Santa Drives A Fiat...

The other day - a lovely Saturday with sunshine and nothing much that had to be done - my family was in the car, in search of lunch options.  At a stop light, I looked to the left and saw none other than Santa Claus driving next to us.  If the beard and the twinkle in the eye didn’t give it away, he was wearing a festive vest and a ballcap embroidered with the word “Santa”.  I pointed him out to my girls, who smiled and waved, and Santa smiled and waved right back.

It was no surprise to me that we’d see Santa in the Atlanta suburbs.  We were near the mall, after all, and there’s a list of names to supply.  I have to admit that it was a *bit* of a surprise to see that Santa drove a sporty Fiat. But then, I thought, “why not?”  Santa can drive a Fiat.  And a Jeep.  And an old Ford truck.  And a VW bus. 

I know there are many who roll their eyes at the idea of Santa.  Neighborhood kids are quick to correct me when I mention him because they don’t believe he exists.  Poor kids.  They’ve got holes in their lives that could so easily be repaired with a little belief.  My kids, thank goodness, not only believe, but they KNOW Santa personally.  In fact, they know a few of them!  So it’s not such a stretch for them to accept that he’d drive a fancy sportscar on his day off.

Shortly after I got married, I needed a haircut and walked into a local salon.  While there, I noticed a line of men who looked suspiciously like Santa Claus with foil in their beards, sitting under the hairdryers.  The stylist working on my mop told me that the owner of the salon was well known for specializing in Santa makeovers and jolly elves came from all over the southeast to get her treatment.  While marveling at the transformation, I noticed one Santa who looked really familiar.  I thought “Of course, he’s familiar, he’s Santa” but then that Santa held up the magazine he was reading so I could see the name on the address label.  It still took me a minute to process, and then I realized I WAS seeing someone I knew, my friend Frosty (yes, that’s the name by which we know him), a presence in the Blues community.  He was Santa!  Wow.

This meant my kids would have their very own Santa!  And they did.  No matter which venue he may have been visiting, we went to see our Santa.  Remember, Santa is our friend, so my kids were able to see him year round.  Even in the middle of summer, if Santa Frosty thought he might see our kids, he was prepared with a gift for them.  At one blues festival, he presented Josie with a big round pillow that looked like a globe.  She said to me “Look, Mom, Santa gave me the world!”

Perhaps it’s the nature of the blues crowd that there are a lot of white-haired bearded men in the midst, but over the years, we’ve known several men who happened to be professional Santas.   Atlanta, in particular, is a hub for many!  My mother, being a skilled seamstress was tapped by a few of them for repairs to their suits.  And our Santa Frosty recruited her to play his Mrs. Claus.  So my kids not only have their own personal Santa, but their Grandma is Mrs. Claus!

I’ve long been a Santaphile (is that a word?  It should be).  I’ve read everything about the man’s history, the legends, the origins.  I know as much about Santa as a nerd knows about Darth Vader.  And these Santas and Mrs. Claus types that I know spend a lot of time at workshops, training to be the best they can be.  Santa bootcamp!

When we were kids, someone always took a turn being an elf on Christmas eve.  Whichever kid fit the suit would disappear, we’d wonder out loud about where they went, and then an elf would knock on the door and would come in to pass out presents.

Now, I was a smart kid with lots of older siblings. I knew it was my brother in the suit and I knew that gifts were purchased by my mother.  That’s not the point.  The elf was real.  Santa is real.

Kids will obviously have questions, and the older they get, the more outside influence they have to raise *new* questions.  I’ve explained that “Santa” is not so much a person as it is a title that has to be earned.  Like a General, an Ambassador, even a Principal.  One can’t just wake up one day and decide to be Santa.  Santa is the embodiment of love, joy, peace, and kindness.  Santa is real.

My ten year old realized some time ago (probably with the help of blabbermouth friends) that maybe Santa didn’t bring presents and wanted an explanation.  So I told her what I know in my heart to be true:  I believe in Santa.  I believe in his Magic and I believe that he lives.  Maybe not at the North Pole, but I’ve never been to the North Pole to see with my own eyes, so I can’t be sure.  I’ve also never been to China but I trust that there’s a great wall there.  Likewise, I trust in Santa.  I trust in the joy and spirit of Santa.  As for the presents, I explained that there are a lot of children in the world and, even with Magic, there’s no way Santa could do it all, so he relies on parents to help him.  As little children begin to question, Santa calls on parents to step in.  That seemed to be a good enough explanation for her and she promised to not lift the veil for her little sister.

Knowing what she knows, did that change the way she viewed the man in the Fiat?  Did it change the joy in her heart when she sees our friend Frosty and he gives her a hug?  I don’t think so.  Because, despite what she may know about logistics, she knows in her heart that Santa is real.

And maybe he drives a Fiat.  Or a Ford truck.  Or a VW bus.

 

 

 

 

 

Let The Kids Run The World...

This morning, my 7 year old Carmen told me that she couldn’t wait to be 8 because then she’d only have to wait 10 more years to vote and she really, really wants to be able to vote.  We talked a bit more about why and I said maybe the world would be better off if we let all the kids vote now and stop letting adults do it.  She asked why and I told her I thought it was pretty great when people think with their hearts instead of their heads and not enough grown ups remember to do that.  Adults forget what’s really important because they’re so busy thinking about what’s not.

In the world of social media (and blogs, of course) one is able to observe truths that aren’t always so clear in normal human interactions between friends and acquaintances.  These truths are sometimes disheartening and sometimes uplifting.  They are always enlightening.  Because I’m lazy by nature, I appreciate the online unveiling of true colors that allow me to easily pick and choose the company I keep.

I’m just a human being.  Like other human beings, I have core values that lead me through my life.  I have strong opinions abut what’s right and what’s wrong and I understand that my views are not the same as all other human beings.  Like most human beings, I tend to seek out other humans who share values that harmonize well with my own but that doesn’t mean I cast out those who don’t.  The common thread is clear:  We’re all human.

Way before social media, I still “read status updates” and “scrolled through comments” to observe interactions of the people around me.  That’s how my beliefs have been established.  Not through one book or one teacher or one source, but through varied and diverse interaction with other human beings.  So many of these lessons came to me quietly by observation.  I credit my mother – and her parents before her – for many of these lessons when I didn’t even realize I was being taught.

One day, when we lived in Baltimore, my mother came home with a young couple and their small baby.  She met the man in the building where she worked and she learned that he and his wife and baby had no place to live.  She welcomed them to our already heavily occupied home and allowed them to have some peace while they found their way.  She saw a need and she filled it without question or hesitation.  As a child, I registered that time as a lesson in how to be a good person.  Only now, as an adult, do I realize how harshly she was probably judged for that kindness.  You see, in the mid 1970s, in Baltimore, the idea of bringing a homeless black man, woman and child into a white family home just wasn’t done.  But for that family, it made all the difference and they were able to soon settle happily into their own home.

That wasn’t the first example of letting the heart lead that I had in my world, but it was perhaps the most blatant.  I’ve had demonstrations of such human kindness in front of me all my life.  My aunt spent much of her life housing and feeding adults who couldn’t have done it on their own.  My grandfather never asked a man on the street how he intended to spend the spare change he gave him, he just gave it because it felt right in HIS heart.

Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have many terrific role models.  I’ve had teachers with whom I could discuss whatever was on my mind without judgment or correction, but sometimes with questions that made me challenge my own viewpoint.  I’ve had mentors from cultures, faiths, and societies not like my own at first glance but that proved to be identical in terms of heart and values.

How is it possible that a girl from a small Midwestern town and Catholic family could have long lasting and deep relationships with Muslims, Jews, Wiccans, Atheists, Baptists, Hindus, and so on?  Easy.  When I meet someone for the first time, I ask their name.  Because that’s all I need to know.  That’s the natural flow of human relationships.  Human relationships.  We hit it off or we don’t.  We find common threads or we don’t.  And if we have nothing in common, we move along.  That’s what I was taught – not just with words, but by example.

Honestly, I think that’s what many of us preach.  When did so many stop practicing?  In this time of easy access to a soapbox (like a blog, for example) and open forums, I’m stunned by the quick jump to Us v/s Them mentality and the ease with which hateful and mean thoughts are expressed as definitive truth.  I refuse to accept this as the world in which we reside.

So, I think Carmen’s on to something.  Lets give kids the right to vote.  And then maybe we should cut that right off sometime in their mid 20s.  Maybe what the world needs is a bunch of pure, open hearted, loving kids to lead us because we grown ups are screwing it up.

The kids are paying attention.  They may not say it out loud and we may not think they’re listening, but they are.  The other day, I came home to this poem, written by my 10 year old Josie.  So tell me, who should really be making the important decisions for this world?

Hope Valley

Down in Hope Valley, Children Dance And Play. They Dream Of Happiness And The Women Believe In Themselves. The Men Are Honored With Family And Never Try To Change This Happy Village. That Village Is Not Far, Yet Not Close. It Is Hidden Inside Of All Of Us Somewhere...

(by Josephine, age 10)

 

Not Seeing The Trees For The Forest...

People are always talking about “Not seeing the forest for the trees”.  That’s never been my problem.

Certainly, it happens.  There are definitely days when the details get in the way and cloud the big picture.  Most days, however, I’m so busy either hiking down the path or standing back and taking in the view that I miss the beautiful little particles that make the landscape interesting.  I’m usually not seeing the trees for the forest.

This rings true not just while standing in the forest but while walking away from it, too.  I’m really good at moving forward and never looking back.  At least that’s what I tell myself.  The reality – which is probably clear to anyone who knows me (or who reads this blog) – is that I look back quite a bit.  I don’t have photo albums, but I have vivid memories.  I don’t have baggage, but I absolutely have learned lessons.  I don’t think I can ever truly travel forward if I don’t know where I’ve been. 

I imagine this is what early explorers did…moved forward, drew a map along the way, and kept going.  Somehow, they were able to focus on the whole forest while taking notes on the trees, too.  On the other side of the journey, they surely took time to reminisce and talk about the whole trip – the flora, the fauna, the disappointments and the treasures – but still managed to chart new lands.

As time marches on and I find myself attending more funerals than weddings these days, I can't help but look back at the forests I’ve left behind and am often surprised to realize just how many snapshots I’ve actually taken.

When I was a senior in high school, I left the paradise of the beach town I’d called home and landed in the suburbs of Philadelphia.  I did NOT want to be there.  Aside from the fact that I was a snotty teenager, and that I missed the sand and salt air, I was experiencing serious culture shock.  I was not at all prepared for life in the northeast.  I was not prepared for just how Philly that Philly could be. I was out of my element and couldn’t relate to the people in my midst.  As a result, steel walls went up all around me.  I was not friendly.  I was not nice.  I definitely was not open.  I was counting the days, the hours, the seconds until I could blaze a trail out of there.  I kept to myself, did not initiate interaction, and tried to fade into the woodwork.

But these Philly kids thought I talked funny.  They wanted to hear my southern accent (which, in my opinion, I did not have).  They wanted to talk to me.  They asked me questions.  Then some of them made me laugh.  They showed up at my door and forced me to eat pizza and go to concerts and such with them.  They were relentless.  Before I knew it, I let them in.  All I wanted to do was get out of that forest and I was surrounded by a ragtag bunch of funny, warm, interesting, and colorful trees, dammit.

I did get out of that forest.  I went back to my beach and beyond.  I did not look back at that Philly forest, but some of the trees stuck with me.  One, in particular, stood out enough that I kept in touch for some time.  We talked, we wrote letters, we visited.  Time marched on and we eventually lost touch and that forest and those trees rarely crossed my mind.

All these years later, I learned that my unlikely friend from that unlikely place left this earth.  This news opened the window to view that forest I left behind.  And I suddenly remembered the details that I didn’t even realize that I noticed.  I remembered the foliage, the colors, and the beauty of all the other trees that were part of that landscape.  Sometimes, a trip backwards is not such a bad thing.  Sometimes, it’s better to not see the forest for the trees.  Sometimes, the trees are what matter most.

To All The Gigs I've Loved Before...

It seems to me that Labor Day almost always comes to mean “Manual Labor Day” for me.  Mostly self-inflicted, to be sure, because as someone who has found her way to a comfortable indoor desk gig that follows a Monday through Friday schedule, weekends and holidays have become the most obvious time to mow the lawn and do the work that doesn’t get done the rest of the week.

This is not a complaint (mostly) because I’m happy to be in the position to have a regular schedule.  That doesn’t happen for everyone and it hasn’t always been that way for me.  So this Labor Day, as I was mowing the weeds that pose as my lawn, I ran through the list of jobs I’ve done this far in my life.  I’m quite sure I missed some of the little things – temp jobs or day labor, but the list is basically this:

• Hotel maid – I was 13 years old and I got the gig through my dad, who was the maintenance man.  Beachfront motel, catering to Spring Breakers and partiers.  To this day, this remains the hardest I have physically worked in my life.
• House cleaner – helping my sister in law for a bit of cash
• Wallpaper helper – ditto above.  My brother the painter and his wife the paper hanger stayed busy and enabled me to have a bit of pocket dough.
• Amusement park – ride operator, costume character - truly, is there a better job for a teen!?  On the beach, surrounded by shiny happy people, working with friends, making sure everyone is having fun.  Beat that, McDonalds!  You can't.
• Waffle House waitress – at the time, this was not an easy gig to land!  There were only two in the county and a winter job was hard to come by.  There was a test!
• Counter person at Wiener World – Come on.  That’s just funny.  I loved that gig.
• Walmart cashier – Again, just looking for something to carry me through the winter.  Walmart was new to my town, so this gig was a score!  Time and a half if I worked Sundays or Holidays!
• Pharmacy clerk – As a fish out of water, suddenly in Philadelphia and away from my beach, I hadn’t worked in months.  This gig is the first and last before getting out of there!
• Waitress – Back at the beach.  What else was I going to do?
• Insurance Telemarketer – Torture.  I learned within about a week that I was not meant for sales and telemarketing was soul-sucking.
• Waitress - Naturally
• Cocktail waitress/shooter girl – Many of the places now featured on MTV spring break and debauchery shows are places I called “employer”.  When wearing a holster filled with lemon drops didn’t pay off, I may or may not have partnered with the bouncers to profit from confiscated fake IDs.  Allegedly.
• Waitress – Now in Colorado, serving up slabs of steak to cowboys fresh off the range.
• Receptionist/data entry/Factory packer – or whatever assignment the temp agency sent me on that day.
• Hostess – Fancy schmancy French restaurant.  Out of my element.
• Cocktail Waitress – Bow tie wearing, neon and blacklight, bass-thumping nightclub.
• Hotel Desk Clerk – At last, something I planned and intended to do! 
• Hotel Reservationist/Desk Manager/Sales Rep/Night Auditor/Room service attendant/ Controller/etc. – That’s the thing about a family owned business.  You do it all.  And this place shaped me in so many ways.
• Hotel software installer/trainer/support rep/etc. – The Tumbleweed Days.  My family rarely knew where I was, but the airline miles were sweet.
• Waitress – Road weary, serving up ribs was a pretty good alternative.
• Hotel reservationist/sales weasel – Back to what I knew.
• FM Radio Disc Jockey – What!?!  Yeah.  The end of pre-clear channelized radio when radio was grand.  What an awesome adventure! 
• Hair Model/Voice Over Artist – Hey – I had good hair and a nice voice.
• Voice Over Artist – They paid me for this stuff!
• Exec. Assistant in corporate America/Voice Over Artist – OK, they didn’t pay much, and I had bills to pay.
• Advertising Everything – administrative, Copywriter, Producer, Makeup artist, Planner, ,etc. – Tiny agency with growing client.  Some days I was writing, some days I was picking up trash from a set.  This evolved into bigger bosses and less fun, but was a pretty good ride that built a nice career.
• Stay at Home Mom – Not a thing I ever intended to do, but that’s the way  it played out and the timing was right.
• Copywriter – Because those cellphone plans aren’t going to sell themselves!  They need words!
• Nonprofit Monkey – It’s got a fancier moniker, but that’s maybe a bit more accurate.  Handshaking, Butt-Kissing, Organizational Wizard for a Cause doesn’t fit as nicely on the business card.

Life would be so much easier if I could just use that as my resume without all the fancy timelines, terms and formatting because that really paints a much more accurate picture of me.  The truth is, I’ve been a really lucky girl.  While there have been moments without glamour, and days I couldn’t wait to end, I’ve never had to dig ditches or wallow in sludge.

My brothers have done jobs that are just unfathomable to me.  While I know what they did, my brain just won’t wrap easily around it.  Roofing and truck driving and even garbage pickup, sure.  I can imagine that.  Hauling dead animals in summer heat, working deadly jobs on oil rigs, and so much more that they’ve done just makes my head spin.  So I’ll go back to my cushy chair in my cushy office when this holiday is over, and just be grateful for those who paved the road that got me there.

Happy Labor Day, and thank you to all who do those things that I take for granted every day.

 

 

 

 

No One Has Ever Accused Me Of Being Appropriate...

I’ve been described in lots of ways but in terms of personality, it boils down to one of two things.  Some say I’m aloof and standoff-ish.   Some say I’m very open and friendly (or, as my husband usually puts it, too friendly and too open).  Both are probably true.  I can certainly be reserved and I can also be quick to hug and smile.  I’ve been accused of being cold and bitchy.  I’ve been accused of being funny and lighthearted.   One thing’s for sure – no one has ever accused me of being appropriate.

I live – as much as any honest person can, anyway – by the Golden Rule.  I try to treat everyone the way I’d like to be treated and, more specifically, don’t treat anyone differently or better than anyone else.  That means that I communicate with the janitor, my doctor, the grocery store cashier, a senator, or the guy behind me in line for the port-a-potty the same way.  For some reason, this surprises people.  And unsettles some.

Many years (lifetimes?) ago, I was at the 1996 Coca Cola Olympic Village, doing interviews with all sorts of people for my radio station.  There were “man on the street” type snippets, a couple of athletes, and the President of Coca Cola.  Later, at another event, I was talking about that day and someone who heard me was astounded that I could have a 2 minute conversation with someone like a high level Coke executive!  It honestly never occurred to me that I shouldn’t be comfortable doing that.  He’s just a man.  Pants one leg at a time and all that.   I asked very predictable questions, he gave me predictable answers.  It was my job.  It was his job.  When we wrapped up, I shook his hand, then shook his assistant’s hand and we said “Thank you” at the same time.  So I laughed and said “Jinx, you owe me a Coke!”  The VIP laughed, I smiled.  Life went on.

Before then and since then, I’ve met lots of interesting VIP type people.  And said or did things that Miss Manners would not have done.  When I crossed paths with Hosea Williams, I stuck my tongue out at him.  I don’t even remember why – we’d just been making small talk while he waited to pick someone up.  I remember that it felt right at the moment and I remember that he laughed and said something about me having “spunk” before the Ambassador left the building.  This seems to be a pattern with me, and I’m OK with that.  I don’t have Turret’s Syndrome and am perfectly capable of controlling my words (and my tongue), I just don’t see why I should.  If I speak to a Senator like a human being, he will probably see me as one, too.  If not, well, I’m not losing any sleep over that and I doubt he is, either.

By the same token, if I speak to a cashier or waiter or the trash guy, I have the same likelihood of putting my foot in my mouth if the moment presents itself.  Life is full of moments.  Life is often embarrassing! Life is messy! Life is funny!  Why do we pretend it isn’t?  I live in my moments.  Embarrassing, messy, funny, or sad.

True, I often do my living in the company of people who actually have filters between their brains and their mouths.  People who don’t speak every ridiculous thought they have.  I try to be mindful of that but the reflex usually wins over the restraint.  So there are plenty of occasions that leave me amused, leave a stranger stunned until they chuckle, and that leave my companions aghast that I just did or said whatever I just did or said.

By admitting that I have no desire to reel it in, one might think that I’m rude or ill mannered.  Not so - see above about striving to live by the Golden Rule.  While I may say what pops into my head to perfect strangers, I don’t believe I am ever rude.  I don’t think I ever say anything untrue, and would never say anything that I think could be construed as hurtful.  If I speak, it’s because I want to make a human connection.  Sometimes it’s about just plain recognition – one human being to another.  I’m not trying to form relationships with everyone I encounter.  I think a bit of contact that brings a fleeting smile is plenty.

As for the aloof description?  That’s pretty accurate, too.  I don’t need to connect with everyone.  I’m just as likely to say nothing at all as I am to say something flippant.  I don’t love small talk and have no desire to discuss the weather or outfits or new hairstyles.  I rarely go to the same hair dresser twice because I don’t need a friend, I need a haircut.  But just because I’m standing quietly in the corner doesn’t mean I’m not connected.  I observe everything around me.  If I speak up in an unexpected way, it’s probably because I felt that the person I’m speaking to needed to hear whatever silly thing I said.

Perhaps Miss Manners and her associates don’t understand this and would label me.  That’s fine with me.  I would still tell her if her clothing tag is sticking out (and would reach out to tuck it in).  I’d still make a lame joke.  I’d still laugh out loud about it.

After all, no one ever accused me of being appropriate.

There's A Bustle In My Hedgerow...

When I was mowing the weed patch I pretend is grass this morning, there was a bustle in my hedgerow.  I wasn’t alarmed, now.  I knew it wasn’t a spring clean for the May queen.  It was just my Carmen chasing the butterfly that she first spotted while sitting in nearby tree.

So, as these things work for me, my brain cranked into overdrive.  All of my best thinking happens in the shower, while doing dishes, mowing the lawn.  Tedium frees the brain, I think.  Of course, it helps when Led Zeppelin replaces the Spongebob Squarepants theme song as the day’s earworm.

Thinking about my youngest daughter’s natural love and attraction to, well, Nature, reminded me of the young girl I used to know.  The girl who chased her own butterflies…and fireflies…and waterfalls (which is a great idea, despite what TLC may have said about it).  I realized I miss her.  She’s still in here, somewhere, but she’s been hidden by the weeds of life.

I spent so much of my childhood in a tent.  Later, we upgraded to a pop-up camper, but most weekends were spent piling into the station wagon for a drive to a lake or river or KOA campground (they might even have a pool!) for a bit of fresh air and adventure.  We built fires, tromped though mud, splashed in whatever water was handy, rode bikes, and scratched poison ivy.  It was wonderful, and I imagine that when I’m 99.5 years old, these are the memories that will still be with me.

Knowing what I know now, I know how hard my mother worked to do these things.  The boys certainly helped to put up the giant Army Surplus tent and we all helped to collect kindling and firewood, but the planning, packing, kid-wrangling, feeding, repacking, and driving fell on her.  I am forever grateful.  You see, we weren’t just camping.  We were together as a unit.  We were laughing together and working together.  We were learning every step of the way.  How to cooperate, how to see the world, and how to survive.  I doubt that was her intention, but that was the end result.

During hikes, or even just brief walks on a trail, my mother would point out plants to avoid – the aforementioned poison ivy, oak, and briars – and plants that we could eat, if necessary.  My brothers taught me how to shimmy up a tree and “parachute” down.  They noticed the snakes on the path and taught me which to avoid and which we could catch (still not sure why we needed to catch them, but I’m sure boys had a reason).  I learned to spot the difference between a slippery rock and a good stepping stone, and I learned to listen for the sound of a probable waterfall around the bend.  I learned to paddle my innertube with my flip flop and discovered the scent of a damp cave worth exploring.

It feels like it wasn’t so long ago that I still welcomed these adventures.  I backpacked the Nepali Coast of Hawaii and slept in a mosquito-riddled mangrove patch.  I’ve hiked along the Chattahoochee River with my dog, splashing, and taking in the beauty.  I’ve slept on picnic tables and on beaches and could build a pretty darn good campfire.  But I haven’t done any of that in years

I could blame it on any number of things.  Doing anything with kids is much harder than it used to be (yeah, I know how lame that sounds, but parents don’t have the “free range” freedoms that our parents had).  My family’s schedules are not in sync.  Any number of things that have come up over the past few years are reason enough to stay inside on the couch.  Excuses.  Legitimate, but still excuses.

I do try to maintain some connection with Mother Nature.  I plant a very small and basic garden and am pleased that at least one of my daughters likes getting her hands dirty and watching things grow.  Every time she has a seed in her hand (like from the apple she’s eating) it MUST be planted!  I love that.

My older daughter is content to play Minecraft.  I’m not a real fan of video games and when I first heard them talking about this, I cringed.  I thought it was landmines and fighting or something.  No.  You know what it is?  Virtual Survival!  Their pixilated characters are wandering some sort of barren region, settling, farming, and..what?  I don’t know.  Instead of going outside to plant a real tomato or walking their real dog down to the real trail at the end of our neighborhood, they stare at a video screen planting fake corn and raising fake pigs.  Sigh.

The bustle in my hedgerow just reminds me that I NEED to snap out of our rut.  I need to drag my girls out into the woods and let them feel the earth under their feet.  I need to teach them to pitch a tent and build a fire.

But who am I kidding?  I’ll probably start with showing them the joys of a restaurant patio first.

I'm Joining The Circus...

I wish, in my high school years, I had known that there was an alternative college meant for me.  I lived in Florida, for crying out loud!  Just 400 miles away from the school that was designed for me and no guidance counselor ever suggested it.  If just one counselor took a moment to suggest the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College to my seventeen year old self, my life would have taken a drastically different path (probably in a very small car with an abundance of company).

I missed the opportunity.  I’ve told my girls that if they decide not to attend Georgia Tech, or Julliard, or to go directly to the Grammy Awards, I will support their decision to head to Sarasota to learn the science of circus.

Look, I know that the circus is not politically correct these days.  I get it.  I don’t care.  Before anyone bothers to shower me with animal arguments, stop.  Don’t waste your breath.  I’ve heard it, of course, but I’ve also read, listened to, and absorbed everything I can get my hands on about the circus:  the good, the bad and the ugly…the distant past, the recent past, and the present.  My love has not wavered.

There’s the show, of course.  They call it “The Greatest Show On Earth” for a reason.  When 8 motorcycles are whipping around in a tiny little cage, that is jaw-droppingly great.  When a guy somersaults from a spring board through a small hoop 10 feet in the air, that’s pretty fabulous, too.  There’s one “Wow!”, “Holy Cow!” after another and I love them all.  And, of course, a terrier riding on the back of a pig, leading a goat while the elephants regally stand watch never fails to make me smile.

But that’s not even it.  Sure, I love the amazing feats.  However, what almost always draws my attention is the show that no one else is watching.  The crew is the show, as are the performers when they’re NOT performing.  The orchestra.  The things the ringmaster never mentions.

All those guys in blue coveralls who set the next ring outside of the spotlight are doing a beautifully choreographed dance.  The guy scooping elephant poop into a trash can does it with speed and finesse.  The clowns are dragging heavy mats across the floor while wearing their giant floppy shoes.  The acrobats who were just swinging from the trapeze are now ushering a parade.  The band director catches every moment and never misses a beat.

We’ve all heard about circus family lineage. Grandfather and sons and grandsons walking the tightrope together while cousins rig the safety gear and daughters fly through the air expecting to be caught.  And we’ve certainly heard about society’s outcasts who run away to join the circus.

I wonder, though. When one runs away and joins the circus, it’s perceived that they’re dropping out of society.  I think the opposite is true.  I think they’re dropping into it.

If the circus is a machine, those people are not just the gears – they’re the TEETH on the gears.  One gear can’t turn without all of those teeth working together.  The gears run the machine that everyone sees, but the teeth make it all happen.  THAT is what I love about it.  From my seat in the audience, I see a big family.  I see familiar relationships.  I see myself.

Certainly, my family’s cars could have been confused for clown cars as a dozen silly people often came spilling out and we could set up a tent at a moment’s notice.  My brother Pat actually set up a tight rope in our back yard and practiced diving off of the roof.  We arrived with fanfare and often upset the status quo.  But we were not a circus family.   We didn’t ride the rails from town to town.  We didn’t swing from dangerous heights and we didn’t hang out in cages with lions.  But whatever we did, we did it like those guys in the blue jumpsuits.  We were – and are – a crew.  We work swiftly together and clean up poop when we have to so the show can go on.

We – and the circus – are not conventional society.  And we have an abundance of clowns.  I think that if I were anyone else, I’d want to run away and join us.

I'm Interesting By Proxy...

Over the last few years, I’ve had a lot of people say things to me like: “Wow.  You’re really interesting.” Or “What an interesting life you’ve had.”.  I have to disagree.  I always say to them “I don’t have to be interesting.  I just surround myself with interesting people.”

It’s true that I have some good stories.  I’ve seen some pretty cool things.  I’ve had adventures and interacted with no shortage of unusual characters.  But none of those things required any real effort on my part.  I was simply along for the ride on the coattails of far more interesting folks and reap the rewards of cool proximity.  Maybe I’m Cool-Adjacent – some of the perks, none of the pressure.

As a child, my brothers’ cool jobs as musicians put me in the path of some really fabulous characters.  Bill Monroe didn’t quite get why an 8 year old girl wanted a tour of his bus, but I got one anyway.  Because I was at the right place at the right time.  I took naps under the keyboards of a cat named Mr. Flex (come on, what’s cooler than that?), while my brother rehearsed with a 70s-era funk band in a dark alley studio in East St. Louis.  I’m pretty sure I got some of their cool just through osmosis.

As my life marched on, I certainly wandered into some unique scenarios and came out the other side with a story or two.  Those experiences shaped my view and perspective and allowed me to absorb it all risk-free.  Cool-Adjacent perks have gotten me great seats at shows, earned me some street cred with my kids (their mom’s brother got them Katy Perry crew shirts!) and we’ve stumbled into some pretty memorable places – all while cruising down the middle of the road.

People often mock the Middle of the Road.  What a boring place, right?  I say there’s no better place to be.

Think about it literally:  when driving in the middle of the road, you have freedom.  Freedom to drift from one side to the other if that’s where you’d rather be at the moment.  But you also have a clearer vision of what’s up ahead and what’s happening around you so you can react accordingly.

Figuratively, life’s not so different.  From here in the middle of the road, I can see a hasty or stupid act and view the consequences.  I’m always learning from mistakes.  They just don’t have to be mine.  From the middle, I can see an opportunity for a detour or a route I hadn’t thought of myself.

Through these Middle of the Road travels, I’ve had a pretty good time!  The Middle of the Road has taken me on career paths, vacations, and unplanned adventures that exposed me to celebrities and athletes, to CEOs and Winos, to philosophical Regular Joes, to talented musicians and broken and damaged but lovely people from all walks of life.  I’ve learned from all of them.  What to Do. What Not to Do.  How to Survive.  How to Find Humor in Everything .  No matter how dire a situation may seem, there’s always a lesson.  There’s always a laugh.

The byproduct of this Middle of the Road Life, is that I’ve recorded enough data from the journey to be able to relate in some way to nearly everyone I encounter and I’m not intimidated by unfamiliar groups of people. 

A much younger version of myself could not say this.  Friends have asked how I can do this.  The answer’s not so complicated.  I know a little about a lot of things.  Rarely through hard knocks or personal experience – I’ve simply paid attention from my vantage point in the center of it all.

At a party or gathering, I’m rarely the first to begin a conversation, but no matter what direction one goes, I can almost always chime in with a relatable tidbit.  This often leads to being asked who/what/why/how I might know such things.  The answer is that I had an interesting experience with an interesting person in an interesting place during an interesting time.

At some point, someone is likely to tell me that I’m interesting.  But I’m not.  I don’t have to be.  I just surround myself with interesting people.  I’m Interesting By Proxy.