Yesterday I met my newest great grandchild, only a few hours after his arrival. His name is Jack. Emotions run high at a time like that. Jenny, my granddaughter, and the mother of this wee lad, had given birth for the first time and I knew exactly how she felt. How can such a natural every-day affair set a new mother on such a high pinnacle? "Baby and mother doing fine!" cannot possibly describe it. Then, with family gathered around to complete the picture, another new and precious life begins. My prayer for him is two-fold, that he will always know he is blessed of the Father-Mother of us all, and that he will fulfill the promise by which he is blessed and can bless others.
In this generation I, as his great grandmother, must share the pride and joy with seven other great grandmothers. Glad to do it, though I think I may be the only one on the scene and, as such, am counting my blessings. To be near my children at a time like this is wonderful. To be near them all year around is more than wonderful! Beholding a baby's development and his discovery of this new world brings back a primal feeling impossible to describe. Certainly not in words.
But this is a world of words and in about a year's time baby Jack will know some words. Little will he know how many words he'll eventually know, since his daddy will speak to him in Spanish and his mommy in English! With an American-Spanish ancestry, his name, Jack Carlo Murcia, he will navigate through a world of schools, and then choices of his own. God make those choices good!
At weddings we remember our own. At birth times we think of our own. And we contemplate what our own lives have brought forth. Will we be able to come back again and do it over better? Will we retain the good only from this lifetime and let that be our starting line? The innocence and purity of a newborn would certainly indicate that. I've never quite resolved in my own mind if, or if not, I'll come back as an infant somewhere, somehow. Re-incarnation is a mystery to me, especially since I don't whole-heartedly believe in it. What I really believe, (but cannot prove to anyone,) is that we go on from the experience of death, (so-called,) in a probationary state, working out the problem of being until we get it right. Then, I believe, we rise to a higher state of consciousness wherein we see God and Heaven as our eternal truth, from which we've strayed, only in belief.
This earthly lifetime, (again I believe,) is a dream-state, which, like the night dream, convinces us it is real while we're in it. In fact, it is only a schoolroom experience where we learn the workings of God's law by His light that is shining in the darkness. As that light illumines us and we learn the joy and harmony it bestows, we reflect it more clearly and become the ever-unfolding blessing of God in manifesting His light. With such light we head out into the Universe to discover Infinity. We discover the joy of "Love's divine adventure to be All-in-all!" (Mary Baker Eddy)
Now it is time to stop talking and start doing today's work. Is is wrong to approach that work as play? I think not. And so, to one baby girl on the way, our new baby Jack, baby Kingston, toddler Max, and Sammie, the first of my great-grand-babies who is now five, I say, "Let's play!" There's excitement and fun and great glory in every waking moment, especially when we're fully awake! And generations past and yet to come? I think we'll all meet someday. What a family reunion THAT will be!
Friday, February 10, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
That Is None Of My Business!
I may have told this before but it's worth re-telling. A well-known Christian Science lecturer had finished his talk and was greeting some who came up to see him afterwards. One woman said to him, "Oh, I have loved listening to your talks ever since I was a little girl, and, as you can see, I'm no spring chicken now. Mr. ..., I know I shouldn't ask you this but could you tell me exactly how old you are?" His answer: "Why, Madam, THAT is none of MY business!"
I've thought about this often and the choice of a subject for my blog, Getting Older Is Getting Better, was not an easy one because I don't subscribe to revealing my age either, or even that I am of an older generation. Still, I'd like to know that I am helping others of any age not to give the number of years they've lived in this span of conscious being any power to diminish their capabilities on account of being "old." My religion is my science and it teaches that we are each a child of God, not a child of man (or woman.) Radical? Unbelievable? Not when we understand that all there is, substantially, to each one of us is measured in conscious thought. Those who are bent on claiming that the human, material body is the sum total of their identity will take issue with this. But even they, if with a mind open to the possibility that there is more to man than a fleshly body, will see what I mean.
Scientists today claim that we are made of stardust. Were we to trace our origins back that far, what might we find? I suspect we'd find that even stars have no beginning in the strictest sense since nothing comes from nothing. One of these scientists, (I can't remember his name,) gave a talk at UCI. His topic was Science and Religion. I'll never forget his opening remarks. They went something like this: "Here we are, together on this Ship of Life. It seems there are two major groups among us, the scientists and the religionists. Now the religionists go to the bow of the ship and peer out with their binoculars to see where we are headed. Then they go to the stern and look to see where we came from. They can only see so far with the limited visibility they have, so they study what others have found and seek knowledge within themselves where they suspect dwells the seed of truth for everyone. They keep looking, both outwardly and inwardly.
The scientists, on the other hand, go to the bow of the ship, take out their binoculars and say, "We can't see anything out there." Then they go to the stern and look. So they say, "We can't see anything out there either. Then they turn to their shipmates and say, "Let's examine the walls of this ship!"
Now, I ask, which of these seekers has the better solution to working out the problem of being? And I answer, both. We need to seek answers in both visible and invisible ways. Each of these can be credible if we are sincere and open minded. The answers often come from out of the box of either religion or science. We need to be aware of that and open. In this sense each of us has an equal opportunity to find the truth.
My "truth" tells me that I am more than a lump of clay, though that lump, uniquely designed, represents me for the time being. If you've ever lost a loved one you know that if his or her fleshly body should reappear without the mind and spirit by which you identified him or her before, that bodily presence would be a stranger, no matter how familiar it looked. My truth tells me that I am not just this perishable flower of a person I appear to be to myself and others. I'm not even the branch or stem I grew on. Nor am I the main trunk reaching down into the ground. Should I trace my beginnings back to the stars, I could not find the real essence of my being. The visible me changes but the invisible me remains intact. The IDEA of me, what others will remember most of me, even that may fade away in time. So, my business is not in the length of time I remain on this earth or stay visible to others, it is that of seeking Truth wherever I find it and living it. I may accept false beliefs for a while but sincerity will lead me past these as long as I approach each day with an attitude of gratitude and a willingness to learn more of the reality of being.
It's one grand adventure, this life we know. Discovery is what it's all about. And it doesn't matter one iota to me how many times I've moved around our beautiful sun. That, is none of MY business either!
I've thought about this often and the choice of a subject for my blog, Getting Older Is Getting Better, was not an easy one because I don't subscribe to revealing my age either, or even that I am of an older generation. Still, I'd like to know that I am helping others of any age not to give the number of years they've lived in this span of conscious being any power to diminish their capabilities on account of being "old." My religion is my science and it teaches that we are each a child of God, not a child of man (or woman.) Radical? Unbelievable? Not when we understand that all there is, substantially, to each one of us is measured in conscious thought. Those who are bent on claiming that the human, material body is the sum total of their identity will take issue with this. But even they, if with a mind open to the possibility that there is more to man than a fleshly body, will see what I mean.
Scientists today claim that we are made of stardust. Were we to trace our origins back that far, what might we find? I suspect we'd find that even stars have no beginning in the strictest sense since nothing comes from nothing. One of these scientists, (I can't remember his name,) gave a talk at UCI. His topic was Science and Religion. I'll never forget his opening remarks. They went something like this: "Here we are, together on this Ship of Life. It seems there are two major groups among us, the scientists and the religionists. Now the religionists go to the bow of the ship and peer out with their binoculars to see where we are headed. Then they go to the stern and look to see where we came from. They can only see so far with the limited visibility they have, so they study what others have found and seek knowledge within themselves where they suspect dwells the seed of truth for everyone. They keep looking, both outwardly and inwardly.
The scientists, on the other hand, go to the bow of the ship, take out their binoculars and say, "We can't see anything out there." Then they go to the stern and look. So they say, "We can't see anything out there either. Then they turn to their shipmates and say, "Let's examine the walls of this ship!"
Now, I ask, which of these seekers has the better solution to working out the problem of being? And I answer, both. We need to seek answers in both visible and invisible ways. Each of these can be credible if we are sincere and open minded. The answers often come from out of the box of either religion or science. We need to be aware of that and open. In this sense each of us has an equal opportunity to find the truth.
My "truth" tells me that I am more than a lump of clay, though that lump, uniquely designed, represents me for the time being. If you've ever lost a loved one you know that if his or her fleshly body should reappear without the mind and spirit by which you identified him or her before, that bodily presence would be a stranger, no matter how familiar it looked. My truth tells me that I am not just this perishable flower of a person I appear to be to myself and others. I'm not even the branch or stem I grew on. Nor am I the main trunk reaching down into the ground. Should I trace my beginnings back to the stars, I could not find the real essence of my being. The visible me changes but the invisible me remains intact. The IDEA of me, what others will remember most of me, even that may fade away in time. So, my business is not in the length of time I remain on this earth or stay visible to others, it is that of seeking Truth wherever I find it and living it. I may accept false beliefs for a while but sincerity will lead me past these as long as I approach each day with an attitude of gratitude and a willingness to learn more of the reality of being.
It's one grand adventure, this life we know. Discovery is what it's all about. And it doesn't matter one iota to me how many times I've moved around our beautiful sun. That, is none of MY business either!
Friday, February 3, 2012
When I Grow Too Old To Dream
♪ “When I grow too old to dream, I’ll have you to remember, and when I grow too old to dream your love will live in my heart.” ♪ The words from this song haunted me even when I was a small child. I’d play the record on our wind-up phonograph player in the upstairs hallway. Over and over and over. And I’d cry. Every time. It seemed the song was about me. I’d sit cross-legged on the floor and see myself in a rocking chair, white hair, frail body, and blue eyes looking at a scene and some invisible one, remembering.
Music and memory go hand in hand. Mother used to sing a lullaby to us when we children were tucked in bed. “All Through the Night.” So sweet, her voice, as the words penetrated the dim light. ♪“Rest, my love, and peace attend thee, all through the night. Guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night.”♪ Like one of those guardian angels she stood at the foot of our bed.
Then, in junior high school, there were other songs, like♪“Some day he’ll come along, the man I love...”♪ And movies. One I knew would never become less than my lifetime favorite: Maytime, with Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy. My first tragic love. I can hear that rich male voice even now, ♪“Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart, will you love me ever? Will you remember the day when we
were happy in May, my dearest one?”♪
In a high school production I heard for the first time “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” and my heart nearly died. Of course there were many other songs during World War II of lovers waiting for the war to end. And there was one song called Skylark sung by some lovely young spirit on the radio that played on a screened-in upper porch surrounded by trees. That was my first taste of summer camp. Somehow I always remember where I heard a song for the first time.
When I was at my first summer job I stood in the darkened movie theater where I was the balcony usher in a snappy uniform. Before the doors had opened I heard for the first time Billy Rose’s rendition of Holiday For Strings wafting out from the rich red curtains down below. It transported me into some world called the future, beyond imagination. Youth was never wasted on me. I had music in my heart. It gave me dreams. It helped me to believe in love and romance and tenderness and happiness ever after. It was always there to carry me on.
My life has been good, but that is not to say there weren’t times when the record’s needle got off track and its sweet music got lost in terrible screeches and discords. I watch my children and grandchildren and remember myself at their ages. Now I am that old woman I seemed to see as a child. I have white hair but I’m not in a rocking chair. I sit at my computer and click on that little icon called I-Tunes. Miraculously I see the old familiar titles. I sample them and buy a few of my favorites, but it’s hard to choose. Clear as the day I hear them again as if for for the first time. I’m in the hallways of the past. My dreams of yesteryear are blurred in reality’s wavy mirror. My life has not been wasted. I have loved and been loved, but now I feel a threshold beneath my feet. Will I be beyond this door another me? Will I hear some new song for the first time? Somehow I find that old song about being too old to dream is not true. I know I shall never be too old to dream. I feel like that little girl on the upper hallway floor, transfixed by a song and a vision.
Music and memory go hand in hand. Mother used to sing a lullaby to us when we children were tucked in bed. “All Through the Night.” So sweet, her voice, as the words penetrated the dim light. ♪“Rest, my love, and peace attend thee, all through the night. Guardian angels God will lend thee, all through the night.”♪ Like one of those guardian angels she stood at the foot of our bed.
Then, in junior high school, there were other songs, like♪“Some day he’ll come along, the man I love...”♪ And movies. One I knew would never become less than my lifetime favorite: Maytime, with Jeanette McDonald and Nelson Eddy. My first tragic love. I can hear that rich male voice even now, ♪“Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart, will you love me ever? Will you remember the day when we
were happy in May, my dearest one?”♪
In a high school production I heard for the first time “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes” and my heart nearly died. Of course there were many other songs during World War II of lovers waiting for the war to end. And there was one song called Skylark sung by some lovely young spirit on the radio that played on a screened-in upper porch surrounded by trees. That was my first taste of summer camp. Somehow I always remember where I heard a song for the first time.
When I was at my first summer job I stood in the darkened movie theater where I was the balcony usher in a snappy uniform. Before the doors had opened I heard for the first time Billy Rose’s rendition of Holiday For Strings wafting out from the rich red curtains down below. It transported me into some world called the future, beyond imagination. Youth was never wasted on me. I had music in my heart. It gave me dreams. It helped me to believe in love and romance and tenderness and happiness ever after. It was always there to carry me on.
My life has been good, but that is not to say there weren’t times when the record’s needle got off track and its sweet music got lost in terrible screeches and discords. I watch my children and grandchildren and remember myself at their ages. Now I am that old woman I seemed to see as a child. I have white hair but I’m not in a rocking chair. I sit at my computer and click on that little icon called I-Tunes. Miraculously I see the old familiar titles. I sample them and buy a few of my favorites, but it’s hard to choose. Clear as the day I hear them again as if for for the first time. I’m in the hallways of the past. My dreams of yesteryear are blurred in reality’s wavy mirror. My life has not been wasted. I have loved and been loved, but now I feel a threshold beneath my feet. Will I be beyond this door another me? Will I hear some new song for the first time? Somehow I find that old song about being too old to dream is not true. I know I shall never be too old to dream. I feel like that little girl on the upper hallway floor, transfixed by a song and a vision.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
This Wide World
I just saw something a friend sent me in an e-mail about a young man who was born blind and crippled. He can play the piano so as to bring the most hardened stoic to tears. He claims not to be handicapped and he has a father whom only God could have sent. I won't go into his story here but I was so touched by it that I'm sitting here by the computer trying to express my feelings. I am in awe.
This friend, who often sends me inspiring videos on U Tube, is a gentle, quiet Korean Christian man I met in one of my writing classes. We're no longer in class together, but I'm getting to know him because of a book he's written. He too just started a blog.
Since I looked into the idea of blogs I've started following another by a middle-aged American couple, my former son-in-law and his new wife, who are spending a year in Italy. He writes in it every day. I'm hooked.
There are tines when I get stuck at the computer and have to tear myself away, but I try to avoid too many of those. Still, it is marvelous to be living in this age. Marvelous, yet scary. It seems to me that my quiet life can become overcrowded with options on this device sitting so passively on my desk. Between it and the other one across the room (the television) the world is closing in on me. I'm feeling almost like I'd graduated from kindergarten to being a space traveller. I can see the world, zoomed in or out,with the bare touch of a button or two. It makes me feel so small to know that what I see and all I have seen of life is a mere speck of all that exists!
Back to the young man I started this piece with. They say he is blind, but I think he sees better than many of the rest of us. He can't walk on his legs but he marches at half time with the college band, pushed in a wheelchair by his dad and playing the trumpet like the angel, Gabriel. Yes, his father? One look at him and you know this young man is blessed to have a father like that! Now, I'm thinking. If we all knew our Father, God better, how blessed we would be!
I've been sitting here for two hours and suddenly I need to escape into the refuge of sleep. There is a kind of bliss in sleep where I can rest my mind, and yet even there I'm apt to find other worlds, other people, other marvels. I'm still thinking of that young man whose eyes see, not as ours, and although they are made of marble, they look incredulous when he's asked what it feels like to be so handicapped. "Handicapped?" The word is foreign to him and he smiles broadly. You just know he is seeing something wonderful. How could he know the answer to that?
This friend, who often sends me inspiring videos on U Tube, is a gentle, quiet Korean Christian man I met in one of my writing classes. We're no longer in class together, but I'm getting to know him because of a book he's written. He too just started a blog.
Since I looked into the idea of blogs I've started following another by a middle-aged American couple, my former son-in-law and his new wife, who are spending a year in Italy. He writes in it every day. I'm hooked.
There are tines when I get stuck at the computer and have to tear myself away, but I try to avoid too many of those. Still, it is marvelous to be living in this age. Marvelous, yet scary. It seems to me that my quiet life can become overcrowded with options on this device sitting so passively on my desk. Between it and the other one across the room (the television) the world is closing in on me. I'm feeling almost like I'd graduated from kindergarten to being a space traveller. I can see the world, zoomed in or out,with the bare touch of a button or two. It makes me feel so small to know that what I see and all I have seen of life is a mere speck of all that exists!
Back to the young man I started this piece with. They say he is blind, but I think he sees better than many of the rest of us. He can't walk on his legs but he marches at half time with the college band, pushed in a wheelchair by his dad and playing the trumpet like the angel, Gabriel. Yes, his father? One look at him and you know this young man is blessed to have a father like that! Now, I'm thinking. If we all knew our Father, God better, how blessed we would be!
I've been sitting here for two hours and suddenly I need to escape into the refuge of sleep. There is a kind of bliss in sleep where I can rest my mind, and yet even there I'm apt to find other worlds, other people, other marvels. I'm still thinking of that young man whose eyes see, not as ours, and although they are made of marble, they look incredulous when he's asked what it feels like to be so handicapped. "Handicapped?" The word is foreign to him and he smiles broadly. You just know he is seeing something wonderful. How could he know the answer to that?
Saturday, January 21, 2012
To Be An Antique
What is it like to be an antique? You'll find out, if you're as fortunate as I am to become one. My granddaughter gave me a small decorative satin pillow with embroidered words on it. They say, "Grandmothers are antique little girls." The sentiment fits me. I feel like a little girl inside and look like an antique on the outside, (albeit, a rather well-preserved one, if I do say so.)
History was never my strong subject in school but now that I've lived through a goodly portion of it I find it more interesting. I'll read of something, say in the mid-20's of the last century, and think, Where was I then? Well, I was being born. Soon after that event someone took a picture of me, just the face. I wore a quizzical look common to newborns. Under the picture Mother wrote, "What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt!"
I can't recall those "wonderful things," but I suspect they were carry-overs from my prior life. Perhaps I was trying to connect them with that new life in which I'd been so rudely catapulted. Maybe I'd been through a transition as drastic as the tree's when it turned into a table. Well, that didn't happen by itself. Something, someone, or many someones, made it happen. In the case of the tree, it was the logger and the craftsman. In my case, parents and their forebears had a lot to do with it. But there you have it. It happened, either by intent or accident. Take your pick. I choose the former.
Now, the mind or minds that brought about that change? That's a whole other story. And going back eons before the mid-20's, Who and What brought about the birth of the stars from which we're said to come? Could these changes have happened all by themselves, or did a grand Creator think them up? From stardust to an antique little girl, Who had a hand in all of this? And what drastic changes went on between then and now? Even more unfathomable is the question, What next? or what of the eons hence?
I'm still not a history student, but as the little girl I once was, resting on a blanket out on the lawn on a hot summer's night, looking up at the stars and wondering what it's all about, so here am I, still wondering. Incidentally, no matter if you're a little great grand-baby inside your mommy's womb, you're thinking about something. What, I don't know, but you are, and when you're born you'll need to get busy and think some more! "Very wonderful things, no doubt!"
History was never my strong subject in school but now that I've lived through a goodly portion of it I find it more interesting. I'll read of something, say in the mid-20's of the last century, and think, Where was I then? Well, I was being born. Soon after that event someone took a picture of me, just the face. I wore a quizzical look common to newborns. Under the picture Mother wrote, "What is the little one thinking about? Very wonderful things, no doubt!"
I can't recall those "wonderful things," but I suspect they were carry-overs from my prior life. Perhaps I was trying to connect them with that new life in which I'd been so rudely catapulted. Maybe I'd been through a transition as drastic as the tree's when it turned into a table. Well, that didn't happen by itself. Something, someone, or many someones, made it happen. In the case of the tree, it was the logger and the craftsman. In my case, parents and their forebears had a lot to do with it. But there you have it. It happened, either by intent or accident. Take your pick. I choose the former.
Now, the mind or minds that brought about that change? That's a whole other story. And going back eons before the mid-20's, Who and What brought about the birth of the stars from which we're said to come? Could these changes have happened all by themselves, or did a grand Creator think them up? From stardust to an antique little girl, Who had a hand in all of this? And what drastic changes went on between then and now? Even more unfathomable is the question, What next? or what of the eons hence?
I'm still not a history student, but as the little girl I once was, resting on a blanket out on the lawn on a hot summer's night, looking up at the stars and wondering what it's all about, so here am I, still wondering. Incidentally, no matter if you're a little great grand-baby inside your mommy's womb, you're thinking about something. What, I don't know, but you are, and when you're born you'll need to get busy and think some more! "Very wonderful things, no doubt!"
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Work Ethics
When I was a girl of fourteen my mother died. My dad owned a country gas station in Southern Minnesota where our house also stood. I had two younger brothers, eleven and five. Since my dad was literally at home every day he could carry on his business and be there for us kids. We had a housekeeper but I didn’t like her much and told my father that I’d like to take over her job. Mother had taught me well how to keep house, do the laundry, and cook. Daddy agreed and gave me the job. I missed my mother but kept her near in thought as an angel. As for me, I had a job!
Daddy wasn’t one to give us allowances. The country was still in the Great Depression and money was tight, but we had an agreement. He would leave a few bills under the scarf on top of the piano. When I needed money for any reason I’d go there. (The boys didn’t know about that!) Soon I was old enough to drive and felt proud that I could shop for the family and still have enough to treat myself to a few girly purchases. That was the beginning of my work ethic and it served me well all my life. When I married at nineteen it was quite the same. Through the years I rarely worked outside the home but family finances were worked out between my husband and me. I may have looked longingly at the Help Wanted section of the paper once in a while but found home and children to be quite enough to handle. I developed hobbies along the way, did some reading, and gardening. All in all, I was quite content to be my own boss at home and my home was my castle. I loved it. Still do.
My husband had worked as a bus boy in a famous Minneapolis restaurant when he went to high school and college but the war drew him into the service and he became a career Marine officer and fighter pilot. He took great pride in being “One of a Few Good Men” and retired after 23 years to go into a twenty year second career as a minister for the armed forces.
Wally G., as we called him, had a bit of the private enterprise bug in him that showed up in his fatherly advice to the children. His policy, when they asked for things that cost money, was this: “Sure, you can have it. Just as soon as you earn the money to pay for it.” He was not being stingy. It was a matter of making ends meet on retired pay and the minimal pay he got for his ministerial work. But he was delighted to help the kids get started working and even set them up in a little business that eventually grew to provide most of their college expenses.
I’ll never forget the time Wally K. wanted to mow the lawn. He was about ten then and we lived on a country estate which we’d got for the bargain sum of $150. a month. It was a big house put together with two other houses during the building halt during the war. The landlord had let us have it with this stipulation: “You treat it like your own. I want the rent, but you pay for all the upkeep, fix-its, and lawn care." The latter was quite a deal because the “lawn” was about two acres! Still, the job was made palatable by the fact that the owner provided a sit-down mower.
At breakfast one morning, Wally K. said, “Dad, can I drive the mower by myself today?” Wally G. had been letting our elder son ride with him and even steer the mower, but he could barely reach the gas pedal and hadn’t done the job alone.
Wally G. took a sip of coffee and said. “Do you think you’re ready, son?” The little boy’s eyes lit up and he practically popped out of his chair. “You bet, Dad!”
“Would you be willing to pay me 10 cents to do it?”
“Sure!” There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation.
“OK,” Wally G. said, “but here’s the deal: 1. once you start you don’t get off the mower until you’ve finished. 2. you do a good job, no fooling around going in circles and such. 3. you pay me 10 cents out of your allowance for the first five times and then, if you want to keep the job, I’ll give you back your 50 cents and fifty cents to boot. After that you get one dollar per job so long as you abide by the rules.”
“Wow! Can I start today?” Thus began an exemplary career ending in a six figure salary, but starting with jobs like taking orders in a hamburger stand, bell hop at a high class hotel, renting binoculars business, college, a 28 year career as an Air Force pilot, several more years in commercial piloting, and finally as an official in the FAA.
Second son, David, always tried the one-up-man-ship game with Wally K. but soon proved himself by becoming a Naval officer, an inventor, and a high tech computer designer. He’s still at it and doing exceedingly well.
Our daughter, Robin, wanted to be an artist. “Well,” her dad said, “You may learn that a lot of artists are what they call ‘starving artists,’ but if that’s what you want to do, go for it, and be one of the best!” Robin, too, had her share of menial jobs, like cleaning out horse stalls, sweeping the floor at a beauty shop, and a short stint as a chamber maid at a hotel. When she got fired from that, her boss said, “Robin, you are made for better things than this. You are a natural artist. Give it a try.” And she did. She is today a well-known water colorist and she’s not starving!
Others I’ve known have given their kids all they want, or as much as they can afford. It’s one way, and I’m not saying it’s wrong. Had we had the money, we may have gone that route too, but as it was, we and our children have done things the good old American way, by hard work, humility, imagination and ambition. So much for “Work “Ethics, 101.”
Daddy wasn’t one to give us allowances. The country was still in the Great Depression and money was tight, but we had an agreement. He would leave a few bills under the scarf on top of the piano. When I needed money for any reason I’d go there. (The boys didn’t know about that!) Soon I was old enough to drive and felt proud that I could shop for the family and still have enough to treat myself to a few girly purchases. That was the beginning of my work ethic and it served me well all my life. When I married at nineteen it was quite the same. Through the years I rarely worked outside the home but family finances were worked out between my husband and me. I may have looked longingly at the Help Wanted section of the paper once in a while but found home and children to be quite enough to handle. I developed hobbies along the way, did some reading, and gardening. All in all, I was quite content to be my own boss at home and my home was my castle. I loved it. Still do.
My husband had worked as a bus boy in a famous Minneapolis restaurant when he went to high school and college but the war drew him into the service and he became a career Marine officer and fighter pilot. He took great pride in being “One of a Few Good Men” and retired after 23 years to go into a twenty year second career as a minister for the armed forces.
Wally G., as we called him, had a bit of the private enterprise bug in him that showed up in his fatherly advice to the children. His policy, when they asked for things that cost money, was this: “Sure, you can have it. Just as soon as you earn the money to pay for it.” He was not being stingy. It was a matter of making ends meet on retired pay and the minimal pay he got for his ministerial work. But he was delighted to help the kids get started working and even set them up in a little business that eventually grew to provide most of their college expenses.
I’ll never forget the time Wally K. wanted to mow the lawn. He was about ten then and we lived on a country estate which we’d got for the bargain sum of $150. a month. It was a big house put together with two other houses during the building halt during the war. The landlord had let us have it with this stipulation: “You treat it like your own. I want the rent, but you pay for all the upkeep, fix-its, and lawn care." The latter was quite a deal because the “lawn” was about two acres! Still, the job was made palatable by the fact that the owner provided a sit-down mower.
At breakfast one morning, Wally K. said, “Dad, can I drive the mower by myself today?” Wally G. had been letting our elder son ride with him and even steer the mower, but he could barely reach the gas pedal and hadn’t done the job alone.
Wally G. took a sip of coffee and said. “Do you think you’re ready, son?” The little boy’s eyes lit up and he practically popped out of his chair. “You bet, Dad!”
“Would you be willing to pay me 10 cents to do it?”
“Sure!” There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation.
“OK,” Wally G. said, “but here’s the deal: 1. once you start you don’t get off the mower until you’ve finished. 2. you do a good job, no fooling around going in circles and such. 3. you pay me 10 cents out of your allowance for the first five times and then, if you want to keep the job, I’ll give you back your 50 cents and fifty cents to boot. After that you get one dollar per job so long as you abide by the rules.”
“Wow! Can I start today?” Thus began an exemplary career ending in a six figure salary, but starting with jobs like taking orders in a hamburger stand, bell hop at a high class hotel, renting binoculars business, college, a 28 year career as an Air Force pilot, several more years in commercial piloting, and finally as an official in the FAA.
Second son, David, always tried the one-up-man-ship game with Wally K. but soon proved himself by becoming a Naval officer, an inventor, and a high tech computer designer. He’s still at it and doing exceedingly well.
Our daughter, Robin, wanted to be an artist. “Well,” her dad said, “You may learn that a lot of artists are what they call ‘starving artists,’ but if that’s what you want to do, go for it, and be one of the best!” Robin, too, had her share of menial jobs, like cleaning out horse stalls, sweeping the floor at a beauty shop, and a short stint as a chamber maid at a hotel. When she got fired from that, her boss said, “Robin, you are made for better things than this. You are a natural artist. Give it a try.” And she did. She is today a well-known water colorist and she’s not starving!
Others I’ve known have given their kids all they want, or as much as they can afford. It’s one way, and I’m not saying it’s wrong. Had we had the money, we may have gone that route too, but as it was, we and our children have done things the good old American way, by hard work, humility, imagination and ambition. So much for “Work “Ethics, 101.”
Monday, January 16, 2012
Inching Along
You're probably familiar with the old saying, "Yard by yard life is hard; but inch by inch it's a cinch!" We've also been told not to forget to "stop and smell the roses." More recently, Simon & Garfunkel reminded us to "Slow down, you go too fast; you've got to make the morning last."
Well, morning, noon or night I've instinctively heeded those adages. Yet, like the majority of us, I haven't made history. Is that good or bad? I'm not sure. I think that we of the older generation would do well just to keep moving in the right direction, only slower.
Yesterday I went to a baby shower for my granddaughter, Jennifer, and her husband, Luis, who are due to have a baby boy in a couple of weeks or so. Their young friends who sat at the table next to me asked if I had joined any senior clubs. "No, not yet," I said, "I'm reluctant to join anything in which the only thing I'd have in common with the others would be age." Thinking I should defend that statement, I went on. "It's hard to feel special in a group of oldsters. They often talk too much about their ailments, as if that were the most interesting thing they can share. Who needs to hear about that? It seems to prompt a game of one-up-man-ship, and before long there's a whole buffet of medical miseries on the table. Nothing, to me, could be more down-ish!" They agreed, and then, to re-enforce the idea, I added, "On the other hand, some like to recount their former exalted positions in life. I suppose that too is a downer for me because I can't begin to compete." Then I turned the conversation to them. "Tell me about yourselves," I said. Both working. No children yet. Families? Yes, always a good topic.I couldn't help admiring their youth, intelligence and wholesome good looks. It's refreshing to be with young people.
My social life is rather limited these days. It's the way I like it. I get to stay at home and putz around doing what I like. Still, occasionally a class with the emeritus program at Saddleback College is fun. Just finished one in clay slipcasting. Robin and I love our writing class on Thursdays. And I do enjoy the once a week bridge game over at the senior center. On Sundays I usher at the front door of church and that's pleasant.
I enjoy a motherly, grandmotherly and great-grandmotherly position in my family, and can keep up a decent conversation with the younger generations. It makes me feel special. As for work? Since I'm not a joiner I keep in touch with the world with a couple of daily newspapers and TV. When I feel like it, I do a bit of clay sculpting, sewing, and, of course, there's the ever-present job of keeping house. I used to enjoy reading novels but now-a-days I read more non-fiction. And I write blogs as well as keep a journal. It's enough.
There's a good deal to be said for believing that life is eternal and that every day is a taste of eternity. My choices are wide but not demanding. I feel connected, appreciated and grateful. Now, if I joined a seniors' club? I don't know how I could work that in. But options are always open, and, in the meantime I am a happy inch-worm just inching along day by day. To me, that's the only way to go.
Well, morning, noon or night I've instinctively heeded those adages. Yet, like the majority of us, I haven't made history. Is that good or bad? I'm not sure. I think that we of the older generation would do well just to keep moving in the right direction, only slower.
Yesterday I went to a baby shower for my granddaughter, Jennifer, and her husband, Luis, who are due to have a baby boy in a couple of weeks or so. Their young friends who sat at the table next to me asked if I had joined any senior clubs. "No, not yet," I said, "I'm reluctant to join anything in which the only thing I'd have in common with the others would be age." Thinking I should defend that statement, I went on. "It's hard to feel special in a group of oldsters. They often talk too much about their ailments, as if that were the most interesting thing they can share. Who needs to hear about that? It seems to prompt a game of one-up-man-ship, and before long there's a whole buffet of medical miseries on the table. Nothing, to me, could be more down-ish!" They agreed, and then, to re-enforce the idea, I added, "On the other hand, some like to recount their former exalted positions in life. I suppose that too is a downer for me because I can't begin to compete." Then I turned the conversation to them. "Tell me about yourselves," I said. Both working. No children yet. Families? Yes, always a good topic.I couldn't help admiring their youth, intelligence and wholesome good looks. It's refreshing to be with young people.
My social life is rather limited these days. It's the way I like it. I get to stay at home and putz around doing what I like. Still, occasionally a class with the emeritus program at Saddleback College is fun. Just finished one in clay slipcasting. Robin and I love our writing class on Thursdays. And I do enjoy the once a week bridge game over at the senior center. On Sundays I usher at the front door of church and that's pleasant.
I enjoy a motherly, grandmotherly and great-grandmotherly position in my family, and can keep up a decent conversation with the younger generations. It makes me feel special. As for work? Since I'm not a joiner I keep in touch with the world with a couple of daily newspapers and TV. When I feel like it, I do a bit of clay sculpting, sewing, and, of course, there's the ever-present job of keeping house. I used to enjoy reading novels but now-a-days I read more non-fiction. And I write blogs as well as keep a journal. It's enough.
There's a good deal to be said for believing that life is eternal and that every day is a taste of eternity. My choices are wide but not demanding. I feel connected, appreciated and grateful. Now, if I joined a seniors' club? I don't know how I could work that in. But options are always open, and, in the meantime I am a happy inch-worm just inching along day by day. To me, that's the only way to go.
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