The other day I was chatting on the phone with my sister, Barb about my recent blog about our Dad’s chickens when she asked me how I was able to come up with the connections I do. (She’d never realized the “thread” of chickens in our lives.) She asked, “What did you do before you began writing your blog? Did you just walk around with this stuff in your head?” After a brief conference with the voices in my head, I realized that yes, I had. Actually, I kidding about the plural, voices. There is only one voice and it is most certainly my own.
Anyone who spends time with me knows that I can talk a lot, and not always sticking to the current subject. I must have hyperactive neurons firing on overdrive, making connections faster than the speed of my mouth, that causes me to jump from topic to topic in a seemingly random fashion. But, if you asked me how I got from point A to point B, I could easily provide the process. My good friend Bruce used to say that my brain worked like a record with a scratch in it; playing one song and then abruptly jumping to another.
I know it seems like that to people, but my mind is really an ordered chaos. Blogging allows me to slow down and order my thoughts, providing a clear, navigable path for my listeners to follow. It also allows me to clear out some of my thoughts, freeing up more personal RAM. I enjoy playing with words, starting a conversation, and waiting for my readers to comment.
Yesterday afternoon I went shopping with my friend Carol. We both had a stellar combination of Kohl’s cash and discount coupons (30%!) which made the expedition worthwhile. My main goal was to find an acceptable undergarment to wear under my “mother-of-the-bride” dress to reduce any chance of resembling the Michelin Man. Once in the lingerie department, Carol and I gathered a couple of possibilities to take into the dressing room.
I had a little trouble getting into the first piece of feminine finery. I thought it should go on over my head but the harder I tried to stretch the thing down over my shoulders, the more confined I became until I had to give up lest I be rendered totally constrained with no hope of getting the damn thing off by myself. I let out an uncomfortable giggle as I wiggled out of the thing. Carol, who was standing ready outside the dressing room door asked what was wrong. I told her I couldn’t get the thing over my head. She laughed and told me to step into it instead. That did the trick. I was on the road to a lump free appearance.
Did you see what I did there? I jumped from a story about chickens and my thought processes to one about lingerie without so much as the nuance of a transitional sentence. That is how my mind works. Chickens, Barb and then ZIP on to foundation garments.
The idea came to me when I was vacuuming this morning. As Barb pointed out, I’d been holding in my thoughts and then through my blog, found a way to let them out. On the other hand, faced with the reality I would soon be in pictures that people would look at for generations to come, I went searching for a garment to hold my body in. I’m not saying it’s a good connection; just that in a weird way the two things do connect and the connection reveals a lot about me. I’m not sure which is more intimate; sharing the interior workings of my brain, or the exterior imperfections of my flesh.
Like many other people, I too was caught up in the “Great Kate Wait.” What really touches my heart about seeing the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and their new little one really has nothing to do with them as much as it has to do with me, and the fact that they are young and living through such an incredible event in anyone’s life and we are privy to watching it. Since I don’t have any movies of getting in the car with my own children, seeing them reminds me of what it was like for me so many years ago when my babies were coming along.
The day my daughter Maggie was born started gray and drizzling. Dave was away; four weeks into a seven month Indian Ocean cruise aboard the USS John F. Kennedy. Except for my kitty companions, Punkin and Blossom, I was alone when I woke up about five that morning with mild contractions. The misery I’d been feeling about the unfairness of life putting twelve thousand miles between Dave and me at this important time was quickly replaced by a sense of excitement that the moment I’d been waiting for was about to arrive. Soon, after only twenty or so hours of labor, I had a beautiful baby girl and I was somebody’s Mommy.
Maggie and I at the NAS Oceana O’Club Pool two weeks before Andy was born.
Luckily, Navy wives are never really alone so I had a “village” all primed and ready to help me with everything and anything I needed in Dave’s absence. My neighbors provided me with meals, picked up my mother at the airport, showered me with gifts and checked in on me. One of them even came to the hospital with me as my birthing coach. They were so open and happy to help, and I was happy to let them.
When Andy was born seventeen months later, we were lucky enough to have Dave home, ever so briefly. When I announced it was time to go to the hospital he was in the middle of watching a Buddy Hackett special on HBO and wasn’t too keen on leaving. When I insisted, he got up, went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich to take along. Of all the helpful literature he’d read about coaching a birth, the one thing he remembered was to bring a snack because he might get hungry during a long labor. As it turned out, I don’t think he had a chance to eat the sandwich, but at least he was prepared. It’s not that Dave is insensitive, only practical.
We brought Andy home in our first brand new car, a 1983 Nissan Sentra four door sedan in a deep burgundy. Our previous auto, a Volkswagen Sirocco was a two door coupe. It had been hard enough to climb into the back to buckle one baby over a bucket seat, two was out of the question. So, on that very hot day in July, we drove our new baby home in our new car in the heady fragrance of commingling new baby and new car smells.
Maggie meets Andy for the first time.
Our first night home as a family was a little rocky. We started our night with Andy sleeping in a roll-away crib in our room but all his little noises kept us awake so it wasn’t long before Dave rolled him away into his own room. Hearing him when he awoke wasn’t an issue, the house wasn’t that big. The first time he cried he woke us all up. I remember sitting in my chair, nursing him while Dave held Maggie who when she heard Andy cry, starting crying herself. I was so torn, feeling tethered to this infant, who I really didn’t know, while my baby sat on her father’s lap, her little arms outstretched to me. I suppose I probably started crying too.
Eventually, Andy was fed and asleep, Maggie was comforted and back in her bed and I in mine. After that the nights were easier. Dave was soon back to sea for another seven month cruise and I was a more than full time Mommy. As I look back on those days now, despite the frequently interrupted sleep, poopy diapers and car seat buckling, those days of early motherhood were some of the happiest days of my life. My days had a natural rhythm, a cadence set by the day-to-day routine of feedings, naps, diaper changes, walks, hugs, and endless book reading. I never set an alarm, there was just no need. Most mornings I woke refreshed and most nights I fell asleep hard and fast. As a better writer than I once said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”
Fast forward thirty years and here I am, a nostalgic middle-aged woman, delighting in the sights of another young family taking their first “baby steps” together; remembering the days when I was in their shoes with great warmth and joy.
A week ago today my baby turned thirty. Thirty years old. Thirty years since I gave birth to my last child. No matter how you look at it, thirty years is a long time.
Obviously I can no longer use the excuse that I’m “trying to lose the baby-weight” when in actuality I weight about fifteen pounds more than when I delivered him. He weighed seven pounds, fourteen ounces. Subtract the weight of the other associated birthing goo and the truth is revealed that I have found a bit more than I lost when he was born. You do the math. They are numbers that try to define us; weight and age.
I remember when I was a kid, thirty seemed ancient! In fact, I can remember crying myself to sleep when my Dad turned twenty-nine because I knew the next year he would turn thirty, be old and probably die. Luckily for me that didn’t happen.
As a teenager, the cry of youth was “Don’t trust anyone over thirty.” At fourteen, it was more than half my lifetime away. The irony was that my own parents were only in their mid-thirties at the time!
At thirty, my “baby” is finishing the last push on his doctoral thesis. He posted that he was on his “last push” and a friend commented, “Are you pregnant?” He replied that metaphorically he was and indeed he has been. The gestational process of this paper has been a long one; even an elephant could have dropped at least two calves in the time he’s been working on it. It has been a journey of hard work, study, research and thought on his part and a great deal of prayer on mine. When he finishes and becomes “Dr. Andrew Scott Waugh, PhD” he will be the third in his line to have embarked on the effort and the first to receive the prize.
To say that I am in awe of this event and any part I may have played in this achievement as his mother is an understatement. Through his life, I have learned at least as much if not more from him than he ever could have from me. I like to think I just guided him through the early part of his life, although some pushing was required. He could be stubborn or more kindly put, dedicated to his position.
My little boy as he began his formal education.
In a few short weeks he will defend his dissertation and then move up to Washington State to begin teaching as a visiting Assistant Professor in the Political Science Department. My little one. I don’t know how he could be thirty and almost a PhD. He will always be my “Little Sweetie”; the baby who was full of laugher and smiled and flirted with little old ladies in the grocery store from his perch in the shopping cart seat.
Although at times it seems like the years have flown by, it is mostly because they were so full and rich. I’m sure in ten years, when he turns forty, I’ll be writing the same lament, “How can my baby be so old?” but I’ll really be thinking,” How can I be so old?”
My friend Lynda, as I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, has a marvelous gift for embracing life at its fullest and grabbing the hands of those around her to come along for the ride. As I am generally inclined to err on the side of caution, it is good for me to have a friend like Lynda to pull me out of the observation booth and out into the arena of life with all the wonderful adventures it has to offer.
This past Saturday, Dave and I finally headed north on 29 to spend the day with Lynda and her husband, Larry, at the home on Lake Thoreau in Fairfax County. It was an absolute glorious summer day, the kind you wish could be the norm rather than the exception. It was warm and sunny, all blue skies with a comfortable breeze and low humidity. We arrived just before noon bearing Hoffman’s hotdogs my sister, Barb, brought down in April. Larry and Lynda are from Chicago and can truly appreciate the epicurean delight of a real hotdog in a natural casing.
After a quick tour of their home, we began assembling our lunch. First on the list was beverages. Lynda decided she would make a batch of her newly discovered summer drink, the “Beer-garita”, a frozen mixture of limeade, tequila, crushed ice and a bottle of beer. I know you’re probably cringing. I know I did. Especially given my episodes of “aversion therapy” with beer in college, I am still unable to tolerate the taste of beer. Lynda assured me it would be delicious and refreshing and surprisingly it was! It was less biting than a regular margarita and a bit sweeter. I highly recommend this at your next backyard party.
Dave and Larry grilled the hotdogs and we enjoyed them el fresco with slaw and potato chips; barbecue for Larry and I and kettle cooked for Dave and Lynda. Their property backs right up to the lake so the view was one of sun-kissed water lined by shady banks. On the water were a handful of party barges and floating docks ferrying folks out to relax on the water. Since the lake is relatively small, only electric motors are allowed on the watercraft, so there were no loud sounds of revving motors or waves slapping the shore after a boat went by. In fact, it was so quiet, that we could easily hear the song of a sparrow who perched atop the maple tree near our table.
It wasn’t long after lunch that we decided to change into our swim suits and hit the water ourselves. Once we were out a ways, Lynda and I jumped into large tubes and let the boys tow us around the lake. It was more like controlled drifting, but it was heavenly. We lay in the tubes, totally relaxed to the point of limpness, chatting and catching up while Larry and Dave took turns steering and napping. It was total self-indulgence for all of us and it felt ever so good and necessary.
All too soon it was time to head back to the dock so we didn’t run the motor battery completely down and strand ourselves in the lake. Without missing a beat, right after docking, Lynda walked up the house and grabbed her son-in-law’s paddle board and announced we would all be giving it a try.
After a shaky start, Lynda was soon paddling around on the board. I guess to ease me into my turn, she suggested I kneel in front of her on the board as she paddled me around. It was fun. I felt sort of like I was riding a gondola in Venice, or heading down the Amazon in a dugout canoe with Lynda standing behind me, carefully moving the paddle from side to side as we made circles around the lake. Then she headed back and it was my turn.
Keep in mind this is not an activity I would have ever attempted without a nudge. When I see someone doing this kind of activity, I secretly wish I could give it a try, but never voice my desire to anyone lest they actually take me up on it. Instead, it takes a sister-friend, who knows my fears as well as my secret desires to take me by the hand and give me that gentle nudge or in this case hand me the paddle and tell me to climb aboard – literally!
Happily outside my comfort zone paddling on Lake Thoreau!
With much coaching and a less than steady launch, I was off! I can’t say I was totally relaxed on my paddle board adventure. If I had been able, I think my toes would have burrowed into the fiber glass and gripped over the ledge. My arches ached from my attempts to grip with my feet, but I was doing it; I was standing on a board and paddling in small circles atop the water.
The photo Lynda took of me hide my volleying between moments of relaxation and tension but for the most part it felt so good to stretch my wings and try something new. As I look at myself, I see myself standing straight and tall, well-balanced and relaxed. I wish she’d sent me the last picture she took of my paddle board experience. My landing and “de-boarding” was a bit more abrupt and I was tossed over-board as I collided with the dock. Nonetheless, I came up laughing both relieved that my trip was over and proud of myself for giving it a try.
So, today I’m walking a little taller knowing that I tried something new this weekend and reminded what a good friend I have who will lead me into fun adventures despite my moments of doubt.
This peony in my garden is very similar to those used in my wedding flowers
In the beginning – of my memory – there is a word, or better described as a sound; “peenees”.
It was a word I would hear my Grandma Farner use when speaking to my parents about her garden. I knew the “peenee” was a part of it, but I didn’t know what. Grandma’s garden was enormous and was full of so many flowers and vegetables in neat rows of green. Sometimes in the summer, we would take a ride over to Grandma and Grandpa’s after supper. Summer visits always included garden inspections. As a small child with no real knowledge of what was what in those lines, all I could determine was that peenees were something special and my Grandma liked to talk about them.
Later in my childhood, as I became more aware of the differences in garden plants, I began to see that the plants that once were a blur of green were actually different. One in particular that caught my eye looked like lollipops on a stick, tight balls of green with bright colors peaking through atop tall stems. It wasn’t so much their resemblance to candy that held my attention but the fact they were covered with large black ants. When I asked my mother about the ants, she said those were “peenee” buds and the ants helped them blossom. Her simple answer was enough for me and I continued to watch the ants but lost interest when the flowers opened and have no recollection of what they looked like.
Many years later, while working for Agway Gardens in Fayetteville, NY, I learned there was an old peony field ( with age comes wisdom, or at least knowledge) behind our store. One late May day at lunch time I walked back into the fields and was amazed to see acres of pink and white pompom blooms dancing in the afternoon breeze. So that’s what they looked like. I was surprised not only by their beauty but by the fact that this was the third spring I’d worked at this store and was just discovering this bounty of peonies!
Timing is everything. With my wedding just a few weeks away, the blooms held and I was able to pick at least a peck of peonies to fill in the arrangements my friend Beth created for us.
And so, peonies are big part of my spring garden watch. Everywhere we have lived, we have planted at least one peony. In early spring I watch for the first sprigs of green to peak from under the mulch and make almost daily garden inspections, taking note of the foliage, buds and naturally the ant assistance until late May when the blossoms finally open into their spectacular glory.
Every time I walk the beds I am aware that I am carrying on a family tradition, although on a much smaller scale. This time of year, when I see my peonies, I understand what all the fuss was about and why Grandma was so happy to have them in her garden. I am happy as well and thankful that looking at these flowers takes me back to my childhood and brings the echo of my Grandma’s voice alive in my memory.
I love it when everyday life experiences provide surprise and insight to the big picture. Last week was chock full of those kinds of days.
It all started last Monday when I decided I would organize my life by choosing one room a day and give it a thorough cleaning. Fully energized by my re-commitment to a clean home, I decided to tackle the master bathroom first. Although I do clean it regularly, I admit the shower stall and garden tub are often left for the “next time” since they don’t seem to pose as horrible a heath concern from going a couple extra weeks as the sink and toilet. Anyway, last Monday, after I got home from the gym, I pulled out the mat and tossed it into the washer with the throw rugs, sprayed the shower with Scrubbing Bubbles and climbed in (naked of course) with my cloth to finally tackle that soap scum.
My project was going well at first. I was happy to finally be cleaning the shower, because I do love it when it’s shiny, and I was proud of myself for making the adult choice to clean instead of plopping on the couch to knit and catch up on this week’s episode of Game of Thrones. Then, I felt my feet slip and with no mat to secure my footing or anything to grab on to, I went from vertical to horizontal in a nanosecond, landing out onto the tile floor, like a baby calf being delivered and dumped onto the ground, wet and naked. My head hit the floor pretty hard and my glasses were laying next to me, bent in an awkward contortion.
I lay there for a few moments, taking in the whole scenario. I couldn’t believe I’d been so stupid. Slowly I got back onto my feet, taking inventory of my aches and pains. My head was my main concern, my brow ridge bore the brunt of impact, but remarkably there were no cuts or even visible bruise. I leaned forward over the vanity to get a better look in the mirror, checking my pupils. I did receive an impressive bruise on my thigh where it landed on the shower door track but all in all, I escaped with minimal damage. Reassuring myself I wasn’t critically wounded I got dressed and decided that sitting on the couch was a good idea after all.
As I relived my mishap and routinely checked my pupils, still worried about a potential slow bleed in my brain (had to worry about something), I realized that I had received a powerful reminder from God; that life can change in the blink of an eye. I don’t think I’ll ever clean the shower naked again.
My next revelation came on Thursday when I went in for my annual physical. I am always just a tad nervous about these exams, similar to how I feel when I take my 2000 CRV in for its annual safety inspection. We are both “used” vehicles and despite how good care we are given, you never know what will be found when the hood is popped open! My blood work was excellent as was my muscle tone, etc. The one noteworthy change in my status was that my height was measured a full inch and a half TALLER than ever before in my life! How that happens, I couldn’t tell you, the doctor theorized that perhaps my time in the gym has paid off with improved posture. Maybe I stretched myself when I was flung out of the shower. It’s a mystery. But, for whatever reason, I am taller and feeling ever so lithe at my alleged five foot three!
My last day of revelations was Sunday, Mother’s Day. Dave and I had no plans for the day until we got to church and a friend mentioned that a local artist, Fred Nichols, was holding an open house in his studio in Barboursville that afternoon. It was a glorious day, sunny and bright, but still cool and spring-like and taking a short drive to look at art seemed like the perfect ticket.
The studio tour was fascinating. Mrs. Nichols took us on a tour of the silk-screening workshop and described all the steps in creating the beautiful prints hanging in the gallery. Some go through the printing process over forty times and can take as long as a year before they are complete. I would have liked to have taken one home with us, but the prices were out of our league. After the tour, she invited us to head up the street to their gallery to view works by other artists and enjoy a cup of coffee. So we did.
It was our first time to actually drive into Barboursville. You can’t really see it from the highway because they moved the highway a few hundred yards north sometime back to bypass the railroad crossing. It’s really a shame because what remains of the original town is charming. Located at the intersection of old US Routes 33 and 20, Barboursville lies between James Madison’s Montpelier and Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. On the grounds of the nearby Barboursville Winery are the ruins of Governor James Barbour’s mansion, which burned on Christmas Day, 1884, seventy years after its construction. All three of these homes were designed by Thomas Jefferson. With the aroma of boxwoods heavy in the air, it just plain smells historic!
The gallery was in an old building that was originally a hotel. And, although the walls were hung with the works of very talented artists, which drew Dave’s attention, my eyes were drawn to the architecture of the building, checking the woodwork, moldings and floors for continuity and looking for changes in the plaster indicating a previous window or doorway. I checked the view from the windows, to get an idea what could have been seen from them a hundred years ago or more. Buildings like that seem to have their own stories to tell and no matter what you hang on the walls, the story will speak over them, to me at least.
This is all that remains of Governor James Barbour’s beautiful home following the fire in 1884
After our gallery tour we took a quick drive over to the ruins. At first I wondered why someone would leave the walls of a burned out home left standing. It just seemed odd and hazardous. Then I saw them. Thomas Jefferson’s hand in the design was obvious from the octagonal front hall reminiscent of Monticello as were the two-story wings at either end allowing for a grand ceiling and staircase in that room. Even though it is only a skeleton of its past grandeur, the Barbour home still had its story to tell.
We walked the full circumference of the house and took advantage of the spectacular view across the vineyards and off to the mountains. It was all so quiet and peaceful.
Then, a bird song followed by a flash of color caught my attention. And there, atop an ancient Thuja, stood a Baltimore Oriole and from the racket he was creating, there must have been a nest nearby. What a treat! I can’t even begin to remember the last time I saw an oriole.
After our tour of the ruins, Dave took me on a proper Sunday drive through the country, taking the byways to see what else we could discover along the way. It was just another adventure in our lifelong journey together and it was (and is) marvelous.
Okay, so I’ve taken a long trip through last week and you’ve got to be wondering just what my great epiphany was from these three completely different experience. To be honest, I didn’t really know myself until a few moments ago, I just knew there had to be something.
The way I see it, it all boils down to this. Life can change in the blink of an eye (or fall to the floor), and even if you don’t find yourself flat on your face, something else you discover about yourself, no matter how insignificant, can change how you see yourself. Lastly, it’s important to have a companion to share adventures with. Even if you don’t enjoy the same things, enjoying different things in the same place can be just as good.
It was a good week and I’m actually sort of happy to catch sight of my bruise now and then because it reminds me of just how good a week it was, despite its awkward beginning.
I was raised in the belief that God will never give you more to handle than you are able with God’s help. There have been many instances in my life when I’ve leaned on that belief to get me through. Yesterday was one of those days.
It all started the night before. Dave and I were crashed on the couch catching up on last Sunday’s episode of the Mentalist. I was playing WordWelder on my I Pad and mentally looking forward to the next day. Tuesday is one of my “free” days; meaning I’m not committed to any one activity. My plans included a haircut and then a dash to Kroger to take advantage of “senior” citizen discounts. (Kroger deems you a senior at 55.) It was going to be a good day.
Then the doorbell rang.
Dave and I looked at each other. It was 9:30 and we weren’t expecting anyone. In the knowledge that nothing good can come of opening your door after dark, I think Dave was waiting for me to get up. I decided as a member the “weaker sex” I would sit back and let him suck it up and go to the door.
On the other side of the front door, in the dark was our neighbor from across the street. She’d had a family emergency come up that would require all the adult members of her household to be away for a couple of hours the following morning and was in need of someone to babysit for her two youngest sons. Since I had no other pressing business the next day other than my long-awaited hair appointment, I agreed to help her out.
It was the right thing to do, but it was also frightening. I didn’t know her children other than to wave to them, and the youngest two were 10 months and 2 years old; or should I say young!
It’s been a very long time since I’ve had charge to wee ones. It’s been almost thirty years since I brought me last baby home and even my grandchildren’s ages are in double digits! What was I going to do with two unknown very little boys?
I said some prayers and hit the deck running first thing in the morning. I picked up the assortment of cat toys strewn on the family room floor as well as any potential choking hazards or heaving things that could be pulled down on a baby. Then I grabbed some on my “Nana” toys I thought might interest the boys. As I was taking one last look around, I noticed the entourage of adults and children heading across the street so I ducked into the powder room for one last time. Moments later, the doorbell rang again.
In just a couple of minutes, my entryway held a pile of baby paraphernalia and I had one wee one by the hand and another tucked upon my hip. It was just like old times!
For the next four hours, my little charges and I got along just fine. As kids go, Chase and Ethan were fairly easy-going. The baby had a runny nose that required a lot of wiping and made it difficult for him to take his bottle. His appetite was good though and I enjoyed sitting him on my lap and feeding him his toddler dinner with my little baby spoon.
It all came back to me; cooking with a baby on my hip, the nose wiping, the formula mixing. I was able to figure out how to assemble the pac’n’play which turned out to be a life saver. Ethan was a fast mover and after chasing him for a couple of hours, I needed a break.
After lunch I there was a definite change in the atmosphere in the family room. I asked Chase if he’d pooped his pants. No, he said. I asked again, reassuring him that I wouldn’t yell at him if he had. He admitted that he had. Then I asked if he’d be more comfortable in clean pants. Yes, he agreed. So we went into the kitchen to clean him up. I thought he’d just lie on the rug, but he assumed a position very similar to a Yoga “downward dog”. It proved to be efficient, but nonetheless, a stinky, gag-filled experience, I am embarrassed to admit.
In many ways, spending the morning with Chase and Ethan was the perfect storm; a way to reconnect with my baby tending skills so I will be ready for my next wave of grandchildren in the next few years or so. By the time they were picked up, they were clean, happy and luckily ready to leave!
Sadly, I don’t have the stamina I had thirty years ago. I still made me trip to Kroger but felt like I was dragging the whole way through the store even though I stopped by the Starbucks counter first!
Once I was home and plopped in my chair for a rest, I was content. Spending the morning with little ones was an adventure, but it was also full of cuddles, giggles and warmth. I don’t know how I did it so many years ago when Dave was busy cruising with the Navy, the memories are so foggy. I do know that I wasn’t alone.
This month’s issue of the Rutgers Alumni Magazine arrived last week. As usual, I immediately flipped back to the class news section and was not surprised that Class of 1977 column was short and didn’t include any news about anyone I knew. I tossed the magazine on the coffee table so Dave could take a look at it before it went to the recycling pile. A couple of days later he asked me if I’d read the article about the first class of women at Rutgers. In my haste to move the mail along from the box to the bin, I’d totally overlooked the story. I decided to give it a read.
I already knew most of the information about that first year; that 40 years ago this fall that 600 women were admitted to the campus on the banks of the old Raritan into a population of almost 5,000 men and that Rutgers was the last non-military, all-male state school to go coed. The article described the peculiarities of the formerly all-male dorm bathrooms having the word “Men” on the doors as well as urinals on the walls, something I was aware of since they were still there the following fall when I arrived as well as some very colorful graffiti. (There was one memorable piece of art on the door of the middle stall on Brett 3rd floor involving a moose and a guy named Ferrell which now, as I think about it, I wonder why it wasn’t painted over before the women arrived.)
There were also things I did not know, such as the lack of female faculty members and the resistance on the part of male department heads to vote in favor of adding a gynecologist to the clinic staff feeling that female students could get the information they needed from their mothers! Amazing. It got me thinking about my first months at Rutgers College, just one year later.
Me, a few weeks into my freshman year taken by my friend, Marc Dolce.
This is me at eighteen, just a few weeks into my first semester at Rutgers College. I’d arrived the day after my 18th birthday and was very excited about the prospects of joining in on the second year of co-education and continuing the raid on the all-male bastion of education. But in the end, I found it to be not such a big deal. Yes, there were more men than women, but there were no visible signs of animosity or inequality. I guess any that had been there was addressed the previous year.
Yes, there were differences in my experience compared to those of my female counterparts at other schools. Yes, we had urinals on the walls of our bathrooms, which were very handy since for the most part, the bathrooms became coed after midnight. Yes, the graffiti in those former men’s rooms was bawdy. And yes, most definitely there were many more men on campus than women; probably five or six to one my freshman year. I never felt intimidated, threatened or afraid.
To be honest, that first year had all the romance and magic of a fairy tale complete with villains, witches and damsels in distress. I freely tested my limits and stretched my boundaries. One of my most famous personal test involved my tolerance for drinking beer; I apparently have none. Twice I found myself trying to keep up with my male friends, beer for beer with very unpleasant results earning me my nickname OBM – One Beer Monica. There are worse things to be called.
By the end of that first year I’d grown up a lot. I’d made some incredible friends and even met my true love. No other year in my time at Rutgers ever measured up to the first. The thrill of being as Alice in a Wonderland of streakers and toilet paper wars in the quad, round the clock frisbee throwing to gain fame in the Guinness Book of World Records, of attending a frat party on Halloween dressed as a cat in leotard and tights complete with a braided black yarn tail and headband tethered ears (which oddly enough turned out to be a bachelor party – not a Halloween party) to finding my prince after kissing many, many frogs. It was a marvelous year. I’m not sure what part my being a member of the second class of women played in the outcome of my life. Would I be so different today if I’d accepted my offer to attend Douglass College which at the time only admitted women? I don’t know. I can only say what is, and it is very good.
The other day while I was visiting with my Mom via FaceTime she paid me a compliment on my current haircut. I’ve been letting my hair grow for the past year, in an attempt to grow a bob. My former stylist, Wendy, used to say that whenever a woman has an identity crisis, she grows a bob. I’m not certain that I’m going through a crisis, but I have changed my hair a lot through the years.
The resulting “pixie” cut.
The first time I can remember being aware of my hair having a style was the day I decided to play beauty parlor in the back yard with a pair of safety scissors. Iremember waltzing from tree to tree, drifting in my own world, chatting with my imaginary stylists as I cut random locks if hair from my head. My poor mother was totally unaware of my snipping until she called me in for lunch and noticed the clumps of blonde hair on my shoulders. At first she thought she’d be able to even it out herself but I’d done too good a job for that. I was whisked to the beauty parlor and my one time little girl bob became a “pixie”.
I don’t remember the next time I went to a shop for a haircut. Most of the time, my mother was my hairdresser. She was very good with barber shears and could shape and feather hair. It was always so exciting to get my hair cut. Mom would sit me in the high chair (we had a high chair in our kitchen until I was twelve or thirteen) and wet my hair with a comb dipped in warm water. Then, she would bend down in front of me, comb and snip, step back, examine, comb and snip some more. Eventually she’d say, “You’re done” and I would run up to the bathroom to check out my new do in the mirror. Many times my eyes would begin to tear up. I would wonder why I wanted my hair cut in the first place and then walk back down to Mom in the kitchen. She’d ask “Do you like it?” I don’t remember what I said, but I hope I never made her feel bad. As I look back at my childhood photos, my hair almost always looked nice.
Along with the variety of cuts, my fine blonde hair had its share of permanent waves. Mom would sit me in the kitchen with a towel around my neck, carefully rolling my hair on the tiny perm rods which I would hand to her alternately with end papers. Even though the whole process should only have taken a couple of hours, our kitchen was generally a three-ring circus, with the constant traffic of my younger brothers and sisters, cats, dogs and the occasional phone call interrupting my mother’s train of thought. Luckily Mom was a professional ring master and eventually the perm was done. Except for the smell of the chemicals, I loved getting a perm. My hair is so soft that even rollers couldn’t form a curl that would hold without the help of Little Miss Toni.
Early days of hair setting.
I started sleeping in rollers very early on. By the time I was ten, I was rolling my own hair every night before bed and carefully wrapping the curlers with an old stocking around my head to keep them in place as I slept. Mines weren’t the soft pink sponge rollers either, they were black brush rollers with bristles inside that stuck in your scalp to hold them in place. I never really mastered the use of picks, so my rollers were clasped together with bobby pins. I was pretty good at the rolling too, I didn’t even need a mirror. Despite any discomfort the rollers may have caused, in the morning I had a head full of bouncing blonde curls.
My quest for finding my hair history evolved into a much larger task than I had expected. For years I’d been saying I was going to organize all the family pictures into one spot, collecting them from the various albums and boxes where they were stashed. It took me two days but I finally finished late yesterday afternoon. What I learned by looking at close to 2,500 photos was that for most of my life, my hair has been in a bob, and it looked good! It wasn’t just a style I ran to out of
uncertainty, instead, it seems to be a style that suits me and is me. So, I guess in my case, Wendy was right! The difference is that when I go for a bob, I’m not entering an identity crisis but coming out of one.
Hair today.
For so much of my life, I’ve wanted my hair to look like someone else so I could look like someone else. I would want to look prettier, sexier, more provocative or alluring. That’s why I would cry after a haircut; even though my hair had changed, from my forehead down, I was still me. For too long, that just wasn’t good enough for me. It may have taken me 57 years to figure it out, but thank God I have. Looking back through all the years of my childhood, adolescence, young adulthood, early parenthood and on to the present, the hair may have changed, but the face is still me and I’m happy with that.
I believe that God speaks to us in a variety of ways, connecting to us on an individual basis, tuning into our own personal frequencies. Our challenge is to pay attention, to first tune into and then become part of the conversation. When this this all comes together, epiphanies result.
Saturday morning as Dave and I lazily sipped our coffee and tentatively mapped out our day with “What do you want to do today?” and the dreaded response, “I don’t care, what did you want to do?”, Izzie sat at the back door crying. She knew exactly what she wanted to do; she wanted to go outside.
Months ago, after Izzie’s emergency trip to the vet, we’d decided to keep her indoors for her own safety and our peace of mind. At first she didn’t seem to mind so much, but over the past several weeks, Izzie has made it known that she has had a change of heart and wanted to rejoin the wild world of moles and mice in the back yard. Long episodes of pleading by the door and several unsuccessful excape attempts have caused us to rethink our decision.
We considered Izzie’s current quality of life. Yes, she’s safe, but she’s also become increasingly lazy and withdrawn. Worst of all, she’s been very irritable, growling every time she even catches sight of Purrl.
We tried to ease the situation by allowing Izzie supervised playtime in the back yard. We’d let her out while we were working on the gardens or just to sit in the sun. That worked fine, and Izzie came in when she was called. The problem was that she wanted to go out all the time.
So, after careful thought and consideration, weighing the quality of life issues against the safety issues, we decided to let Izzie be free to roam the yard unchaperoned during daylight hours. For the past few days our arrangement is working. Izzie still asks for our company when she goes out. Sometimes we go and when we can’t, we peak out the door or window, to get a bead on her. Even though we aren’t together, Dave and I are still looking after her, ready to help her in a time of need.
OK, so you may be wondering how a cat crying at the door has taught be about the power of persistent prayer. What was my epiphany? Here goes;
God only wants what is best for us. He loves us and cares for us, despite our best efforts to “run out the open door without supervision”. When we make requests, God doesn’t always give us quick answers. I see that like our consideration in letting Izzie roam free, God must consider the pros and cons of each request with a measure of just how much we yearn for our request. The duration of the requests doesn’t necessarily translate into a positive response, but it certainly reminds God that we are still asking.
Like Izzie, I’d like to know that God is out there with me when I’m out in the world, and because God is God, I know that is the truth. God doesn’t merely peak out the window to check on me.
Aside from The Prayer before supper and the occassional off the cuff conversation with God, regular thoughtful prayer hasn’t been a part of my daily life. It is a goal that I continue to attempt to attain. I think God just might have been tuning into me through Izzie’s pleas at the door, to remind me of the old acronym P.U.S.H. – Pray Until Something Happens. Izzie asked and she received, she “knocked” and the door was opened to her. I just need to follow her example.
