Overdue Greeting Card...

You may have noticed something all over the internet the last few days:  black and white photos of dapper dads holding chubby-legged babies, memories of dads past, thanks and props to dads current.  Must be Father’s Day!

Usually, when I’m writing about my family, my mother and my grandparents get all the prime real estate.  Obviously, they were the guiding forces in my life.  My father wasn’t exactly present in my life as a father figure, so Father’s Day was just another Sunday.  That is not to say that I was without great male role models.  I had plenty.  None better than my grandfather, of course, but there were uncles, there were family friends and a whole lot of brothers who were illustrations of what Men should and could be.

With their examples in mind, I found my way to a man who became my partner in life and love, and a terrific father.  He learned these talents from his own father and I’m grateful to Ramon for raising the man he did.

By giving this praise to all of these other men, I don’t mean to diminish the man my father was.  He did the best he could with the tools he was given to work with and while he may have been largely absent, he was still a very good human being.

He was broken.  He was lost in a world that continued to let him down and he was saddled with the weight of his own disappointment in himself.  It’s hard to walk tall when you don’t believe in yourself or when you feel the need to carry the weight of shame rather than to to let it go and move forward.

I’m not re-writing history here.  He did a lot that was wrong.  He allowed weaknesses to take over his life, and he left a wife and kids with bruised hearts.  But I perhaps had an advantage over my older siblings in that I had no real memory of him as a regular household presence, so there was no sense of loss. 

To my mother’s credit, she never uttered a negative word about him (in the presence of her children, anyway) and told us stories about their time together that made him human.  More than an empty space.  She took him in during low points in his life.  She encouraged his sons to do the same.  She showed us that true love never dies.  It may not live in the same space, but it doesn’t disappear.  As a child, it was obvious to me that there was worth in that broken man.  And good or bad, that broken man was a part of me.

Over the years, I thought I should get to know him.  So I did.  And he didn’t make it easy.  I wasn’t looking for a Dad.  I was just interested in knowing the man.  The man who loved my mother, the man who created my family, and the man who just walked through life with the rest of us humans.  The more I learned about him, the more I learned about myself, about my brothers and sisters, and even about my mother.  He may have been flawed and broken, but he really was a very good man.

He left this world that weighed him down shortly after I got married.  When I said goodbye to him in the funeral home, I told him I’d look for him in my babies’ eyes.  And darnit, if he isn’t there.  I feel his presence and ask him for guidance often.  He’s finally ABLE to be there in ways that he just couldn’t when bound by body and earth and expectations.  And I see examples of him every day in things I do, things I say, things my brothers do and say.  In the Nature v/s Nurture argument, I think Nature wins this one, because most of it couldn’t have been learned firsthand from him.

So my father was flawed.  He was broken.  He wasn’t going to win any awards for the job he did.  But he was, first and foremost, a really decent human being.  For that, I think he deserves a day.

I leave you with the eulogy I wrote for his memorial service.  Happy Father’s Day, Vernell.  Wherever you are.

Quiet Greatness

Over the last few days, there have been two words echoing loudly in my head:  Quiet Greatness.  To me, Quiet Greatness is found in the kind deeds done with no expectations.  Lending a hand when you can – not because you want credit or praise – but because it’s the right thing to do.  That’s how my father, Vernell Albert, lived his life.

Some might say that he marched to the beat of his own drummer.  But I think that we all know that Vernell wasn’t going to let a drummer – or anyone else for that matter – tell him when and how to march.  He was stubborn.  He was opinionated.  And that’s a big part of why we loved him.  Political correctness was not going to sway him from his principles and convictions.  He lived his life by the Golden Rule, and he expected nothing less from anyone else.  That, to me, is Quiet Greatness.

He was a man who truly understood the meaning of the word “friendship”.  Though he rarely – if ever – said the words, I know that he loved each and every one of you.  When I look around this room, I see neighbors, co-workers, and fellow firefighters.  But most of all, I see a kind of extended family.  I truly believe that he knew how blessed he was to have all of you.  He was a man of few words, but I know that he did not take you for granted.  If he didn’t say “thank you”, or that he loved you, know that he did.

It’s very appropriate that we’re here in this firehouse today, because this was the center of his universe.  He was born to be a firefighter, and helping his community fed his soul.  He was so proud to have been a part of all this.

My father’s life story was the stuff legends are made of.  I’ve never heard of anyone else in the world that had been a Cowboy and a Mosquito Wrangler, a Millwright and a Nightclub Bouncer, a Coal Miner and a Bingo Caller, a Military Man, a Taxi Driver, and a Fire Chief – all in the span of one lifetime.  And somewhere in the midst of it all, he managed to create an amazing family and build friendships with some incredible people.

I now think that all of that experience was just on-the-job training for his next career move.  He’s just been promoted to Guardian Angel.  It’s a big job, but I know he can handle it.  He’ll be looking down on us, making sure we’re toeing the line.  And when a call for help goes out to his fancy new scanner, he’ll be there to put out the fire.  But there won’t be any more sirens or flashing lights.  There will only be Quiet Greatness.

Everything I Need To Know, I learned From Mad Magazine…

I frequently tell my kids that I don’t know everything, but I do know a little about a lot of things.  So many of these lessons come to me be accident.  Simply a byproduct of being entertained.  If I’ve read a book, listened to a person’s story, or seen a movie or tv show, I retain details about ideas that interest me.  I’ve learned cooking tips and gardening advice from light and fluffy novels, medical and scientific research from books about serial killers, history from banter with strangers.  All of it gets filed away for later access.

I tap into this data often.  Through it, I find that I’m able to keep up with most any conversation enough to follow along and learn more.

Recently, I was sitting with a group of people when discussion turned to Star Wars and Star Trek.    I kept up, but then I mentioned that I have never seen Star Wars, or any of the sequels or prequels.  I’ve never seen more than a couple of minutes of any episode of Star Trek.  I knew character names, personalities, and basic story lines for both.   The others in the group seemed stunned by my revelations:  I’d never seen them, but I knew a good bit about them.  I even knew enough to understand that Star Wars People and Star Trek People should not be categorized together and they don’t necessarily play well with one another.  How is that possible?

So I explained.  Everything I need to know about life, I learned from Mad Magazine.  I’m not kidding.  Parody is one of life’s greatest teachers!  I never need to watch The Godfather or Goodfellas thanks to Mad and, later, Cracked Magazines.  I don’t need to listen to entire presidential speeches because I have Saturday Night Live for that.

I know I’m not alone in this.  Just ask Comedy Central.  Over the last couple of years, polls have shown that a large portion of the population turns to Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert for news and current events rather than the actual real news programs.  I get it.  Not only do they research and know what they’re making jokes about, but they don’t take themselves seriously.  That’s really the key, I think.

I have little patience for anyone who takes themselves seriously.  Laughter is the fuel that keeps me moving through life.  Obstacles, speed bumps and forks in the road are usually pretty funny when seen in the rearview mirror.  And there is always great truth in comedy.

I’ll give you a minute to think about the fact that I just confessed to never having seen Star Wars, Star Trek, the Godfather or Goodfellas.  I’ve also never seen Titanic, but I’m pretty sure I know how it ends, and I know how to lean over a railing and pretend I’m flying, so what else do I need?

Alfred E. Newman said it best:  “What, me worry?”  How can I, when I’m too busy laughing?  Credit, of course to Chevy Chase, Gilda Radner, and Lewis Black, but everything I need to know about life, I learned from Mad Magazine.

 

 

Everything Old Becomes New Again...

“Everything old becomes new again.”  I’ve heard that all of my life.  I’ve always equated it with trends:  fashion, music (or at least, musical influences), and hobbies or leisure activities.  In the early 80s, I wore saddle oxford shoes and appreciated anyone who could pull off a pompadour and a leather motorcycle jacket like Brian Setzer.  Today, my almost-9 year old daughter is wearing the neon pink and yellow of my youth and, if the clothing racks in the department stores are any gauge, the Flashdance look and Jelly shoes are back.

I guess there’s something to that adage after all.  But maybe there’s more to it than style.  Old people enter our lives in new ways, too.  That’s always been a pattern in my life, anyway.  Years pass and, suddenly, someone who has been absent from my mind appears again and we pick up where we left off.  I love that.

Recently, some of the reconnections have been facilitated by social media.  Several years ago, I was in San Francisco, visiting a friend.  We went out on the town and were joined by one of her friends.  As we chatted, I learned that he had begun working at some new company called Facebook.  I had never heard of it but, encouraged by my friend and my new acquaintances, I signed up when I got home.  It looked interesting but I didn’t know if it was anything I really needed.  Over time, more and more of my friends signed up, and it became a great way to reach across the miles and converse with people I know and love.  All these years later, it’s been a way to share my life with family and with friends without much effort. 

I never expected to stumble upon people who were significant in my childhood – people who I always thought were forever going to reside in my memory but never again in my life.  Yet there they were.   There was Carlos, who taught me to fry plantains and to sit in the lotus position when I was six years old.  Uncle Charlie, who taught me to see the tiny elements in nature that busy people often overlook.  JoAnn, who kissed booboos and made sure I took a bath or ate something more than mac and cheese when my big brothers maybe forgot to ask.  Earl, who made me laugh with bad puns while making me cry with beautiful fiddle playing.  They were all there, right inside my computer screen.

Along with them, I found my first/oldest friend, Amy.  I always knew where she was, but now I could “see” her.  She led me to our old partner in crime (as much as one can have in 5^th grade), Ann.  Through them, an assortment of once-upon-a-time middle school friends were visible to me.  Then along came Denise, who was, no question, a high school partner in crime.  She took me on adventures, encouraged me to reach outside the familiar, and made me see myself from a different perspective.  We went our separate ways, as happens when growing up, but I often thought about her, wondered how/where she was and hoped she was happy.  Voila!  There she was in my computer screen and back in my life.  We’ve been face-to-face, we’ve hugged and laughed and it’s a wonderful thing.

Now, those reconnections are great.  I cherish them.  But they didn’t really happen naturally.  One or the other of us went looking and used technology to “stumble” upon an old friend.  Sometimes, though, what’s old becomes new in the most amazing ways.

I’ve often talked about my family’s penchant for taking in strays.  Stray people, that is.  There have been more teenage boys and young men living on my couch than I could ever possibly count because my mother would not turn one away.  So when we lived deep in the woods of Pennsylvania and my brother Rick was becoming heavily entrenched in the Bluegrass Music scene, it was not unusual to go to bed on Friday night and wake up Saturday morning to some guy named Roscoe playing the banjo on the couch where he slept.  One of these rambling pickers was named James.  I’m not sure why he was at our house.  As I recall, he may have been running from someone and didn’t want to be found.  What I do remember is that he was talkative, he was funny, and he was smitten with my sister Diane, who he said “looked just like Sally Field”.  He said this often, so I haven’t forgotten.  That was a long, long, long time ago.  Somewhere along the line, I heard that he’d attained some measure of success in Bluegrass but I never gave him much thought.

A couple of years ago, here in Georgia, my mother and I were at a bluegrass festival.  We didn’t know – or care – who was playing, we just went.  And there, on the stage, the headliner for the day, was James.  After his set, we approached, sure he wouldn’t remember us at all, and were met with giant hugs.  He DID remember.  In detail.  He asked about all of us by name, he thanked my mother for her kindness all those years ago, and he made it clear that we were etched on his heart, just as he was on ours. 

It’s a teeny, tiny little world and these connections matter.  Maybe we’ll never see him again.  Probably, we’ll never see him again.  But that moment mattered and it opened a file drawer in my mind that had been long stored away.  I kind of think that’s WHY we have these moments – to remind us who we are, where we’ve been, and how we got here.

When just one memory file is touched, floodgates open for me.  I can suddenly look at the road behind me and not just see where I’ve been, but every single brick or stone that got me to this point.

This year, I started a brand new job that I love.  It’s not a job I ever imagined or even knew as a possibility but looking back on the road behind me, it’s clear how I got here and I’m grateful for every step.

This week has been challenging with seemingly simple tasks complicated by unexpected roadblocks.  Every time I became frustrated enough to need a break, I was met with some odd little flashback to my teen years in the 80s.  A radio personality talked about Rick Springfield.  I saw a man walking down the sidewalk, wearing parachute pants (!!!) and carrying a huge 80s-style boombox on his shoulder.  Of course, these things unlocked the file drawer of that time and place and, suddenly, EVERY thing reminded me of that time.

Thursday morning, there was a staff celebration at the library where I work.  I was surrounded by people having a great time.  And the majority of the music playing in the room was straight out of my 80s teens.  Cyndi Lauper wanted to have fun and Kenny Loggins wanted to get footloose.  There was an organized dance, complete with the library costume character cat.

Around me, there was talk about the costume and how hot it was for the person inside.  *Spring!  File Drawer!*  Circa 1986, when I worked at an amusement park in my little beach town in Florida, I pleaded with management until I was permitted to be one of the park’s costumed characters.  Those costumes didn’t come equipped with cooling fans then, so all we could do was load up with ice packs and make our rounds in 20 minutes or less.  So I made a joke.  Something along the lines of “Back in my day, we were tougher!”, which prompted a conversation about my experience.  Casual chit chat, really, and then the other person pointed at the guy standing next to me and said “Jonathan’s from Panama City, I think.”

At this point of my story, I should tell you that on my first day at this job, I was introduced to Jonathan. He said he thought I looked familiar.  I thought he looked familiar, too, but my mind reasoned that he looked very similar to a local musician I know and that must be why he looked familiar.  There was no logical reason why our paths would have crossed.  So, for the past four months, we pass each other in the halls, talk about work-related things, and are seated just two offices away from one another, strangers who work together.

So now, because I’m nosy, I ask Jonathan if he went to Bay High School.  He did.  I say I bet we know some of the same people.  He asks when I worked at the park.  I tell him ’85 and ’86.  He says our paths probably crossed.  If anyone was standing back and watching us, they surely saw the gears in our heads turning and light of revelation in our eyes when we suddenly realized: “I remember you!” and the details began to just pour out of that long-closed file drawer.

The mind can do crazy things with these files.  This guy wasn’t just an acquaintance.  I worked with him every day for an entire summer.  I talked with him daily – about park guests, about music, about his plans at the end of the summer, the usual chatter typical of work friends.  We were kids, we travelled in packs. His friends, my friends and our mutual friends often ended up in the same places and the same parties.  He was smart, he was funny, I enjoyed talking to him and, after he and his BFF headed off to Georgia Tech in the fall, if he crossed my mind, it was just to hope they were both doing well.  Again, I was a kid.  Life marched on.  The file drawer shut.

Granted, more than 25 years had passed, but why didn’t the drawer open 4 months ago when he looked familiar?  I think the brain just couldn’t fathom a reason to make that connection.  There was no logical reason for a former hotel/radio/advertising/copywriter/tumbleweed professional to have any connection to a career librarian in suburban Georgia.  It didn’t compute.

Because, in my world, the brain is the last voice I tend to listen to, I have to wonder if all the recent 80s flashbacks weren’t sent to me by the People Who Live In My Head to remind me of a time and place where I really became the core person I am today.

Possibly, they are just suggesting that I need to go to the beach and squeak my toes in the sugar white sand of my “hometown”.  Either way, I’m enjoying the ride down Memory Lane and, just like my 1985 Sperry Topsiders are hip again, my Old Work Friend is now my New Work Friend. 

Everything old becomes new again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In A Roundabout Kind Of Way...

If you really stand back and watch, it’s pretty easy to get a read on a complete stranger just by the little things they do.  If they hold a door, if they make eye contact with a smile, or if they yell at cashiers or cut in line, these are all clues about how a person generally behaves in life.  This is not some huge revelation.  I think we all form snap opinions as we go through our days. 

My children didn’t learn the word “jerk” from Sesame Street.  They learned it from the back seat of my car.  My opinions take shape every time I get behind the wheel.  They hear me say “Who do you think you are?!?” to drivers who so obviously deem themselves more important than traffic rules or right of way.  They hear me grumble when another driver is rude.  They pay attention to these things so I really hope that they also notice when I let people in front of me, when I wave thanks after a courtesy is extended and they see that I am a patient and mindful person – or at least that I always try to be.

I know, I know, we’re all taught that we’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover.  Honestly,  I don’t think I do.  I don’t make assumptions about people by their tattoos and piercings (or lack thereof), by their clothes, or anything regarding their appearance.  That’s no way to know what’s inside.  But as soon as those books start walking around and interacting with one another, you’d better believe I’m judging the pages inside.  Likewise, I don’t care what kind of car a person drives.  I absolutely care how they drive it and I think this simple act is a near-perfect gauge of a person’s core self.

In my family’s hometown, when you drive into the town square, you are met with a giant fountain in the middle of the street.  Drivers know that whether they want to go straight, turn left, turn right or go back, they have to go around the fountain.  This is not an unusual feature of a small town and you see them all over the world.  Some people call it a Roundabout.  Some call it a Traffic Circle. 

Perhaps because of their small town reputation, some people think of Roundabouts as old fashioned but they’re making a comeback all over America.  They’re popping up in my town, in neighboring towns, and in engineering plans for future locations.  The idea is really very simple:  keep people moving, with as little backup as possible.  When they put one at an intersection that I face daily, I was very pleased but, as it turns out, I was also naïve.  I overestimated the ease with which the other drivers would adapt to the change.

Whether you call it a Roundabout, a Traffic Circle, a Rotary, or even a Euro-Loop, roughly the same rules apply.  Approach the circle at low speed, yield to traffic already in the circle and keep moving.  Easy, right?  Maybe not.  I’ve come to realize that, just as a person’s small behaviors give clues to their core personality, the way they approach a Traffic Circle is a pretty good indicator about how they approach life as a whole.

There are those who stop completely.  And wait and wait and wait until someone either waves them ahead or there are no other cars in the circle.  There are those who hesitate and then push their way ahead when it’s not their turn.  There are those who slowly creep up with a death grip on the steering wheel, fear on their face and their eyes on the rearview mirror.  Of course, there are always those who never bother to slow or to pay attention to the other guy who had the right of way and have no awareness that their action caused another to have to put on the brakes and no clue about the ripple effects in the interrupted flow.  Then there are those who approach with confidence, believe that they’re making the right move, and trust that others will, too.

That last driver is the one I strive to be.  I try to approach with awareness of timing, with some instinct about what the other guy is about to do and with my eyes on the road ahead of me, not behind me.

That’s my plan for life in general.  I may not always know what’s on the other side of the circle, but I know that when it’s time to move, it’s best to keep my eyes on my surroundings, to proceed with equal parts confidence and caution, to trust that the other guys will do the right thing, and there’s no need to look in the rearview mirror.  What I'm trying to say, in a roundabout kind of way, is that I’m just enjoying the drive.

 

 

 

 

Invasion or epiphany?...

When people are getting to know one another, shooting the breeze, maybe having a beer or seven, and the topic turns to music, there’s one question that will inevitably be presented:  Stones or Beatles?

I’ve always hated this question.  It just never seemed reasonable to think that you could clearly define a person by the British Invasion.  And why is the choice always between those two?  Why is The Who never thrown in as an option?  Aside from seeming like a silly way to label a person, why do I have to decide at all?  Can’t I love them both?  Can’t I love them all? 

When that question comes up, I refuse to be painted in a corner and declare equal love and admiration for them all.  They are different, yes, but they are all valuable to me and forcing me to choose feels like asking me which one of my kids I like better.  Really, doesn’t that say more about who I am?  My heart is big and I love John, Paul, George and Ringo (though, to be honest, I always leaned more to George than the other 3, but they don’t need to know that) and I love Mick, Keith, Ronnie, Charlie, Bill, et al.  Love can’t be measured.  Love shouldn’t be compared.  It just IS.  Right?

That was my firm stance.  I will not choose.  You can’t make me choose!

And then hell froze over.  Okay, not really.  But Atlanta did.  Which meant I was able to gain control of the television long enough to finally watch the 50^th Anniversary Beatles Tribute.  The lady of the house having control of the remote for something like that is almost as rare as a Georgia ice storm.

Of course, I love the Fab Four.  Of course, I wanted to watch it.  Of course, I set the DVR with the hopes that one day, maybe, probably late at night, I’d get to watch it.  One day happened sooner than I expected. 

Also unexpected was an epiphany.  There, on the couch, under the blanket while my kids built icy little snowmen outside, I realized that I stand firmly in Beatles camp…and probably always have.

My husband doesn’t get the appeal of The Beatles.  Probably, despite their Blues background, he doesn’t really get the Stones, either.  I love him anyway, but I don’t understand it.  Both are thoroughly and completely in my veins.  Is he broken?

OK, to be fair, his Cuban parents and grandparents in South Florida most likely didn’t have the Brits on steady rotation on their record player.  He didn’t have older siblings to crank it on the radio.  It wasn’t in the water.  Also to be fair, I don’t get Run DMC or whatever it was that was eventually in his headphones.

Meanwhile, in the Albert house, John/Paul/George/Ringo were constantly present.  We had multiple copies of every album and 8 tracks for the car!  My sister Sue had a paperback copy of all the lyrics, which I gradually confiscated as my own.  I read this book every day.  I often fell asleep with it in my hands.  I don’t recall singing along too much, but I READ them.  I absorbed them.

No doubt, music was everywhere in our home.  The Stones (along with Jimi and Johnny and Joe and everyone else) were also on the stereo, and coming from the amplifiers downstairs.  I read – and still read – every musician biography I could get my hands on.  It ALL mattered to me and that’s why I was so sure that my love couldn’t be – shouldn’t be – pinned down.

Until.  Until I sat down and saw photos I hadn’t seen before.  I saw the clear influence of those four guys on a giant audience full of people.  I knew every word.  And not in the karaoke sing-along way.  I knew them in my heart.  I realized I didn’t just know them.  I LIVE them.

I truly don’t think a day goes by that something doesn’t trigger a Lennon or McCartney lyric.  When I talk to people, I find myself referring to words of wisdom, the fool on the hill or the real nowhere man.  And while I tell my kids that they “can’t always get what they want”, I more often tell them that “love is all you need”.

So.  I’m choosing sides.  I confess that one love really is stronger.  I still have plenty of room in my heart for Mick and Keith.  There’s always room for Eric.  Pete, Steve, Jimmy and the gang can come visit any time they want.  But they’ll have to understand that my devotion belongs to the mop-headed lads from Liverpool.

 

Everyone else figured it out during an invasion.  For me, it came as a slow epiphany.

Oh, The Humanity!...

If you’ve been anywhere near a television or the internet in the last few days, chances are that you’ve heard (and probably formed opinions) about Snowpocalypse 2014 in Atlanta and all over the south.  Meanwhile, bigger, more important things are happening and I wish everyone would stop talking about What Went WRONG!?!?!? And start focusing on everything that went RIGHT.

I’m one of those people who abandoned a car on an impassable roadway.  My sister’s normally 10-minute commute lasted 6 hours before she gave up and walked the rest of the way home.  My mother spent more than 8 hours in her car before finally, thankfully safely, arriving at my home for a toilet, food and bed (in that order).  I have friends who didn’t make it home at all and spent the night in their cars on the highway, there were children who spent the night in their school gymnasiums because their parents couldn’t get to them.  People took shelter where they could and improvised in whatever ways possible.

If you’re far away and seeing this on TV, with newscasters tsk-tsking the Powers That Be for letting this happen and laying out their vision of what should have been done, you may be nodding your heads in agreement and laughing at “those poor dumb southerners” who can’t handle a little snow. 

I understand the rush to judgment.  I do.  I’m not interested in discussing the politics of it all, other than to say that more people are “in charge” than the 2 faces you see on CNN and none of them were able to shove egos aside and communicate with one another.  I don’t think any of them have a direct line to Mother Nature so while they certainly knew ahead of time that weather was coming, no one could absolutely know how bad/hard/fast it would arrive.  When it was time to make the important calls, my belief is that everyone remembered those times when they did react and nothing happened so they were mocked, criticized and lost re-elections.  The ego is like an elephant.  It never forgets.

As for “poor dumb southerners” who can’t handle a little snow, I will just say this:  I have lived many places, and driven in many conditions - from hurricanes to blizzards.  This was not about snow.  What happens in the south doesn’t happen everywhere.  When it snows, it melts the moment it hits pavement.  When people drive, it becomes slush.  Then it cools quickly and that liquid immediately becomes ice.  I’m not talking about “patches” of ice.  No.  A Zamboni driver could comfortably travel for miles on the solid sheets that have developed.

Now, imagine those miles and miles of solid ice sheets draped over the steep hills and sharp curves that make up the landscape of Georgia, of Atlanta, of the south in general.  And on those hills, on those curves, there are forests of trees that ensure that sunlight will not break through to the ice, meaning there is no respite in sight.  That’s what “a little snow” does to us.  No amount of experience, no amount of advice, no amount of luxury 4-wheel-drive can conquer that.

So that’s the explanation for what you saw on tv or the internet from the comfort of your homes.  Let me tell you what you didn’t see.

When Human Beings are faced with challenges, their HUMANITY shines through.  That’s not always a positive, but MOST of the time it is.   What I believe – fully, completely, 100% - is that human beings are, at their core, mostly really good.  When people LET them be good, they can be great.

We poor dumb southerners got into our cars early, thinking that was the responsible thing to do:  to get home and off the road before it gets worse and becomes a problem.  I think we were all surprised to see just how many people shared our thoughts and how much of a problem it had already become.   I had a way to go, and knew it would not be an easy trek.  Almost immediately, cars were sliding.  Trucks were sliding.  Everyone was sliding.  But you know what?  Everyone was being patient.  Everyone was focused.  Everyone was careful.  I didn’t see a single accident happen.  Because we weren’t clueless southerners at the wheel, we were simply human beings doing the best we could, mindful of what was happening with all of the other human beings around us.

I won’t pretend that I didn’t enlist every angel and guide I could to lend me a hand, but I got pretty far.  On the last major hill, it became clear that I wasn’t going any farther.  After an hour on the side of the road, and many lame attempts at movement, I grabbed a blanket from the backseat, secured the car, and began walking (in not exactly appropriate for the weather shoes) in the direction of home.  I thought that if I could just get a little closer, my husband and kids could come and get me, but I could manage the entire walk if necessary.

I got about 30 feet before I heard “Ma’am!  Do you want a ride?”  There stood a teenage boy, about 16 or 17, offering to rescue me.  He was joined by another.  They offered to push my car to get it going.  Then they realized that wouldn’t be safe, so I accepted the ride and was led to a man waiting in a front-wheel drive vehicle, ready to save the day.  While I sat in the toasty warm backseat, I learned that he was the uncle of one of the boys.  His sister asked him to go pick up his nephew and friend from their Catholic high school and he saw how many people needed help along the way.

This man sent those two young men out to push and assist numerous cars.  He coached them on how to approach the drivers, what to say and how to guide them to safety.  Then he carefully drove me to a safe place to await my husband.  He’d have taken me all the way home if I let him but I didn’t want to put him out any more.  I thanked them profusely and gave my gloves to one of the boys who was rescuing damsels in distress with his bare hands.

I know that when they left me, they surely helped others, because that was where their hearts were focused.  That man taught those boys more about humanity than any classroom could ever teach and I told my girls all about them so they, too, could understand that people can be so good.

Once home, I learned that my sister was still out there.  My mother was out there.  My sister was nearly home when she found a safe place to park and walked the rest of the way.  My mother turned around so she could come to my house when it was clear she’d never make it to her own.  She’d been in the car for hours, she was tired, she was hungry.  She had to pee, dammit, so when we realized she was very close to us, my husband and I thought we’d go meet her ½ mile away and bring her home.  We didn’t have to go far to realize we were in too deep and not going to get to her.  Just as we (husband and children) were about to abandon a second car, three men in a big truck came to pull us out. 

These young men said they were home watching the news and thought they could go out and help people, so that’s what they were doing.  They got us going, we thanked them, and they went on to help others.  A few blocks and another steep hill later, we realized we weren’t going to reach my mother.  So we began to walk back home until a familiar pick up truck came along and insisted that they drive us home.  Junior, Moses, and their friend-whose-name-suddenly-escapes-me, were sweet, kind and dedicated to helping anyone who would let them.

Meanwhile, social media was lighting up with people reaching out that they could help, that they knew someone who needed help, or that they needed help themselves.  My friends walked through the ice and snow to retrieve a mutual friend who was stranded at a nearby hotel (with no rooms at the inn) and give her warm respite for the night.  Similar stories popped up all over my news feed.  People who had the luxury of being home loaded up wagons with water and food and delivered it to people stuck in their cars.

A facebook page dedicated to those in need during this chaos took off and people reached out to help wherever they could.  Strangers were brought in to become friends.  Businesses kept their doors open for those seeking shelter for the night.  Connections were made to get people what they needed.  Human connections.  And isn’t that the point of it all?

Over the next days and weeks, news casters will be talking about something else.  Politicians will move on to a different crisis for which to shift blame.  Snowpocalypse 2014 will fade to a distant memory and will only come up as a Remember When during the next time.  But *I* will not stop talking about the important part:  The Humanity.

I won’t forget the Dentist and the Catholic school boys.  I won’t forget Moses and Junior and their friend (and I’ll probably remember his name when I finish typing this).  I won’t let my kids forget about all the human beings who reached out to help other human beings simply because they could. 

For anyone who’s read this far, I hope that you’ll remember, too.  Names aren’t important but the hearts and the deeds are and if you look beyond the political blame game, you will see hundreds upon hundreds of similar stories.  (see link below for examples) Human connections, helping where they can, accepting help when they need it. 

 

Humanity at work.

 http://www.buzzfeed.com/kimberlyt/the-silver-lining-of-atlantas-snowpocalypse-2014-w6l

 

Curse Of The Capable Woman...

The other day, I attended a Chamber of Commerce luncheon for women executives.  This is not a thing I’d normally do for a good time, but it was my first week at my new job and I thought it would be a fine way to get my foot in the door with some people I may need to know down the road.  At the very least, there’d be food!

I entered the room prepared to cringe at forced female bonding.  Roaring is just not my thing and I don’t need anyone to tell me that I am valuable or worthy even though I’m a woman.  Thankfully, it wasn’t as “Rah-Rah-Ladies” as I feared and I’m glad I went, if only for the handshakes that came from it.  That doesn’t mean I didn’t occasionally roll my eyes at Words Of Empowerment from the keynote speaker, but it wasn’t terrible.

I suppose it has more to do with my upbringing than anything else, but I’ve never struggled to find my footing as a woman in the world.  I’ve always known that I could do whatever I wanted to do and never felt that I had to fight to prove it to anyone.

Certainly, I know that my grandmother was born in a time when women were not permitted to vote.  When her rights were at last given to her, she used them.  She voted.  She drove a car when few other women of her time even attempted.  When the Catholic church decided it was OK for women to wear pants, she never turned back!  And when I was a child, she told me I could do anything.  She believed it, so why wouldn’t I?

I know that my mother, and women of her generation, went to work with the understanding that a lecherous boss would likely grab her ass or make lewd comments and that she would only go so far or get paid so much.  She also told her daughters that they could do whatever they wanted.  She believed it, so of course we did, too.

So my sisters and I – and most of the women of our generation – didn’t ever think that we  Couldn’t or that we Shouldn’t because we were female.  We learned our history.  We remembered the importance of what happened before us.  It’s important that we know it and appreciate it, but it just isn’t our burden to carry.

As a result of those who forged the path before us, I’m very secure in who I am and what my capabilities are.   The women in my family are Strong, Independent and Capable of taking care of themselves and the women that I choose to surround myself with are also strong and capable.  That’s why we’re friends.

So there, in that room full of women who possibly needed to be reminded of their value, I couldn’t help wondering how many of them have The Curse.  My grandmother had The Curse.  My mother had The Curse.  Many of my friends have The Curse.

I’m talking about a little known ailment that plagues strong, independent, self-sufficient and capable women all over the world.  It strikes at the worst possible times.  I don’t know if there’s an official scientific or Latin name, but in my circle, it’s known as The Curse Of The Capable Woman or CCW Syndrome.

My grandmother was about as Capable as any woman could be.  She was strong and healthy and did it all.  She did the family laundry in an old-school ringer washer in the basement of their home and then carried the wet laundry up the stairs and hung it on the line outside.  Sometime in her mid-90s, she told my grandfather that it had become too much for her to handle.  He responded by telling her that all she had to do was carry it up one step at a time: Lift, rest, step up, lift, rest, step up.    As you might imagine, this response did not please my grandmother.

Now, my grandfather wasn’t trying to NOT help her.  She asked for help and he offered advice that he sincerely thought was helpful.   I can’t really blame him for getting it wrong.  It’s not as though he had a lot of practice answering her pleas for help.  In their seven decades of marriage, she made it very clear that she could do it.  Whatever “it” was.  So when the time came for her to ask for assistance, she was not taken seriously.  He didn’t know how to respond.  My grandmother suffered from The Curse Of The Capable Woman.

I don’t know that my mother intended to be so strong and independent and capable, but fate made it necessary.  We children knew she could do whatever needed to be done.  Men in her life loved her for her ability to handle anything…until those rare occasions when she needed to ask them to lend a hand.  Then she was met with blank stares, slack jaws, and little action.  My mother suffered from CCW Syndrome.

It takes a strong man to partner with a Capable Woman.  They have to learn when to accept “I can do it” as truth.  If she says “I can do it”, she means it.  Or at least it means she really wants to try to do it herself.  For a secure and confident man, I think that’s probably an easy thing to figure out.  The problem lies in those very rare moments when she says “I can’t do this”, “I can’t do this by myself” or “I need help with this.”

Somehow those statements don’t register.  They go unheard, misunderstood, or – at some times – taken as a joke!  Honestly, you can’t blame a guy for not getting it.  If his partner has conditioned him to know just how completely capable she is, there’s no natural instinct to believe she might not be.

I’ve lectured my friends about the Curse.  Many of them are afflicted.  They are women in control of their lives.  They have good, loving and supportive partners.  Then that moment arises when they need help with something.  They wrestle with their own pride and ask for help.  And they don’t get it.  Not because the partner is a bastard.  Not because he’s incapable or clueless.  Not because he doesn’t want to assist.  Simply because The Curse has made the call unintelligible.

I’m not a man-basher.  I love men.  Men are not the problem.  The Curse is the issue here.  The Curse is self-afflicted and only a Capable Woman can lift her own Curse. 

One day, when I’m in charge of the world and someone invites me to be the keynote speaker at a luncheon,  I’m not going to tell women that they’re good enough to succeed in business.  I’m not going to tell them they’re worthy of whatever they want.  I’m just going to tell them to continue to be Capable, but don’t be stubborn about it.  Just because you CAN do it all yourself, doesn’t mean you SHOULD do it all yourself.  Letting someone help you is not a sign of weakness.  On the contrary, allowing someone to help takes strength and courage and being open enough to ask for that help can break The Curse.