Relax, Stop Thinking, Let Yourself Float...

I spent this cold, dreary and wet afternoon splashing around with my children in the indoor pool at the YMCA.  It’s not a regular place, but we had a free weeklong trial pass, so why not?  Splashing around in a pool is always a good thing.  Splashing around in a heated pool in December borders on great.

While the eight year old swam laps and made friends with the closest nine year old, I stayed in the more shallow end helping the five year old remember how to paddle and kick.  Next to us, another mother was trying to teach her youngster how to float on her back.

I heard her say “You have to stop thinking and just let it happen!” which led us grownups to chatting about what great advice that is for Life In General. 

We put so much emphasis on thought.  And that’s not a bad thing.  We want our children to be Thoughtful.  I try to teach them to think before they speak.  To think before they act.  To think about the consequences of their actions:  If I do X, then Y will probably happen.  I want them to think their way through problems and think about what is Real and what Matters.

While thinking is good, over-thinking is not something I want them to do at all.  Over-thinking leads to Worry.  It leads to Self-Doubt.  It leads to Fear.  And it leads to ending all progress.  One of my favorite quotes about worry (which can be applied to over-thinking) is: “Worry is like a rocking chair.  It gives you something to do, but you don’t get anywhere.”

When I think about the biggest leaps forward in my life…the greatest successes and the nicest surprises...they came as a result of just being in the moment.  That means there was no thought about whether I knew what I was doing, whether I was doing it right, whether anyone was watching, or what the result might be.  I just Did it.  Whatever IT was.  And IT worked out.

Every job I ever started, I had to walk in with my head up and eyes open and act like I knew what I was doing.  Suddenly, I realized I DID know what I was doing.   Whether I was juggling a project, teaching a class, cracking the mic to interview someone I never heard of, or figuring out how to feed my own babies, there was no point in thinking about it.  I just DID it.

When people ask my mother how she managed to raise nine decent human beings while working and living her life, she usually gives the same answer: “I don’t know, I just DID it.”

When you turn on the news and see a hero being interviewed after going into a fire to save someone, or jumping into a runaway car to stop it, don’t they always say something like “I didn’t really think about it, I just did it.” to the reporter?

As we head into the new year, I’m going to work a bit harder at reminding my kids – and remembering for myself – to just relax, stop thinking too much, and let yourself float.

 

I Hope There Was Pie...

When I think of my favorite times with my grandparents, there is a myriad of options to choose from.  Every moment is precious to me – learning at my grandmother’s side as she went about her day, watching my grandfather work outside, lunching privately with them at the breakfast nook – but very high on the list is Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa’s.

Everyone loves Thanksgiving, right?  I don’t know if anyone loved it more than my grandfather.

Now, a Christ family Thanksgiving dinner was really pretty simple.  Your basic fare: turkey, potatoes, dressing (Grandma’s wild rice dressing!), and an assortment of pies.  Nothing that would impress Martha Stewart and, frankly, I don’t think Grandma would give a hoot about her opinion, anyway.

Grandma cared very much about table manners.  Every family meal required proper table setting, traditional Russian service etiquette and a blessing.  This example set the tone for all of us as we made our way out into the world.  A formal dinner like Thanksgiving was an opportunity to flex our manner muscles!

Grandpa cared mostly about the pie and the wine.  We are not a typical wine-with-dinner family.  Wine is for special occasions and, at holidays, was most often homemade with origins in a local (family owned) orchard.  Grandpa loved to share his wine with all present.  Even the little people.  So even though we were often relegated to the Kid’s Table in the kitchen, we still felt like a big part of the family gathering.  We knew we mattered as much as the tall folks in the dining room because our grandparents made it very clear that it was so.

When the dinner dishes were cleared, Grandpa sat, unmoved, waiting for his pie and coffee to be served to him.  Not patiently, but unmoved.  This was a good time for him to talk to the other grown ups still at the table (not much talking during the meal) or to pinch the cheek of a grandchild making her way to the toybox.  I believe that Grandpa was at his happiest there, at the head of his table, watching over his family and giving thanks for all that he had.

Certainly, he was not perfect.  I’m sure that his wife would have liked to clobber him from time to time.  I know his children still carry some battle scars from their childhood under his reign.  He had unreasonable expectations of his kids and never let them forget that they needed to do better.  His tough judgment and stern rule was, I think, typical of his era and the best that he knew to do. 

Still, my Grandpa was the greatest measure of a man I’ve ever known.  Whether I was conscious of it or not, I have spent my life comparing everyone I meet to him.

He was a devoted son, leaving school in 6^th grade to take care of his mother and 8 siblings when his father was too ill to work the farm himself.  He was a dedicated and loving brother.  I don’t know if he ever said the words out loud, but he made a commitment to his parents to always look after his younger brothers and sisters and that was a job he took seriously.

He was, of course, the most dedicated hard worker there was.  He taught me, by example, that NO job is beneath me.  There’s no such thing as “menial work”.  ALL work matters and ALL work is important, so whatever it is you are doing, do your very best.  He worked so hard because he wanted to give his family everything that he didn’t have for himself and he taught his children to work so that they could DO for themselves.

He was a man with no grey areas.  Right was Right and wrong was wrong.  There was no room for excuses or justification, so he did what he felt was Right.  Period.  He held his loved ones to those same standards.  If you can help someone, you should.  There’s no point in words if they’re unkind.  He lived it and embodied it and we all soaked it in.  My brother Rick has often said that when he’s called to make a big decision, he asks himself “What Would Grandpa Do?” and that makes the decision easy.  I find myself doing the same.

He loved his wife and never stopped looking at her with adoration.  She was no-nonsense and he was playful.  As their granddaughter, it brought me great joy to catch him reaching out to grab her butt and to hear her bark “Ach, Al!” and swat him away.  He lived and breathed for my grandmother and when she left this earth, his body may have still been here, but his spirit went with her.

For the last few years, he’s been trapped in a body in limbo.  Too strong to quit, but too weak to really function.  When it became clear that he couldn’t stay in his home, he had to go to a care facility.  With each day, the light in his eyes faded, he was more and more lost and his moments of lucidity were fewer and farther between. 

This year, he was able to leave the sad, gloomy home and go live with his eldest daughter.  In July, most of his family came together for his 100^th birthday.  The light in his eyes returned for a bit, as great-grandchildren hugged him, long-ago coworkers came to celebrate him, and there was no shortage of pie as he looked around at the legacy of Love and Life that he created.

I think most of us knew that would be our last visit with Grandpa.  I think he knew, too.  He returned to Fran’s home, where he had comfort and a window with a beautiful farmland view, but every day was harder than anyone would want it to be.

On Thanksgiving 2013, Fran’s children and grandchildren came to her house for the family dinner.  Grandpa visited with his grandchildren, soaked in the energy of the great grandchildren, had a Thanksgiving dinner, complete with PIE.  He spent the next day not feeling well, and by Saturday, he just wanted to nap.  So that’s what he did.  In his own room, surely with thoughts of pie in his head, and a smile in his heart, he closed his eyes and made his way to the table on the other side.

There, I believe, he was greeted by his parents and his siblings, who hugged him and said “Good job!”  That’s what he’s spent his life hoping to hear, I think. Surely, his wife and eldest son, Joe were there, too,  And I really hope there was pie.

So, Happy Thanksgiving, Grandpa.  Thanks for Giving us your love, your wisdom, and your hell when we needed it.  Your Legacy is Love, it is strong, and it is everlasting.

Don't Mind Me, I'm Just Making Pearls...

I recently heard an interview with Phyllis Diller, who was talking about comedy and the fact that so many of our beloved creative geniuses come from broken or dark places with dysfunction, neglect and turmoil.  She said “Let me put it this way…it takes an irritation to make a pearl in an oyster.”

I’ve often found the greatest wisdom comes from society’s clowns rather than from serious scholars, theologians or world leaders and there, in that one sentence, Ms. Diller knocked me over with a wrecking ball Reminder of Truth.  It’s not that she said anything new or unheard of, but 1.) she said it in such a way that it registered and 2.) She’s Phyllis Diller, queen of the crazy hair and cackling “Ha!”so the unexpected source was powerful.

Now, I certainly don’t compare myself to the comedians she was talking about.  I come from light, joy-filled places of love.  But she reminded me of an old proverb:

 

It isn't the mountain ahead of you that wears you out - it's the grain of sand in your shoe.

I’ve always loved that one just for the simple truth of it.  We all have sand in our shoes.  We call the grains Obstacles, we call them People, we call them Burdens.  There’s no end to the variety of challenges we meet every day.

The problem with the sand is that it seems insignificant.  The mountain stands before us and is an obvious force to be reckoned with.  No matter what the mountain represents in our lives, it’s there.  It shows itself and allows us to plan how to deal with it.  We can climb it, go around it, turn the other way and walk away from it or just give up and accept that it will always be there, but it doesn’t just creep up and yell “Surprise!”  It’s there and we know it’s there.

The sand, however, goes unnoticed for a while.   When we finally feel it, maybe we think that however it managed to get into our shoe, it’ll find its way out.  So we keep walking.  We don’t stop to think that if ONE grain of sand found its way in, others can, too.  Before long, more sand is there, a blister has formed, and we have no choice but to acknowledge the sand and decide what we’re going to do about it.

 

Any beach lover knows that no two grains of sand are alike.  Some sand is fine – beautiful, even – and will do no harm.  We can walk for miles with fine sand in our shoes with no discomfort and at the end of our walk, it serves as a reminder about where we’ve been.  Other sand is abrasive and starts rubbing us the wrong way immediately.  We notice it.  It’s annoying.  But so often, we think it’ll just go away, or that taking the time to deal with it will slow us down or make us seem petty so we suffer through it.  Sound familiar?

When I think about what Ms. Diller said, I can’t help but to think of it as a Pearl Of Wisdom.  That’s what we say, isn’t it?  When someone hits us with a beautiful truth, don’t we call it a Pearl of Wisdom?  Hmmm.

I’ve learned a lot from the sand in my shoe.  I appreciate the soft fine grains.  I’m not worried about the mountains ahead.  I’m enjoying the walk and have learned to stop and brush off the rough and abrasive grains and keep them from rubbing blisters so I can keep moving.  When I get to my destination (whatever that is), maybe I’ll have a pearl or two for my effort.

 

 

When I Was Your Age...

“When I was your age…” is just not something I heard much as a kid, so I never thought I’d be guilty of doling it out to my own kids.  But I am.  Guilty. 

The dreaded “When I Was Your Age…” (WIWYA) rolls effortlessly off my tongue weekly – if not daily – in one way or another.  So far, my girls have been kind enough to not roll their eyes at me.  At least I haven’t caught them mid-eye-roll yet.  Yet.  I’m sure it’s coming.

I suppose the reason I didn’t hear it much was that things weren’t all that different.  There were the obvious differences, of course.  I’ve had indoor plumbing all my life, which is something that was new to my mother at some point.  Television has always been present in my home and that wasn’t the case for her.  I never experienced an air raid drill in school and I’ve never known life without the polio vaccine.  The rest of the really huge changes, however, we experienced together.

In our life together, our home phone went from rotary to push-button, from wired to the wall to easy to use phone jacks, from tethered in a room to cordless, from either home and available or away and not to a phone in your pocket wherever you are!  I’ve found myself trying to explain the concept of a payphone to my eight year old and the look on her face is the way I imagine she’d look if I suddenly began speaking Russian.  She is simply not able to understand.

Recently, she’s been discovering “Yo Mama” jokes which led to discussion of prank calls.  I was telling her some of the silly jokes that we used: Prince Albert In A Can, Is Your Refrigerator Running, etc. and realized she’ll never truly know the joy of a dumb prank call or of a bunch of girls calling a boy just to hear his voice, giggle and hang up and that makes me a little sad.  In her world, Caller ID has always been there to announce a prankster’s identity.  She’s never had the experience of a phone that rings and rings because there has always been voicemail to take a message.

I remember learning to type on a manual typewriter and the thrill of upgrading to an electric model.  Much later, the excitement came from going to the house of a friend who got one of those new-fangled Radio Shack TRS80 things!  Imagine!  A computer!  In your home!  It would be years before I ever had one of those things myself, and the idea of such a thing being small enough to sit on my lap was unthinkable.  Yet my children were born into a world where tiny little computers announced their presence all over the planet.

The idea that there was a time when a person took a picture, waited to finish a roll of film and then had to bide time for weeks to see that the subject’s eyes were closed is something they just can’t accept.  Imagining a time when cartoons were only available on Saturday, that TV had 4 channels (more if you had enough aluminum foil to bring in the UHF channels) and that there was no rewind and no fast forward through commercials is beyond their grasp.

When you sit and think about the development of these now every day things that we take for granted, it can induce a kind of mental whiplash.  So it’s natural, once I’ve scooped my chin up from the floor, to release a When I Was Your Age on my children, right?

I don’t deliver a WIWYA in a “walked six miles through the snow, uphill both ways” kind of way.  My intention is always to demonstrate how amazing it is that human beings can DO these things and that we get to watch the world evolve all around us.  My aim is to encourage appreciation for the wonders that we have.  I can only hope that at least a little bit of that comes through to bored children who just want to get back to their Minion Rush game on their handheld tablet computer.

 

When I think about the warp speed progress we’ve made as a people, I wish I could ask my grandmother what she thinks.  What would she say about the medical miracles our family experienced?  Kidney transplants certainly existed in her time, but in much more gruesome and unpleasant ways.  When the girls video chat with their uncle on the other side of the country, would she be amazed?  Would she be on facebook, looking at pictures of her grand and great-grandchildren or discussing the art of beekeeping with apiculturists from around the world?  OK, probably not.  But I do think she’d appreciate the ability to do so if she wished.

That’s what I want from a WIWYA.  I want my kids to understand the power (and responsibility) that is in their hands and view it with appreciation instead of expectation.  If I achieve even some measure of that, I’ll be content.

Admittedly, their world is not entirely improved from When I Was Their Age and so many of the changes are just not tangible.  They’ll never know the freedoms that I had to aimlessly wander, to experiment and to just generally goof off.  They’ll never know what it felt like to travel with few restrictions or that a person could get through an airport without ever taking their shoes off.  They’ll never be completely anonymous and that’s kind of a bummer.

Still, I think the tradeoff is worth it.  Their time is just beginning.  So far, it’s beginning with understanding that all human beings are equal and deserve the same rights.  They see the world with no apparent prejudices, with no borders and no ceilings.  They know they can do or be whatever they want because their society has never told them otherwise. 

I didn’t have their technology, but they don’t have much of the close-minded beliefs that weighed my generation (and many generations before that) down.  Their time is far from perfect, but it’s definitely progressing and to me, THAT is evolution.

I’m not going to promise to limit my WIWYA stories.  They’re going to keep coming.  I hope at least a small percentage of them will be digested enough to nurture gratitude and understanding of those who have walked before them.  If the rest of the stories are cast aside and I just get to use them as a torture device, I’m fine with that because I know a day will come when they are telling their own kids that When They Were Their Age, they didn’t have a cool teleportation apparatus, they had to depend on their solar powered flying cars!  And their kids are going to roll their eyes, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trick Or Treat, Smell My Feet...

I’m not sure exactly why I own a soap box.  I mean, in this day and age, they’re not all that common or useful, but I’m glad I have one because I like to stand up tall on it and shout my opinions from up here.  For example, let me tell you how I feel about the over-commercializing of Halloween.  Pull up a chair. 

I LOVE Halloween.  Love it.  Always have, and probably always will.  What’s not to love?  Children get to tap into their imaginations and be someone else.  And then they get candy!  Even grown ups who wish to participate can be who they want for a night and they get to be a hero to a kid looking for Butterfingers or KitKats.

As though costumes and candy aren’t enough, the act of trick or treating is really about so much more.  Those imagination-fueled costumes encourage creativity and, sometimes, practical reasoning.  Packs of kids walking together from house to house incite brotherhood, cooperation and cultural awareness.  Adults opening doors with a smile on their face strengthen a neighborhood.  Knocking on the door and yelling “Trick or Treat!” fosters trust that your efforts will be rewarded.  It’s pretty perfect.

Well, it USED be pretty perfect, anyway.  Certainly, there are people whose religious beliefs keep them from celebrating.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  But for the rest of us who WANT to experience it, so much of the fun has been sucked right out of it by the Paranoid Minority.  I hate that for the kids who may never experience the real thing.

First of all, Halloween is October 31^st.  Always has been and it shouldn’t matter what day of the week October 31^st happens to be, THAT is Halloween.  Communities that declare that Halloween will be celebrated on Saturday the 26^th or Friday, November 1^st because that’s more convenient for them chap my hide.  That’s right!  I said they chap my hide!  You’re allowed to say crotchety stuff like that when you’re up on a soap box.

Kids should be able to go to school, excitedly talking about their plan of attack, then come home and drive their parents nuts asking “Now?  Can we go now?  How about now?”  They should be able to go to school the next day with Now’n’laters stuck in their teeth and talk about who had the biggest haul.  That’s the way it supposed to be!

As though scheduling Halloween to suit your needs isn’t bad enough, what about all the Faux Trick or Treating?  My hide continues to be chapped.  Walking your kid through the mall so that underpaid, overly irritated retail clerks can throw SourPatch Kids in their bags while you windowshop or sit in a massage chair doesn’t count!  Likewise, there’s a new trend called “Trunk Or Treat”.

Trunk Or Treat is just what it sounds like.  People line the family car up in a parking lot, drape it in spooky-ish Halloween decorations and pass out candy from…you guessed it…the trunk of their car (or back of their minivan, more often).  The theory is that it’s a safer and more controlled environment for the kids.  These events are often hosted by churches or private schools and the very idea of them makes me squirm.

Now, in interest of hypocritical disclosure, the church around the corner hosts a Trunk Or Treat, and you can bet my little goblins will be there.  I mean, another day to dress up AND extra candy?  Score!  But it’s not the replacement for the actual holiday that I think those grown ups want it to be.  It’s just a warm up for the big game!

I do understand that Trick Or Treating the traditional way is just not possible in some communities.  When my family moved to rural Pennsylvania and I realized it was not possible to go door to door, that was a rude awakening.  I came from Baltimore, with blocks and blocks of real neighborhoods and came home with my pillowcase filled with candy, so that I could dump it out and go back out.  Sometimes people tossed coins in our bags.  Sometimes, they gave us homemade treats like cookies, cupcakes or popcorn balls. And sometimes, they invited us into their homes for a mini-haunted house…AND WE WENT!!!  Gasp!!!

Trick Or Treating in my Grandmother’s neighborhood in Illinois was equally fabulous.  Those neighbors not only gave us treats, but wanted to ask about our mother or siblings, or just see how we were doing.  We arrived at Grandma’s house only after we decided what our act for the evening would be.  You see, my grandmother took TRICK or Treat quite literally.  Children (all children, not just her relatives) were expected to enter her living room, where she and Grandpa would be seated on the couch.  She would say “All right, we’re ready to see your trick.”  Only after we told a joke or did a dance or whatever it is we worked out, did we get our treat.

Now, here in suburban Atlanta, I’m surrounded by neighborhoods that choose their Trick Or Treating night based on convenience and shopping centers with “Fall festivals” so that children don’t have to dare to knock on a door.  By some stroke of luck, however, my OWN neighborhood pulls out all the stops for a fantastic, REAL Halloween and I’m so grateful.

Neighbors install over-the-top decorations.  Grown-ups wear costumes as they walk with their kids or answer their own doors.  Children walk the neighborhood in very loosely supervised packs and we average 300 kids every year.  I love that and am proud of my neighbors for letting their kids take part in the fun and for making it fun for everyone.  There’s no fear, no suspicion.  Just giggles, joy and the occasional trickster.

Among the fairies, the vampires and the princesses, there are always random 12-13 year old boys who are way too cool/mature/uninterested in that kid stuff to put on a costume, but bold enough to ask for candy.  That’s when Grandma steps in and insists that if they couldn’t be bothered to throw together a costume, they’re going to have to earn their candy.  Until I hear a joke, see a dance, a cartwheel or something, the chocolate doesn’t find its way to their bags.  My husband feels certain that I’m setting myself up for an egging or something, but I have faith in the power of a KitKat and the hearts of pubescent boys and think they get that I’m having fun with them.

That’s what I’m going to keep doing…having fun.  As long as some parents are willing to let their kids be kids and experience some of what they either had or wished they had in their own childhoods, I’m going to hang ghosts in my yard, I’m going to give corn syrup laden goodies to anyone who knocks on my door.  I’m going to bust them when they show up twice and I’m going to give them candy anyway.  And when it’s all over, I’m going to let my kids eat junk and I’m going to snatch the Almond Joys for myself.

I ask all the kids what they’re going to be for Halloween.  Maybe I should ask the grown ups instead.  Are you going as a Kid At Heart or are you going as a Paranoid Fun Sucker?  Some advice:  the Kid gets better candy.  I’ll probably stash mine in my soapbox now that I’m stepping down from it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Silly I Am And Silly I'll Be...

When people talk about their favorite childhood books, you hear the typical answers:  Dr. Seuss, Richard Scarry, Shel Silverstein.  The usual suspects.  I loved them all but when I talk about my favorite, few people remember it.  I think that’s a crying shame.

The Adventures Of Silly Billy by Tamara Kitt was a staple on my grandmother’s bookshelf and, later, I had my own copy.  I read it at least once during every visit to Grandma’s and read it on my own at home.  I still quote it in my head – “Silly you are and silly you’ll be…” – when I witness silliness in action.

If you’re not familiar with the story, Billy is an underappreciated idea man.  He sits and thinks and plans and creates and, when he shares his ideas with his parents, he’s met with chuckles, headshakes and criticism: “Oh, you silly boy!” and “Silly you are and silly you will be as long as you live.”

Billy knew better.   So he went out into the world to find someone sillier than himself.  He found them.  Easily.  And he solved their problems by applying just a little bit of common sense.  Repairing holes in a pan that wouldn’t hold water, counting men who forgot to count themselves and suggesting windows to the people who lived in the dark, dark house revealed William The Wise to the world.  He was lauded and rewarded for his wisdom. 

When he returned home, he brought a gold watch for his father, a bag of gold coins for his mother, and a gold crown for himself.  They were amazed and praised their Silly Billy but he demanded to never be called silly again and said that he preferred his proper name, William.  Then he went back to sit and think and plan and create once more.

It’s a children’s book, obviously.  And perhaps it’s outdated (printed in 1961) with its Long Ago/Far Away theme but when I had my own children I wanted them to know Billy.  I scoured the internet until I found a copy on Ebay and had it in my hands once again.  The real bummer, however, is that my kids don’t share my love for my favorite hero.  They prefer the Five Chinese Brothers but they humor me and sit still while I read it to them.

While I love the old-fashioned illustrations (beautifully done by Jill Elgin), I think what speaks to me is not childish at all.  How many of us have been told our dreams or ideas are ridiculous, impossible, or unrealistic?  And how many forge on past the nay-sayers and go on to dream again?  Sadly, I think the majority stops when their ideas are criticized.  Imagine if all the Billys of the world just gave up.  Where would we be?

Silly is relative, isn’t it?  Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to see it from a different angle.  And sometimes, in the midst of a problem, an outside perspective is just what it takes to see it.  While the townspeople couldn’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak, Silly Billy’s viewpoint allowed him to see the trees in the forest and the answers were clear.

OK, so planting popcorn didn’t produce the bags and bags of popped corn he anticipated.  Giving boiling water to his hens did not produce the hard boiled eggs he envisioned. To those people in need that he encountered, he was not silly at all.  He was a visionary.  A problem-solver.  His ideas were wonderful and desperately needed.

Billy’s not the first to be scoffed at.  Thomas Edison and Alexander Graham Bell both invented aircraft that didn’t work.  Leonardo DaVinci’s inflatable shoes for walking on water were a flop.  Henry Ford had five failed businesses before his motor company took off.  Walt Disney was fired because “he lacked imagination and had no good ideas.” Some considered them too silly to succeed.   Thankfully, all of these “Silly” people ignored the naysayers and kept going back to the drawing board.

This is why I want my kids to know Silly Billy.  He may not be as exciting as Captain Underpants or that Wimpy Kid with his diaries, but he’s a perfect role model for being who you are, with no excuses.  I hope they will continue to tolerate him and remember that their silly ideas are valuable and worth a try.  Maybe they’ll have some misses, but I’m willing to bet they’ll have some hits as well.

As for myself, I already know I’m one of the silly ones.  Some get it.  Some roll their eyes and humor me.  That’s okay.  Silly I am and silly I will be as long as I live.  Got a problem with that?

Stamp My Passport Back In Time...

Memory is a funny thing.  It’s so easy to be blind-sided by a file drawer springing open in the brain, prompted by seemingly tiny triggers.

Or maybe that’s just me.  OK.  It’s probably just me.  Just about anything will stimulate the memory cells.  I think, for normal people, certain deep-seated memories can be activated by the senses.  Perhaps the smell of fresh-baked bread brings a warm feeling associated with a favorite aunt or a song can remind you of a time or a place.  I definitely experience that in a mostly normal way but I think my cut off valve may be broken because my brain doesn’t stop at a pleasant thought.  No!  Once that faucet starts flowing, there’s no stopping it!

My olfactory memories sneak up on me and drag me down memory lane, but it’s never something as simple or obvious as fresh baked bread.  No.  For me, it’s the smoky mixture of oil and gas that most would find unpleasant.  For me, whether it’s a car in need of a tune up, a landscaper’s lawnmower or chainsaw, I’m immediately transported to the Friday nights of my childhood at the dirtbike races.  I don’t even remember watching the races, but being there (to support the family friend who owned the track, I think) was tradition and we had the run of the nearby lot to play tag and use the swingset and whatever it is that kids do in such places until I was ready to climb up into the stands and fall asleep. 

Of course, there are nicer aromas in my memories: my grandmother’s linens, my mother’s cookies, even my dad’s Brut aftershave but it’s the funky ones that hit me every time.  There’s a certain kind of terrible muddy smell that immediately takes me to my very first concert.  I was about seven and it was Elton John in his platform shoes, giant sunglasses and sparkling silver jacket heyday under the St. Louis Arch.  My big sister Sue and I went with her friend Liz, in Liz’s teeny tiny MG convertible and as we crossed the river into town, my 7 year old self felt pretty damn cool.

The arch, if you don’t know, sits along the Mississippi River and St. Louis in July is about as hot and humid as it gets.  We’d had a few days of rain, so the landing was extra muddy.  And, being a free concert in the seventies, the area was jammed with sweaty, pot-smoking, sweaty, Budweiser drinking, sweaty, incense-burning young folks (did I mention sweaty?) who’d been there for days - in mud up to their ankles, dancing and partying and having a great time.  For me, the mud was up to my calves and my head was much lower to the ground.  The stench was horrible but I didn’t care.  I was at a real concert, listening to a real famous person and learning from the crowd how to wave my fist in the air and sing along to “Saturday Night’s Alright”.  It was wonderful.

To this day, when I catch a whiff of Mississippi River mud, I hear Elton John in my head and remember that day.  Likewise, hearing “Saturday…Saturday…” evokes the scent from out of nowhere.  It doesn’t make sense but it totally makes scents.

Lately I’ve come to realize that when I’m tuned into the Oldies station on the car radio, there are no longer any “oldies” playing.  Instead, I’m hearing the bands of the 80s who filled the cars we cruised in down the beach.  See?  That can’t be Oldies, right!?  When Bad Company and Bon Jovi are coming out of my speakers, I’m suddenly no longer waiting in the carpool line for my kids.  I’m on Hwy. 98, somewhere under the Miracle Strip Tower, trying to decide whether to go to the beach or go to a party with a bunch of tourists.

It doesn’t take much to stamp my passport back in time and send me completely back to a place.  If all of the conditions are right, I’m completely transported.  On a perfectly sunny fall afternoon like today, there’s just no fighting it.  Why would I, really?  These are free vacations and I don’t need to check a bag. 

As I walked to retrieve the kids from school, the sky was clear and sunny and there was a beautifully gentle breeze in the air.  That alone was enough to make me take it in.  There was an unusual break in traffic that brought peaceful silence and enabled me to hear the soft clang of a rope hitting the flagpole in front of the school.  Whoosh!  I was gone!  I was no longer on a sidewalk in suburban Georgia.  Instead, I was on my beach in my favorite post-tourist/pre-snowbird season hearing lines flapping against sail masts on catamarans parked in the sand next to lifeguard stands.  The birds flying above were no longer hawks and thrashers.  Now they were seagulls and sandpipers.  For just that brief moment, it was real.  I was there with sand between my toes and salt air in my lungs until the bell rang, kids spilled from the brick building and I was back on the concrete, smelling school bus exhaust.  I was back, but my Time Travel Passport was stamped and my soul was recharged.

Maybe I’m not all that unusual after all.  Maybe we all have it in us to go back in time like that but we forget to just go with it.  Here and now, real life and responsibilities keep us tethered and grounded.  That’s normal.  We can’t live in the past and we shouldn’t try.  We all know that, I think.  But why can’t we VISIT sometimes? 

Try it.  When a memory calls and invites you to travel with it for a moment, go along for the ride.  Sometimes those visits backwards can deliver just what you need to keep moving forward but you’ll never know if you don’t stamp the passport and get on board for the trip.