through the serious topic that dominated our business meeting. We discussed the imminent demise of the 90 year old BPW organization that we all know and love. Our group is determination to continue with our local’s good work even if it requires a name change. Our BPW local supports community programs year round and annually awards scholarships.
Vickie’s timing was perfect to remind us of the importance of not just a smile or chuckle, but a real full body laugh. It is impossible to take yourself too seriously while you wear a clown nose. Clown noses and laughter put troubles into perspective.
After a blustery, cold Thursday, Friday morning was bright with the slight chill of a Colorado summer day, the kind of morning that always makes me miss Jim. It was my day off and I had time to think about personal pressing issues. My broken dryer topped the list. My sister-in-law, Ginger, had already dried two loads of clothes for me. Now, I needed to figure out how to get the dryer repaired or replaced.
As I poured my first cup of coffee, a moment of utter sadness over life’s losses brought tears to my eyes. As I fixed my coffee, I thought about how much Jim loved a cup of coffee. He drank his coffee black. He wanted it steaming hot so he used a thick cup and drank a half-cup at a time. After his cup of coffee he would have fixed the dryer and it wouldn’t have been my problem.
I’m not usually one to weep over what “should-a-could-a” been so I brushed aside the tears to answer the phone. A friend told me he was on the way over to look at my dryer. My spirits lifted, and while I drank my first cup of coffee, I enjoyed the lovely spring day. I began to hum—life can be fun regardless of those pesky day-to-day problems.
I pulled my clown nose out of my purse. Should I just pop the nose on and practice my “Wheeeee!” laugh? Nah! No sense in being silly.
Showing posts with label BPW. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BPW. Show all posts
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
Do You Think You Can, or Think You Can’t?
Jodi Stucker, Phi Beta Lambda advisor spoke at our Business and Professional Women's Meeting last night. I was impressed by the accomplishments of State Fair Community College students. Local PBL students competed at National Competition and two placed in the top ten. One young lady won first place in computer applications!
At the end of the presentation, Jodi showed a slide of a beautiful fountain in front of their hotel in Atlanta. Across the bottom of the slide was a quote: “If you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.”—Henry Ford.
The “can do” attitude was instilled in me at an early age. My Mom and Dad had a hard time raising eight kids. My mom worked at a factory, and dad farmed, drove a school bus, and worked long hours as a builder. They never threw their hands in the air and said, “Lord, how are we going to feed all these hungry mouths?” No, they just thought they could and they did.
When our kids were small, I stayed home with them while Jim earned our living. For several years when we filed our income tax, we fell below the poverty level. Strangely, we didn’t really consider ourselves to be poor. We always paid our bills, and saved money when we had it to tide us through the times when we didn’t. We always knew we would make it. I’m not saying we never worried, but we never let setbacks destroy our lives.
In 1976, I began classes at State Fair Community College under a program called Manpower. I had to be persistent to quality for the program because I was not the primary breadwinner in our family. The second roadblock was the counselor’s insistence that with high unemployment, I should study nursing instead of secretarial. Let me tell you I was squeamish about nursing—shots, illness, all that blood… I knew nursing was not the program for me.
“You have to be top-notch to get a job in secretarial,” he said. “There just aren’t many jobs now. Nurses can always find work.” He totally didn’t understand why I wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to be a nurse.
“I will be top-notch,” I assured him. At State Fair, I doubled up on classes and managed to get a two-year degree in slightly more than a year. Even with high unemployment, I found a job before graduation. I was able to do it because I thought I could.
Later, the stakes became higher when Jim developed dementia. You can imagine that my squeamishness had not changed a lot over the years. Being a caregiver is much like being a nurse. You learn to deal with illness and occasionally blood. During the years of caregiving, I basically woke up each morning chanting the mantra: “I can make it through today.”
Money can't buy love or good health, but the lack of it can make life tougher. Either accept the challenge to make it through the tough times and still enjoy life, or decide you can’t and sink into despair. The choice is yours—can or can’t? Just remember, you will be right.
At the end of the presentation, Jodi showed a slide of a beautiful fountain in front of their hotel in Atlanta. Across the bottom of the slide was a quote: “If you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.”—Henry Ford.
The “can do” attitude was instilled in me at an early age. My Mom and Dad had a hard time raising eight kids. My mom worked at a factory, and dad farmed, drove a school bus, and worked long hours as a builder. They never threw their hands in the air and said, “Lord, how are we going to feed all these hungry mouths?” No, they just thought they could and they did.
When our kids were small, I stayed home with them while Jim earned our living. For several years when we filed our income tax, we fell below the poverty level. Strangely, we didn’t really consider ourselves to be poor. We always paid our bills, and saved money when we had it to tide us through the times when we didn’t. We always knew we would make it. I’m not saying we never worried, but we never let setbacks destroy our lives.
In 1976, I began classes at State Fair Community College under a program called Manpower. I had to be persistent to quality for the program because I was not the primary breadwinner in our family. The second roadblock was the counselor’s insistence that with high unemployment, I should study nursing instead of secretarial. Let me tell you I was squeamish about nursing—shots, illness, all that blood… I knew nursing was not the program for me.
“You have to be top-notch to get a job in secretarial,” he said. “There just aren’t many jobs now. Nurses can always find work.” He totally didn’t understand why I wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to be a nurse.
“I will be top-notch,” I assured him. At State Fair, I doubled up on classes and managed to get a two-year degree in slightly more than a year. Even with high unemployment, I found a job before graduation. I was able to do it because I thought I could.
Later, the stakes became higher when Jim developed dementia. You can imagine that my squeamishness had not changed a lot over the years. Being a caregiver is much like being a nurse. You learn to deal with illness and occasionally blood. During the years of caregiving, I basically woke up each morning chanting the mantra: “I can make it through today.”
Money can't buy love or good health, but the lack of it can make life tougher. Either accept the challenge to make it through the tough times and still enjoy life, or decide you can’t and sink into despair. The choice is yours—can or can’t? Just remember, you will be right.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Day the Music Died
I went to our local Liberty Center last night with a group of BPW ladies to watch the Buddy Holly Story. The day that he, The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens died in an airplane that took off in a snow storm from Clear Lake, Iowa, is referred to as the “day the music died”. The play begins with a man, hat pulled low, playing an acoustic guitar and singing about the day the music died. Buddy Holly takes the stage and plays a Fender guitar that immediately reminds me of Jim’s 1952 Fender Telecaster. In a scene I found particularly poignant, Buddy picks up a guitar and sings a song just for his wife.
Unless you have been personally serenaded, you do not understand the intimacy of a song meant just for you. Certain songs Jim played were always meant for me regardless of how many people were in the room. Some of the special songs were Buck Owens’s version of “Cinderella” and Elvis Presley’s “Tender Feelings.” These songs expressed Jim’s own philosophy and capacity to love. He would strum his guitar and sing, “There wasn’t any palace and you weren’t a queen, In your faded cotton dresses anyone could see…but you’re still Cinderella to me.” Another Elvis song he sang for me was, “Come take what I offer you, and kiss me tenderly, and you will be forever young, and beautiful, to me.”
I don’t remember the last time Jim sang a special song for me. I don’t remember the date or the year. He lost his songs one-by-one but I remember one June day in 1999, he picked up his Fender Telecaster and played Buckaroo without a flaw. Jim’s music didn’t die in one tragic day—it faded away over ten years.
When I watched the play last night, I was reminded of Jim saying, “Waylon Jennings was supposed to be on the plane, but he gave up his seat to Ritchie Valens.” When you think about the talented people killed on that plane, you can’t help but feel a sense of loss. How high would those young and upcoming stars have risen with their careers?
In a sense, the singers killed February 2, 1959, have been immortalized in movies, plays, and with their recordings. They died, but their music didn’t—only the music that could have been.
The show symbolizes loss, with the man returning to the stage, hat pulled low as he sings about the day the music died. The lights go low and Bart Kuhns as Buddy Holly returns to the stage to sing a rousing rendition of “Johnny B. Good”. The show ends with the audience on their feet, clapping and smiling.
That’s the way life should be. Instead of crying over what could have been, we need to rejoice in the music that lives in our hearts. The music only dies when we let it.
Unless you have been personally serenaded, you do not understand the intimacy of a song meant just for you. Certain songs Jim played were always meant for me regardless of how many people were in the room. Some of the special songs were Buck Owens’s version of “Cinderella” and Elvis Presley’s “Tender Feelings.” These songs expressed Jim’s own philosophy and capacity to love. He would strum his guitar and sing, “There wasn’t any palace and you weren’t a queen, In your faded cotton dresses anyone could see…but you’re still Cinderella to me.” Another Elvis song he sang for me was, “Come take what I offer you, and kiss me tenderly, and you will be forever young, and beautiful, to me.”
I don’t remember the last time Jim sang a special song for me. I don’t remember the date or the year. He lost his songs one-by-one but I remember one June day in 1999, he picked up his Fender Telecaster and played Buckaroo without a flaw. Jim’s music didn’t die in one tragic day—it faded away over ten years.
When I watched the play last night, I was reminded of Jim saying, “Waylon Jennings was supposed to be on the plane, but he gave up his seat to Ritchie Valens.” When you think about the talented people killed on that plane, you can’t help but feel a sense of loss. How high would those young and upcoming stars have risen with their careers?
In a sense, the singers killed February 2, 1959, have been immortalized in movies, plays, and with their recordings. They died, but their music didn’t—only the music that could have been.
The show symbolizes loss, with the man returning to the stage, hat pulled low as he sings about the day the music died. The lights go low and Bart Kuhns as Buddy Holly returns to the stage to sing a rousing rendition of “Johnny B. Good”. The show ends with the audience on their feet, clapping and smiling.
That’s the way life should be. Instead of crying over what could have been, we need to rejoice in the music that lives in our hearts. The music only dies when we let it.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Double Booked
Some people think I’m insane when they see my calendar. Others just think I don’t realize each day has only 24 hours. Sometimes, I find myself double booked. Last Monday night I had two meetings at the same exact time, across town from each other. Just cancel one? Oh, heavens, no! I went to my BPW board meeting first, and then to the other, longer Memory Walk planning meeting.
Thursday night, I had a dinner meeting, on the opening day of the State Fair. After the meeting adjourned, three of us went to the fair and caught the end of the Air Supply concert. Who says you can’t do it all?
Friday was my day off, but my plans for the day: work a few hours, eat grilled hamburgers at the going-away lunch for our summer employee, and make my 1:15 appointment at W-K Chevrolet to get my oil changed. And then, what the heck, I might as well go to Brian’s Gym for a workout. Not a problem. Except, I got sick Thursday night. I’ll spare you the gross details, but I was violently ill. Kind of reminded me of the time I had food poisoning. That time, Jim hauled me into to the emergency room. After waiting two hours and no doctor in sight, I decided if I was going to die, I would much rather die at home in my own bathroom than the hospital’s public restroom.
I spent Friday totally wiped out. I slept, drank a little water, ate a few bites of bread, slept, called and cancelled everything, slept, and slept. By evening, I felt better so I stayed awake for a few hours, and then went to bed and slept through the night. When my alarm went off this morning—yes, I know it’s Saturday but I had a conference to attend—thankfully, I had slept off my illness. Late this afternoon on the way home, I stopped by work and finished the reports I planned on doing yesterday.
Have I always been like this? No! I became possessed after ten years of being a caregiver. All primary caregivers of loved ones with Alzheimer’s know about the 36 Hour Day. As crazy as my calendar is, it is still calm compared to that of a caregiver.
I’m not sure what happened to the person I once was, but I think she evaporated into a puff of smoke. What happened to the days when I couldn’t find enough to do? What happened to curling up with a book on a rainy day? What happened to my own personal concerts with Jim singing and playing his Fender guitar?
Early onset dementia changed everything. I’m not the person I used to be, and I will never be that person again. I will never take life or love for granted.
Double booked? So what? At least I’m not triple booked. Often.
Thursday night, I had a dinner meeting, on the opening day of the State Fair. After the meeting adjourned, three of us went to the fair and caught the end of the Air Supply concert. Who says you can’t do it all?
Friday was my day off, but my plans for the day: work a few hours, eat grilled hamburgers at the going-away lunch for our summer employee, and make my 1:15 appointment at W-K Chevrolet to get my oil changed. And then, what the heck, I might as well go to Brian’s Gym for a workout. Not a problem. Except, I got sick Thursday night. I’ll spare you the gross details, but I was violently ill. Kind of reminded me of the time I had food poisoning. That time, Jim hauled me into to the emergency room. After waiting two hours and no doctor in sight, I decided if I was going to die, I would much rather die at home in my own bathroom than the hospital’s public restroom.
I spent Friday totally wiped out. I slept, drank a little water, ate a few bites of bread, slept, called and cancelled everything, slept, and slept. By evening, I felt better so I stayed awake for a few hours, and then went to bed and slept through the night. When my alarm went off this morning—yes, I know it’s Saturday but I had a conference to attend—thankfully, I had slept off my illness. Late this afternoon on the way home, I stopped by work and finished the reports I planned on doing yesterday.
Have I always been like this? No! I became possessed after ten years of being a caregiver. All primary caregivers of loved ones with Alzheimer’s know about the 36 Hour Day. As crazy as my calendar is, it is still calm compared to that of a caregiver.
I’m not sure what happened to the person I once was, but I think she evaporated into a puff of smoke. What happened to the days when I couldn’t find enough to do? What happened to curling up with a book on a rainy day? What happened to my own personal concerts with Jim singing and playing his Fender guitar?
Early onset dementia changed everything. I’m not the person I used to be, and I will never be that person again. I will never take life or love for granted.
Double booked? So what? At least I’m not triple booked. Often.
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