Of Tires and Nails…

   Most days we go about our business not worrying about our cars, or the tires they ride on.  So it’s a real surprise when you come out of work at the end of the day and find, as you are backing out, that you have a flat tire. I mean the damage-your-rim-if-you-drive-more-then-the-10-feet-to-get-back-into-your-parking-place kind flat tire.  

  My tire was fine that morning when I parked the car. I know this because I could tell as soon as I moved the car that afternoon there was a problem.  So I had to have picked up that nail close to work.  The tire had all day to deflate.  That tire had less then 6000 miles on it, it was practically new.  The nail didn’t even have the courtesy to stay in the tire, though the mechanic knew right where to patch the tire when he had it.

  At least it was only one nail, unlike the last time.

  Several years ago, Edward and I were headed out to run some errands one evening.  As we turned a corner onto Seminole Blvd, I found myself watching a car next to me that didn’t seem to be holding his lane.  That meant I didn’t see the broken bits of the 5-gallon bucket that was lying in the middle of my lane until it was almost too late.  OK, it was too late.  I missed the bucket but not the contents of said bucket.  

  Break hard, swerve, thump…  thump, thump, thump…  pull over.  Get out…  hisssssssss from the left rear tire.  

  Crap.  Must have picked up a nail.  With that much hiss it wasn’t going very much father.  So we got out the jack, and started working on changing the tire.  Edward was able to get the tire off and put on the spare.  Then we got a look at the problem.  

  Did I say nail?  No, it wasn’t “a" nail…  it was 5 nails. All of them within a spot the size of a quarter, literally.  

  To this day I have no idea how I managed not put put nail in any other tire, especially the one directly in front of the “nailed” tire.  All I can figure is that the first tire set the nails upright for the second tire, a cluster of 5 nails at that.  

  Needless to say, that tire couldn’t be patched.  Luckily, it wasn’t new.  

  To add insult to injury, my spare, which sits on the back gate of the Rav4 hadn’t been touched since it had been put back there several years earlier.  It was nearly flat itself.  So we had to limp to a gas station that had an air pump, which as luck would have it, was not the first place we stopped.  

  This time I had AAA on the way within 15 minutes of discovering the flat.  That was after I called Edward, “Hi… um, I’m going to be a little late...” While I waited, two wonderful colleagues helped me change the tire before AAA got there.  But I already knew my spare was going to be flat, so I made sure they sent a truck with air to fill spare.  Lesson learned the first time, right?  It wasn’t a wasted trip for the AAA truck expecting to have to change a tire to get there and find it done, especially since another colleague came out while we were working on my car to find her battery dead and in need of a jump.  The AAA did that for her after getting my spare up to pressure.  She didn’t have to wait for another service call and that was a good thing.

  We stuck flat tire on the back of the Rav and I dove it to my mechanic, a Shell station that’s on the way home.  I knew their staff had gone home for the day and that only the pump attendants would be there.  So I dropped off the tire for them to repair in the morning and headed home.  They called me the next day to say it was fixed.  It took them 5 minutes to put it back on and put the spare back in its place.

  Done. Simple. Painless.  Relatively speaking, and $26 later.

  Over the next few days I heard of two other people who had flats and were repairing tires.  Seemed there was a rash of them.  I’m sure there were more than I heard about that week. Someone, somewhere, must have dropped a load of nails in street.  I and the others were picking them up, so to speak.  So for those of you who didn’t get a nail your tire, you can thank us for cleaning up the streets, for taking one for the team. 

  You’re welcome. Glad to be of service.

Making it your own...

Over the last few years I’ve come to dread the Holiday season.  Starting sometime in mid-October, before Halloween, and continuing through Christmas and New Year’s Day, a veritable bevy of holidays parade through the weeks.  And with them, expectations that you will participate, purchase, spend, decorate, and generally be one-of-the-masses.  If not, what is wrong with you?  

We are constantly barraged with advertisements telling us what we should do, how we should act, where we should go and how we should feel. Long looks from neighbors and coworkers when you don’t wear the right colors. Expected attendance at Christmas parties. The inevitable holiday family movie, with everyone making up and getting along in the end. A fairytale of good times that everyone can enjoy.

But life doesn’t always follow those paths.  And when it doesn’t we are expected to feel bad that they don’t and we ourselves somehow bear that blame.  Is it any wonder that depression is highest during the holiday season?  I think perhaps it is not just due to the shorter days. 

I used to feel that way, that I was wrong in my budding dislike of the season.  That I should be happy this time of year.  That is, until several years ago, when I was told by someone I respected that there are no rules.  I can chose not to participate.  Or perhaps instead, take some part of that holiday season make it my own.

Sage advice.

I don’t consider myself a Christian anymore and haven’t for some time. So why was I celebrating Christmas?  Why am I stressing about something I no longer believe.  Why am I pandering to the pressures of a holiday that strikes me more as an opportunity for consumerism, than a celebration of spirituality.  

I can’t say that it was a simple or quick transition.  I clung to my past like a lifeline.  But times change and people change.  I changed, too.  I learned I could navigate that pool of holiday cheer. That I really did know how to swim and swim away from it.  That I don’t have to get in line and get with the program.  That there is a different drummer out there if you listen hard enough.

So starting with Samhain, I will try, as I do every year now, to walk my own path through the field of holiday land mines.  You won’t find me putting out pumpkins or hanging bed sheet ghosts from my myrtle tree. You won't see cardboard turkeys in faux Puritan hats in my windows.  My December decorations will be of more natural things like evergreen wreaths and centerpieces.  I love the smell of them and they get an honored place on the table, and by the front door.  The week before and after the Solstice, I will light an oil lamp each night for a few hours. And on the day of the Winter Solstice we will mix our batch of mead and open the one present we get for each other.  We will walk out into the park and watch the sun set over the lake.  Then, when we return to the house, we light the candles, eschewing any electric lights. Each a tiny bonfire of marking the longest night of the year, and welcoming the return of the sun, with one lone flame burning through the night until sunrise.

I still buy Christmas presents for family and friends.  I respect their tradition, just as I hope they will respect mine. And I will continue to say "Happy Holidays" as we approach the end of this year.  And to my friends and family I may even wish you a Merry Christmas, or Happy Hanukkah, or Ramadan, or Kwanzaa, or Omisoka.  I may even wish you a Merry Solstice if I know which way your wind blows, so to speak. But please don’t take offense if I wish you “Happy Holidays".  Christians aren’t the only ones celebrating a holiday this season. I don’t assume to know your tradition.  

Why must you insist I follow yours….?

Looking the other way...

Anti-Solar... looking west at dawn.

August...

Hot!

      Hot!

            Hot!

Clouds.

       More Clouds.

              Dark Clouds.

Raining. 

       Hard!

            Rainbow.

Sunny!

Humid! 

        Humid!

                Humid!

  

 August 

          in 

             Florida.

On the edge of the day

 Just past full, the moon baths the yard in a cool light. Everything is muted, grays and whites are all you can see.

Whip-poor-wills call and respond, like a preacher and his flock. One near, one far. First to the south, then to the north. They call the song of the night, their nocturnal chorus nearly finished. 

Cicadas vie with the crickets for the underlying melody. 

A cacophony of peeps rises nearby. The songs moves down the ditch like a froggy Game of Rumors, each telling his neighbor a secret to be passed to the next. Then the sound rolls back up the ditch to pause and wait for the next round. 

Tree frogs climb the porch drain pipe, then back into the gap at the top and disappear. Their larger companions croak challenges from across the ditch. 

As if uncertain he remember the calls he is tying to imitate, a mockingbird breaks into his first tentative songs. Before long he sings more lustily, proclaiming his territory to all comers. But he never mocks the whip-poor-wills. Perhaps he’s never had the time to learn their song before they settle in to wait for the return of the night.

The moonlight slowly dims. The stars fade from the sky. Thunderheads over the Gulf catch the rose hues of sunrise as they race eastward across the sky. Kissed by the first light of the morning, they ripen to orange then brilliant white, greeting the sun still below the horizon to the creatures below.

Blue jays scold what only they can see, jumping and flitting from tree to tree and branch to branch. Something has invaded their territory and they don’t want it there. A woodpecker taps a rhythm on the telephone pole, while crows head east to meet the sunrise, cawing to their friends in flight. A tenor voice answered by a baritone. A coded conversation understood only amongst their peers.

The grays and whites have transformed into millions of shades of green.  Sprays of pink flowers from the myrtle and the periwinkles populate the yard. Tiny yellow peanut flowers sit on the end of fragile stalks, waiting their turn to open. Cardinals dart from from scrub to maple and back again. Streaks of red in the growing light. 

Dawn. A new days begins. 

Visiting Tanya

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer seven and a half years ago I stared into the face of my own mortality for the first time. Up until then I, like most people, felt somewhat immortal. That was my first wake up call. But I am a survivor.    

Some of us make it through to the other side. Some of us don't.  

Tanya was diagnosed right about the same time as I was. She was also about eight years younger then I am, and while I was considered to be young to be diagnosed, she was younger still. Breast cancers in younger women are more aggressive. Tanya’s case it was no different.  

By the time her cancer was diagnosed it had already spread to her lymph nodes. Chemo first, then surgery were her course of treatment. The first round of her battle seemed successful, but within the year, she was diagnosed with “mets”. Metastatic Cancer. The disease had spread.  

Tanya fought as long and as hard as anyone I know. Perhaps because she had a young son.  Perhaps that was just her personality. She was an advocate and a fund-raiser. She was as strong willed as anyone I know. She travelled to cancer clinics where they tried new treatments. Some with a measure of success, others less so. But ultimately, the cancer was winning.  

Earlier this year we got the news that there was nothing left to do. It was only a matter of time.

About two weeks ago I got word that she was in Hospice. So, for the second time in my life, I went to see a dying friend, someone who I would never have known had my life not been interrupted by this disease.  It’s one of the hardest the thing I've every done.  Again.  She was a awake and alert. She recognized me and we talked a little.  She didn’t have a lot of strength. Palliative care kept her comfortable. But there wasn’t a lot more to do.

This last week I went to see her every day. Thursday she was sleeping so I didn’t stay, and another friend let me know later that day, it was probably time for only the family to visit. It wouldn’t be long now.  

Tanya lost her battle with cancer last night. She fought the good fight.  Her son, now 8, has turned into a bright, smart young man. I had dinner with him last week. His whole life has been his mother’s fight with cancer. He participated in her treatment. Travelled with her when he could. Understood that she would leave, and knew that she loved him. His grandparents have been helping raise him since he was a baby, and will continue to do so. His life will go on and with him Tanya’s memory, Tanya’s legacy and Tanya’s light. 

I didn’t know her as well as others did. While we lived close to each other, we didn’t have a lot in common. We were friends, but we never became close. But each time I went to see her this week, she smiled and was glad to see me. When I asked her if she wanted me to come back, she said “I it love when you come. You can come any time you want.” So I did go back, again. Every day.  

Tonight, I will light a candle for Tanya, as I have for the past two nights knowing that the end was near. Tonight, I light a candle for a life lost, but well lived, and a battle well fought. Tonight, I will light a candle for all those who have not survived, and for those of us who have. For we must now carry the torch she no longer can.

My thoughts go out to her son and her family in this difficult time. Peace, Tanya. May you ever dance in the light....

I'm 52. It's time to get over it.

 I think one of the biggest disservices we do to ourselves and our daughters, literal or figurative, is make a big deal about getting older. Society has decreed that a woman shall never tell her age. That is some how unseemly for you to know how old she is.  And never, ever ask her when she was born. It's a taboo.

 I once asked a woman cutting my hair how long she had been in the business.  "Oh we're not going to go there." she said with a clipped tone and a forced smile. 

 Really?  

 We venerate the likes of Patrick Stewart, Morgan Freeman and other staid, venerable gentleman for the years they have accumulated. The roles they get are often statesmen, advisors, or mentors. They, like a fine red wine, only get better with age. 

 But for women, is it the same?  No one can argue that Sophia Loren or Lauren Bacall are not respected. But do they get the same types of roles? Or are they treated like a white wine, where the best years are limited, and if you wait too long you end up with only vinegar.  

 A quick scan of 35 actresses over 60 years old on IMDB shows 51% of the women with photos from their younger days, while for the photos of 30 actors over 60 only 13% are from their younger days. Is that their choice? or the editors?

 When I was growing up, my mother never made a big deal of her age. At least not that I remember. She never seemed to care. She was the age she was. That made a lasting impression. It was just one of the many life lessons she gave me.  One I haven't forgotten.

 Perhaps I have an advantage.  I don't think I look my age.  I certainly don't act my age.  Being a redhead certainly helps hide the gray hairs.  But if you look closely at my face or neck or hands you can see it.  I exercise regularly, and try to take care of myself.  Like Peter Pan I don't want to grow up, but that doesn't change the fact that I am getting older. We all are. And there is nothing any of us can do about it.

 Lying about our age hurts no one but ourselves. Our daughters look to us and think that's the way things should be. Instead of learning that age brings experience, and with that wisdom, we teach them that it is something to be ashamed of, something to hide from other people for fear they will think less of us if they know how old we really are. In women we focus on how young you are.  We throw away the crone and look only to the maiden, and with that we loose our self-respect.

 Lying about your age doesn't make you look younger, it makes you look stupid.   Lying about your age doesn't change the fact that you are the age you are. Lying about your age only shows your lack of self-esteem. Teaching our daughters that age doesn't matter could be the best lesson of all.

 I'm not shy about my age.  I won't lie about it. Go ahead, ask me. I promise I won't be insulted. I'm 52. Next year, I'll be 53.

 It's time we all get over it.