Is Sentiment Genetic?
My daughter recently moved … again. That’s an essay in itself, but I’m still recovering from the ordeal.
Anyway, in the process, I was advising her to start letting go of some things she was holding on to. Moving is a great time to purge, and boy, do I love a purge.
She was going through her card container. I remember moving this a year ago. It is one of those plastic under-the-bed containers that needs two people to move because of the weight. All cards, some going back to her baptism, 33 years ago!
I suggested that this time around, she should go through the container to see if it could be lightened up a bit.
As she was going through the mountain of memories, she found a $ 100 bill in a birthday card from her aunt celebrating her 28th birthday. Okay, did this come at a good time with moving expenses, yes. Did it add to her argument for holding on to cards? Also, a yes.
One thing this did was spark my interest in going through some much smaller containers of my own. Apparently, the guilt of throwing away cards is genetic. Who knew?
I realized I had sympathy cards from the passing of my father 30-plus years ago. I read through them and was pleasantly surprised by some of the senders who haven’t been part of my life for decades. I read them one last time, gave them a quiet farewell, and purged.
Next came birthday cards, ones that made me laugh, brought tears to my eyes, and left me with a full heart. I’ll admit, some of those had to stay. I’m not quite ready to let go of my mother’s handwriting… or the love within it just yet.
As I sorted through the memories, I found myself thinking about the importance of the written word. I know so many people who no longer send cards because of the cost or because, as they say, “I’m just not into cards.” Fair enough. I can understand both, right up until that little voice in my head whispers, I’m not worth a stamp once a year?
But then I remembered what I had just been holding in my hands. What gets lost in those thoughts is the sentiment, the memories, and the tangible evidence that someone existed, that they loved you, and that, for a moment, they stopped what they were doing and put it into words.
I also have a container of cards from someone I never met in person, but who has been part of my world for over a decade. A fellow blogger who appreciates a good card, the written word, and the U.S. Post Office, like me.
As I sat on the floor reading those messages, I was reminded just how much human connection matters.
In a world where texting and disappearing messages have become”normal,” the power of holding a piece of someone’s thoughtfulness in your hands is profound. A card or a letter is so much more than paper and ink; it’s proof that someone took time from their day to say, “I’m thinking of you. I remember you. You matter.
I’ll never second guess sending a written note again.
No wonder my daughter has a hard time throwing these things away. It’s a wonderful notion to remember how much someone, especially those who are no longer physically here, loved you enough to leave a piece of themselves behind.
Looks like we’re not saving cards, we’re saving the love inside them, and somehow the weight of that container feels different now.
Enjoy the Ride!
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The Ache of Familiarity
I can’t stop thinking about Rob Reiner. I keep asking myself why. His death has settled into me in a way I can’t quite name. We never met. We shared no friends, no blood, no history. We lived in different orbits, so why does his absence ache like something personal? Why does the knowledge of his death ache?
Yes, the tragic way he left this world weighs on me, of course. But that isn’t the root of it.
The truth came to me in a dream last night; it was familiarity. He had been an integral part of my life for decades, not in person, but in something just as intimate. He was flickering through television screens, filling movie theaters, shaping the background noise of my growing up. And that mattered.
My family watched All in the Family from the very beginning in 1971. I was seven years old, too young to understand the politics or the jokes, but old enough to absorb the feeling of it. The show became a mirror, reflecting my own home back at me. Loud fathers. Quiet mothers. Slamming doors. Arguments that somehow dissolved into laughter. It taught me, without words, that I wasn’t alone, that our chaos was shared, familiar, even lovable. We were the “different” family on the block, and that was okay.
So maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him. Not because I knew him, but because he knew something about me. About us. About families and flaws and love that bangs around loudly before settling into laughter.
This feeling of grief that I’m having isn’t necessarily for Rob Reiner the person. It’s for what he gave that seven-year-old little girl in her living room the first time she experienced his work, the gift of recognition. The feeling of being seen before I even knew I needed it.
Rest in peace, Rob Reiner. You certainly enjoyed your ride and made mine better.
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Hold On Tight
The first Presidential debate I watched was on September 23, 1976. It was held at the Walnut Street Theatre in my hometown of Philadelphia, which made it more exciting. It was the first debate in 16 years and the first for me to witness. I sat on my living room floor in front of the family TV with a blank cassette tape, recorder, and enthusiasm. If you know, you know.
I was in seventh grade at the time and had a very liberal, out-of-the-box lay teacher at my catholic school who recognized the importance of this moment. I still wonder how she was hired.
She went by Ms., drove a yellow Porche convertible, and taught Social Studies in a way that had all of us sitting wide-eyed and interested while welcoming questions and opinions. She was literally an alien in comparison to the nuns.
Our assignment was to watch this crucial presidential debate, and we would discuss it in class. I remember this time clearly in our home. My mother was obsessed with Jimmy Carter, while my father walked around making comments like “he’ll be eaten alive.” My mother went on to attend his inauguration, and my father kept his mouth shut.
If you have a minute to watch this debate on YouTube, you’ll be surprised—not by the content but by the respect. Two grown men could once stand side by side on a stage and present the American people with clear and concise information. I swear it’s true.
Fast forward to the “debate” last night. If I had to narrow it down to one word, that word would be sad.
If nothing else, last night gave us permission to reflect on how we got where we are and whether we want to continue on that trajectory. I do not. Unless we have a 78-year-old candidate with the same vitality and zest for life as Cher or an 80-year-old candidate jumping Jack flashing all over the United States while still fathering babies like Mick Jagger, it’s a no for me. Age is not the issue; mindset is.
All the talking heads following up with their narrative this morning was equivalent to pouring a bucket of salt into an open wound. We deserve more than blah, blah, blah. He’s old. He lied. They’re old, and they lied. We can handle the truth; we really can.
At this point, I’m torn between exercising my constitutional right, fought for by the best of the best women in history, to cast a vote or following my moral compass, which is screaming otherwise. The lesser of two evils card has been played too many times.
I’m not angry by our choice of candidates; none of us can be. Why? They reflect who we’ve become as a nation. They represent our fears, anger, complacency, disconnect, and majority. They are all of us, and that, folks, is discouraging. If the US was a mirror, that stage was the reflection.
A testament to my disappointment is my inability to laugh at the influx of memes that have surfaced this morning. Trust me, I can find humor in some dark situations, but witnessing our democracy in hospice is not one of them.
I shouldn’t be in this position, nor should anyone else in the land of the free and home of the brave. We should have done better; no, we should have demanded better for future generations. But that requires doing the work; frankly, from where I stand, that ship has sailed. Our excitement has been replaced with division.
After 8 years of these two, my optimism feels like that last balloon holding on for dear life weeks after the party. I do not have another 4 years to give to either of these Gentlemen. They don’t deserve it, and they haven’t earned it.
My parents will no doubt be turning in their graves hearing me say this, but is there an alternative? When do we stop bowing down to this nonsense? The answer is now. It’s today. The day after, we witnessed two men who have divided our families, damaged our country, and embarrassed us around the globe, fumbling like fools on a world stage. I want a President who unites us using full meaningful sentences for 90 minutes.
No matter what, I am confident that whatever does happen will be for the greater good. However, it’s not going to be easy.
Buckle up, lock the doors, and hold tight; this ride might be rough, but it will be worth the effort.
Enjoy the Ride! Helmets required.
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Mirror Mirror
No, not the one at will tell you if you are the fairest of them all or that three-sided monster living in the wrong dressing room lighting.
The mirrors I’m talking about are the ones that show up in our lives to teach us a lesson or two—as long as we’re open enough to recognize them. Let me explain.
The mirrors I’m referring to could be people who pop into our lives to reflect things about ourselves that we may or may not want to face.
This past school year, I had the pleasure of mentoring two children—a girl and a boy, ages 8 and 9—who became my mirrors. The little boy, Dezi, is a ball of fire. I was given a list of icebreaker questions to get to know each other. Right out of the gate, I asked, “Can you tell me something about yourself?” Without hesitating, he responded, “I’m an Aquarius, and I love to argue!” I did not see that coming. No doubt a match made in heaven.
The little girl, Megan, is the polar opposite. When we met, I was greeted with a big hug. Megan was overjoyed to have a mentor and wasn’t afraid to express it. I used a different icebreaker question and asked, “Can you describe yourself using three adjectives?” Again, without pausing, she responded, “I’m creative, kind and grateful.” Grateful at 9 years old, it took me by surprise.
Dezi, with his big brown eyes and dimples that will undoubtedly break young hearts in a few years, has shown me how exciting life can be when you’re passionate. Every week, he hits me with all sorts of facts, especially about football. At 8 years old, he is a walking, talking football Google search. The most surprising part about his passion is that he lives in a house without an ounce of influence for football. He doesn’t even have a TV! I had to ask where in the world this obsession came from. Once again, his response floored me. “My heart and brain!” Alrighty then. Dezi spends most of his time at home researching his interests on YouTube. In other words, he does the work.
Megan, oh sweet Megan, is the polar opposite of Dezi. She is tall for her age, overly affectionate, has hair like Cher circa 1975, and a heart of gold. Not to mention, she spills the tea like no other. Megan feels like an outcast among her classmates because of her height, clothes, and skin color. Not that you would ever know it when she took on the role of Mrs. Cory, who runs The Talking Shop, in her school play Mary Poppins! I enjoyed the opening night and could not believe how well this production was done. With her insecurities, Megan got up on that stage, said her lines, danced and sang her supercalifragilisticexpialidocious heart out. When I asked her what made her sign up for the show, she simply responded, “I was grateful for the chance to try it.”
When the program ended for the school year, I felt like I was the one who was mentored, and don’t think I didn’t let these little nuggets know it. They came to teach me things about myself that I could not see on my own. They were my mirrors, my reminders. Dezi proved to me that when you put in the work, well, you’ll get what you were seeking, while Megan showed me that gratitude, big or small, will push your fears and insecurities to the curb.
Now, it’s not that I don’t already know these things; of course I do. Without coming off all woo-woo-like, I must tell you I saw my wounded inner child in both children. Dezi, who is always alone outside of school, showed me what it’s like not to be a victim of those circumstances. Instead, he uses that time to learn about things he loves. Megan, who, despite her insecurities, stood tall (literally) on that stage and survived.
Healing while I Enjoy the Ride.
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Growth ans Fireflies
My sister is in the process of moving, most likely a plane ride away. Over the past two years, we’ve endlessly talked about her plans while I was processing my own.
A lot of significant changes were on the table. Relationship status, home sales, employment, and aging into a new decade.
Along the way, there were ups and downs, and all around with it, but in the end, everything fell into place as intended.
Now that we’re in the final stretch, the reality of getting on a plane to visit is sinking in on my end.
At 15 months apart, we were raised like twins dressing alike and doing everything together until our teenage years when we had different circles. As we grew into ourselves, we were back together again, having our children together and, most recently, becoming grandmothers.
We’ve been so busy cheering each other on that I haven’t thought about the enormity of this potential distance apart. Yes, I’m happy, proud, and excited about her future ventures, but suddenly I feel nostalgic about what was.
These feelings showed up in my dream last night. I dreamt I was approached by someone requesting I write a passage for their book. It was based on a missing woman, and I was to write it as if I knew the character when we were children. This is how it went.
We were two little girls with big imaginations playing in the basement of our rowhome. We always had each other, never needing outside playmates. As the younger of the duo, I would pretend to be a mother of 4 at the tender age of 9, providing our dolls with the nurturing they deserved. At the same time, my sister, who loved school, bypassed the teacher and went directly to playing a principal, making policy changes, and firing the Barbie and Dawn doll staff members.
On hot Summer nights, fresh from the bath and dressed in matching babydoll pajamas, we would grab our Maxwell House coffee cans with holes punched in the lids to catch fireflies in our yard. We went as far as adding grass to eat while they were being held captive, then, after counting our inventory, we let them go before heading to bed.
I woke up with mixed emotions as I wrote everything down not to forget a signal detail. It shook me on some level. The passages were vivid, and the memories were something I hadn’t thought about in decades. Why now?
Laying in bed, eyes wide open, I thought about those two little girls in the basement. Those roles now look more like survivor skills. Me providing the nurturing, I hungered while my sister did her best to gain control that was nowhere to be found in our house, both happening as we were still playful little girls catching fireflies.
Like us, our parents did the best they could with the knowledge they had at the time. I’m grateful for the consciousness to recognize this for what it is without casting blame on myself or my parents.
Now, off to work where things won’t be so deep ❤
Enjoy the Ride!
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The Morning Dawdler, 1/10/22
The Morning Dawdler is Season 2 of Questions Over Coffee with Rory.
There is something about the word dawdler that I find attractive. Anyway, that’s what I’m doing over here before I head out to work.
Can you find the mistake in this lineup A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P, Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, Z?
Oh, aren’t you tricky? The double the in the question is the mistake. But, I will admit, I examined the alphabet for far too long.
What old-fashioned way of doing things is better than how they are currently done?
Having Sunday family dinners. Not just with our immediate families, grandparents, aunts, and uncles. This connection provided an opportunity to connect, converse and sometimes solve world problems. Today, you’re doomed if your older relatives are not on FaceBook.
Are we consuming too much information and data, and is the modern world bad for us?
Yes! I, for one, have stopped doomscrolling and don’t watch the news. Removing these two things from my life has helped me tremendously. Negativity has a way of creeping in on its own; I don’t need to hand it the keys.
If global warming continues, what will happen in the future?
I have faith in the fact that some brilliant climate-conscious folks are working hard behind the scenes to ensure this does not happen. In the meantime, our small efforts add significant changes, and we should continue implementing them daily.
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Question Time Over Coffee 24th December
Tonight it’s hot chocolate for me, with a dash of egg nog and whipped cream. Rory is our generous host, and you can join in here to answer some inquisitive questions.
1. Are you more socially or community-minded regarding people, or do you not think there is a difference between the two?
I’d like to think I’m both. I care about the folks close to me and those in the community.
On a scale of 1 – 10, how ethically minded do you think you are?
What behavior do you consider to be ethical?
Hmm, I believe I once was ethical to a fault, probably a 10, due to being conditioned to fear not following the appropriate rules of society compliments of my Catholic upbringing. Now I take the hypocrisy of those teachings into account and drop myself down to a 7.
3. Tattoos are a very personal lifestyle choice by those who have their bodies inked.
So – Do you think tattoos make people more confident or less?
Do tattoos look good on everyone?
I don’t think it’s a matter of confidence, especially today when young people don’t think twice about inking up. My son got his first one when he turned 18. He now has an arm sleeve with an ocean theme and a leg sporting a wilderness theme. It has not stopped him from being a successful member of society.
I think some tattoos look better on some people; for instance, Jason Momoa could sport a turd across his chest, which would be stunning.
4. What enrichment do you personally receive from being social?
Have you become noticeably more socially isolated or socially interactive after the pandemic and the lockdowns? There may be no difference in your social behaviour; if this is the case, let me know below.
I get energized from being social. It doesn’t matter if it’s a brief conversation at the supermarket or a deep conversation with a friend.
I think, if anything, I’ve become more socially selective. The lockdowns certainly spotlighted who and who I don’t want around me. I believe this resulted from my learning more about myself during that time.
5. What would be your top sustainability tip?
Be consistent, and don’t think that your one small change can’t make a difference.
6. We live in a world that treats being open and vulnerable as a taboo and something to be frowned upon, so –
Do you find it easy or hard to talk to your friends and family about your health?
I was raised in a generation where things were not discussed; they were buried under a rug. Therefore, being vulnerable was not front and center. I don’t have a problem discussing health, but I admit I don’t discuss it with everyone.
The younger generations today seem very open, almost shocking us when they start dropping their vulnerability. I love that they feel free enough to do so.
7. What will you be doing this weekend?
Our daughter is in town for the holiday. Today we did some volunteering and went out to a late lunch. Tomorrow we plan to have a big breakfast, open gifts, and go for a walk once the temperature hits 30. It’s brutally cold here today, so staying warm is also on the list.
8. As the writer and author of your blog, how connected do you feel to your audience?
It’s funny you asked this question. I was just saying I feel closer to some of my fellow bloggers, whom I’ve never met, than I do to those in my life.
9. Does your blog reveal too much, too little, or just the right balance of you to your readers?
It’s a potpourri of information.
10. If you were granted a day at being one of your favorite book characters, who would you choose to be and why?
Ok, my choice comes from a series of children’s books I read to my daughter called Eloise. I loved her spunk and the fact that she lived in the Plaza Hotel in NYC.
11. What do you believe is the greatest threat to our planet today?
People
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What In The What?
One of my early childhood dreams was to be a mailman. I say “mailman” because when I was a kid, women were busy being housewives. We did not have “carriers”; we had “men.”
To this day, I can’t explain my attraction to this career path, but if I were to guess, it was probably all of the “hello, how ya doings?” Everyone loved to see him heading down the street.
What was not to love? He was the bearer of cards celebrating special occasions, letters from loved ones, and an occasional check. A celebrity every day.
Don’t get me started on the idle chitchat with folks on the route or an unplanned life-saving event due to mail piling up and actually noticing. I do this now for free.
We’re not going to discuss the bills; they were a given.
I was probably deterred by the rain, snow, and sleet motto, only to find out when writing this essay that it was all a LIE.
“The U.S. Postal Service has no official motto. Nope, it’s not this: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” But we certainly appreciate the sentiment.“
US Postal Service
No doubt I heard “gloom of night” and said, “I’m out!”
Anyway, fast forward to yesterday when I went to the post office to mail a package containing a book. The book recipient informed me of a book rate that cuts the shipping cost. Who knew? Not me.
However, I was not informed then that an FBI-like interrogation went along with using this discounted rate. Folks, there is always a damn price to pay!
As always, I waited in line for the lone over-worked employee to address me.
Me: I want to mail this box at the book rate, please.
Overworked employee: Is there a book in the box?
Me: Yes
OE: Is there anything else in the box?
Me: No
OE: Is there a card in the box?
Me: No
OE: A letter?
Me: Um, no.
OE: Chocolate?
Me: There’snothing else in the box.
OE: Ok, fine. Can I get you anything else?
Me: Yes, can I get two books of Christmas stamps?
OE: Which ones?
Me: Not the religious ones, the other ones.
OE: The Elves or the Otters?
Me: One of each, please.
OE: You know they’re brown?
Me: What’sbrown?
OE: The Elves.
Me: (Looking at the stamps.) They’re Elves.
OE: Yeah, but they’re brown.
Me: Elves aren’t real.
OE: I know; I’m just saying they’re brown.
Me: So are the Otters.
I got my tracking receipt, turned around to leave, looked into the dead stares of a long line of people, and went my merry way. What in the what?
Enjoy the Ride!
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Ratty Robe of Worry
Recently, a friend was going through a medical issue and gave what I like to call “the runaround,” having to go from one doctor to the next and shelling out co-pays all along the way. Without thought, I told her Peace of mind is costly.
Later, when the dust settled, she asked me how I came up with that response. This really made me pause since, well, I had no idea. It just came out of my mouth without an ounce of thought. That’s usually where the truth lies.
The truth is I don’t think I’ve ever had Peace of mind, in the true sense. Being born into a household with an older parent, a lot of my childhood was spent worrying about death.
I was 10 years old when I realized my dad was older than my best friend’s grandmom, and in that instant, my carefree childhood began worrying about the future. Fear is so much cheaper than Peace.
If you were wondering, my dad died when I was THIRTY-ONE.
This pattern of worry or fear of the future has been with me for a long time. It didn’t get buried with my dad; it followed me into each phase of my journey. I’ve mastered this behavior.
Now, here I sit at the point in my life where my kids are productive members of society and my parents are ironically resting in Peace. This is supposed to be “my” time. So, why the hell am I sitting in a constant state of waiting for the other shoe to drop? It’s like being in a foreign land without a translator.
Apparently, I’m not comfortable in a state of settled awareness. I don’t even know how to react to being present. I prefer the ratty robe of worry. Currently, I’m training myself to keep that robe in the closet and unify myself with the now. Did I hear good luck with that, Lisa?
There are days, even weeks, when the struggle is real. Why? Well, life. I’m not made of stone, and I have a T.V.
I know for sure that unlearning is a hell of a lot more complicated than learning. Trying to untangle decades of trauma, behaviors, and thought processes will take some time and effort. I’ve been doing the work, as they say, for a year. Yes, I’ve made some significant strides, but the world as we currently know it has me grabbing that ratty robe more often than I’d like. There are no back-to-school sales for unlearning.
Now, if only I had an eraser. Enjoy the Ride!
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Bye 2020 Bye
Growing up, our family’s New Year’s Day tradition consisted of watching the Mummers parade ALL day because that’s how long it took to get to the finale and then to enjoy pork with sauerkraut dinner to somehow bring good luck in the year ahead. Umm, would be roasting an entire pig be too much this year, asking for a friend?
I don’t know about everyone else, but I’ve been doing some research to amp up the whole good luck thing for 2021. According to the Google search box I’m not alone.
It was fascinating and alarming as to how some countries around the world ring in the new year. For instance, in Spain it is customary to eat 12 grapes, one at each clock’s stroke. Eating grapes seems easy enough, but it will be a hard NO for me without being surrounded by a group of people who can perform the Heimlich maneuver. It’s still 2020 until that last grape hits the mouth.
Denmark knows how to go out with a good old fashioned release of frustration. You’ll have to grab all of those unwanted dishes, or in this house, I could use the 5000000000 coffee mugs that never see a drop of coffee. Now, according to tradition, you head over to a friend’s home and smash them on the front door to ward off evil spirits and welcome good vibes. The definition of “friend” needs to be CRYSTAL CLEAR before you get started.
As if that weren’t enough for this Danish crew of thrill-seekers, they also try to find the highest peak they can, sometimes climbing on top of chairs, tables, and other objects in the home to jump into the New Year. Let me just put this out there, folks. If you’ve been eating and drinking ALL night and are over the age of 5, do not, I repeat, DO NOT, climb or jump. Remember, you’ll be heading to a Corona virus-infested ER alone if something goes wrong.
Ok, considering the political shit show we’ve all endured this year, I think we might need to embrace the tradition of the Ecuador locals who celebrate Los Anos Viejos, which translates to “the old years”—a tradition in which you want to destroy any of your past demons. This is where it gets good.
Locals use this as an opportunity to create dolls, like scarecrows; some are decorated with signs describing sins, while others (here is where it gets good) resemble sinister people. The creations are then filled with straw, newspaper, and anything else that burns fast. As the clock strikes twelve, the look-alikes are set on fire in the front yard, representing the good riddance to the old and welcoming the new. Oh, sweet Jesus, get this girl a match!
If you’re looking for some less dramatic ways to bring luck and love into your homes, you can turn to Italy to get the party started. It is customary to wear red underwear on NYE in Italy to bring love, prosperity, and good luck. Never underestimate the power of your Valentines’ panties. In the city of Venice, people gather in St. Mark’s Square to welcome the new year with a mass kissing session. Who needs fireworks.
In Wales, you’ll see many back doors opening at midnight to let the old year out. The entry is then locked to ensure that the hot mess doesn’t return. This year they might want to open some windows as well, to be sure it’s gone. We shouldn’t rule out a security system.
Well, considering 2020 has been so extra for many of us, I think it might be a good idea to ring in 2021 the same way. Forget what I said earlier. Eat that pork with a 12 grape chaser in your red underwear while setting your sinister scarecrow look-alike on fire as you jump off of a chair, breaking dishes as you open the back door. Take that 2020!
I wish all of you a happy, healthy, prosperous, and patient 2021!
Buckle up and Enjoy the Ride!
Life With The Top Down 
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