Homecoming… Seriously.

Posted on October 23, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am already tired of Homecoming and it hasn’t even happened yet. When I was young, as in high school, as in decades ago, as in the olden days, Homecoming was a very different gig than the one I’m facing with “my” kids today. It’s an interesting irony that my kids attend a school, Sehome High School, with the same initials as the one I attended:  Scitutate High School:  SHS. We were the Sailors; they are the Mariners. We had a football team; they have a football team. We celebrated Homecoming; they celebrate Homecoming. The similarities around Homecoming end there, seriously.

Like today, of course Homecoming for us Heralded the big rival game of the Football season. Homecoming was THE event of our fall season. Our home team, the Scituate Sailors, played their big game and we all went to root them on. I can say that I barely missed a single football game in four years of high school, but I can’t remember who our arch rival was then. I took it all pretty seriously then, but those memories have faded.  At the time, I was on the Boosters. We ran the concessions stand, made the annual float, and like the rest of our town and our cheer squad, cheered for our boys. We were a one high school town, so every kid eventually became a Sailor. Collectively, we had enormous school pride, so most of us showed up for the games. I went to every one with my buddies and spirit in high gear. Usually there was one boy I cheered louder for and for several years it was the same guy. Nothing ever came of that, but there I was clipping newspaper articles about him and showing up for the games.  It was all about the  big game, a big float and the big Dance. Like my kids today, we couldn’t wait for the dance. However, things in almost every way have changed a lot!

(<– The 1980 school float)  Leading up to Homecoming, those of us who were involved, worked tirelessly on the float. It had to have some kind of theme and we took it very seriously. Our school was fairly small but we had a good team . Homecoming was a game that pretty much everyone turned out for, and hoped for a win. As I remember it, we won more than our fair share. The game was played in the day on a Saturday and the dance was that night. Parents and kids alike went to the game. Every kid went to the dance. It was what we did. But our dances were a far cry from the semi-formal events that my kids deal with today!  Back then, the highlight was the music. There was generally a live band, and some recorded music for in between. There was little formality to the dances. Levi’s straight leg cords were THE cool thing to wear and they came in all kinds of colors, that’s where the decisions ended. “Preppy” ruled  and the room was a sea of Dean sweaters and corduroy; a rainbow of preppy navy blues, kelly greens, pinks, yellows and burgundies; Duck shoes and matching belts with whales, or shirts with the Lacoste alligators. There were no formal dresses, no ties and suits for the boys. We were there to dance and celebrate and formal was for the prom.

We decorated for the Homecoming dance, but it really came down to fairly minimalist stuff by today’s standards. I went to each Homecoming with the same pipe dream (cue violins) of being asked to dance by the boy I liked at the time, or at least being asked to dance when I got there. I went to each dance hoping it would all turn out the way I dreamed, but that never really happened. Oh what a pitiful story it is, but alas, true. My mother would wait up for me each dance, and I would slip into her room and tell her my stories of woe. There were a few special dances, but I was rarely dancing to Stairway to Heaven, the pivotal final song, at the end of the night and I never really got the boy.  Honestly, while I went with that hope, there wasn’t such a big build up to those dances as I see today. I hadn’t invested in a special outfit and few people went as dates. You got together with someone you liked at the dance, rarely before.  As things have become more and more of a formal affair with Homecoming, I wonder with my own kids if that makes a difference in the expectations of the evening.

Today, Homecoming has become pretty akin to what our prom was then: a major dressy event. Girls go out and buy fancy dresses, get their hair done and put a lot of time and money into the Homecoming dance. Boys actually don ties, nice slacks and shirts. Last year when  14 year old Little Man went, he was the only boy in his group, wearing sneakers. Oh the shame!  Corsages and boutonniérs are purchased now. Boys are expected to come up with increasingly creative ways of asking girls to go with them (not quite as dramatic as the prom now, but still a leap from “my day”).  Kids today go out to dinner before hand (more money), or their parents organize elaborate dinner parties at home. Flowers, wonderful food, decorations and lots of pictures are taken, and this is all before the dance!  The pressure seems huge to me and each year, I catch myself tisk tisking, even as I help my kids plan.

The focus at the dance today is to prevent “grinding” and make sure no drugs or alcohol are brought in. At our dances there was no such thing as grinding; but we ate grinders (or grindahs) after the game. The closest we got to anything extreme was possibly kissing while slow dancing, but again, I was out of luck there too. Smoking cigarettes in the girls room was the big thing that chaperones watched for and while I know kids were drinking then too, it didn’t get the airtime it gets now. There were the clichés of every John Hughes film:  the girls sitting or standing on one side of the Cafeteria (where our dances were held, just as my kid’s dances are held); the boys on the other side; a few of those couples that everyone envied, going steady; the cheerleaders and football stars ruled and the rest of us were happy to share in their glory. It was an amazing night, even when my dreams didn’t come true.

As each of my own kids have passed through this right of passage, I struggle each year with the issues all of us parents grapple with: wanting my kids to be well-adjusted, confident teens; who make wise choices; aren’t led by peer pressure; have fun; but are included. Each year I hear myself complaining with friends about how complicated and expensive this has all gotten; the changes that we don’t understand and don’t necessarily approve of; all the drama and formality. It seems like a lot of pressure to me, but it’s part of the fabric of my children’s teen years. They take the fancy dresses and ties for granted. They do not pay for any of it. All three of them have come to me at one time or another and worried a little about asking someone to the dance, or being asked; looking just right and fitting in; planning the big event, but in the end, it’s their normal.  Ironically, the game itself has not been a big priority, something I bite my tongue over each year. Okay, maybe I don’t bite hard enough, but really!  The dance has become so much bigger than the game and I don’t really get that.We were nothing without our team at Homecoming. when I was in high school.

This year, Little Man was much more excited for the dance. He didn’t have a date, and I had to check my own expectations and hopes at the door to the Gap, where we went shopping for dressy pants. He’s at that difficult size where nothing fits well, but he still managed to find a pretty snazzy outfit that he felt really good about. He added a hat to his ensemble, that he thought was cool. He probably won’t wear it again. China had to knuckle down and spring for some dress pants too. He was not all that enthused with all the prep, but as today got closer, he shared that he didn’t really like his hair and needed help with a tie. Today I was able to get one of the younger stylists at that salon I go to, to cut his hair a little edgier, and dad helped with the tie. Welcome to America: spend money and fit in; oh, and have fun!

I helped the boys make a reservation at an inexpensive, local restaurant and I called ahead to help pave the way. “They are good kids,” I told the college- age girl taking the reservation. “But they’ll need a little help. Separate checks with the tip and tax included.”  She chuckled and told me that she remembers what a “nightmare” it was going out with her friends for Homecoming. They’d never eaten at a proper restaurant without their parents. “Yep, this is pretty much the same thing… and they’re boys!” I told her.  A couple of girls, friends only, joined their group in the 11th hour and we added to the reservation.

(<— Greece, Germany, China and U.S., ready for Homecoming 2011)

Tonight the boys all came to our house early, to play video games, hang out and head out to dinner together. One of Little Man’s friends is here from Germany for three years and his best friend is Greek (but born here). So the U.N. was in full force at dinner tonight:  U.S.; China; Germany; Greece and a few Hamsters. When it was time to get dressed, they complimented each other and dad helped with all the ties. It was fun to see how uniquely themselves each of the boys looked. China wore a dressy jacket from home with new pants from here. All agreed that he was the most stylish. Germany impressed everyone with his “European businessman edge.” I noted that he wore Levi straight legs. When I mentioned that they came out when I was in high school and we all wore them, he beamed “they are so cool!” Greece was voted “Corporate mogul,” in his sharp black/gray outfit; and the U.S./Little Man was super cool in his hat, and all agreed the sweater was a nice touch. We also joked that he looked a bit like a  “stylish golfer.” Sadly, Denmark, who had bought a beautiful dress and ridiculously high shoes, got sick and had to stay home. Her feet will thank her tomorrow. She will miss this one big “American tradition,” but she’s got hopes for the prom.

I watched my Little Man get dressed and was amazed to see him transform from gangly, awkwardness to a handsome 15 year old. He’s a great kid, who has his head on pretty straight and isn’t really into all the drama of the age yet, and neither are his friends. They avoided the drama of last year when some girls ran the show, and did their own thing this year. As he left, I hoped Little Man makes wise choices. I hope he has fun.  And though it’s not yet on his radar, I hope he gets asked to dance. Seriously.

Epilogue: Just as I finished this post (a day+ after starting it), the boys came home from the dance.  Coming from the blaring sound of the cafeteria and hours of loud music, they came in yelling and jacked up on adrenaline. They shared that the dinner out was nearly as fun as the dance itself; everyone had a blast. Three kids at their table offered prayers before dinner (in three faiths) and one of the boys included a prayer for the safety of the troupes overseas. A young man approached their group and thanked them for doing this, as his brother is in Afghanistan. China had a great time at his first American dance and “got someone’s number.” Greece had a fantastic time and danced with several people, which made him happy. Germany didn’t dance much, to the frustration of the posse, but looked great. And as if planned, and likely it was, very little info about the U.S. was available to the Secretary General. He admitted to having a great time, not wearing his hat for most of the night (too hot) and no word on dancing with anyone special.  Oh well, I can live with that.  Note: The boys gave their permission for the photo included here; I think they felt pretty good!

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Posted in Blog, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Teens, The U.N. | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Oh Canada!

Posted on October 19, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  Ok, I know what’s coming. And perhaps I should hold off until after book group or a planned lunch date to write this, so that I don’t have to see some of you glare at me. You will. You are entitled. Feel free to skip this one if the title and warning are a (very obvious) clue to what is coming. But let me say at the outset, for the record: the following rant does not apply to those of you who I clearly respect enough to count as a friend. It does not apply to those of you who I clearly love. It does not apply to your sisters/brothers/parents or good friends who still live in Canada and aren’t the kind of people I’m about to go off on… unless they were at Costco this week.

It’s only Wednesday and generally that means I’d be writing The Middle. However, as most recent posts have indicated, things are a bit heavy and difficult right now and I’ve been a tad distracted. I didn’t post on Monday, so this may be a little longer; it’s not really a usual “Middle” post. Call it a Blame Canada Post.

This has been coming for a while, but this week, Canadians seemed to be in my way every where I went! The most obtrusive presence was at Costco. The entire parking lot lately seems to be filled with Canadian license plates and I have some big, pissy issues with that. I am really tired of Canadian drivers (and yes, I have consistently looked to see if my growing prejudice is founded) driving down the VERY center of each aisle, as they search for a parking spot. This occurs at the mall, at Costco and now (eek!) at Trader Joe’s. I have spent a fair bit of time in Canada and I believe aisles in parking lots are universal: traffic goes both ways, as you search for a spot to park. I am not aware of a one way rule in Canada, so why do they come here and drive down the center of the aisle as they search for a spot? Why!  I have even had several of them turn and give me dirty looks or even a hand flip– not the finger, but that whole hand raised in a “what the hell are you doing” salute, as I come down an aisle, hugging the right side, because they are in the middle and I can barely squeeze by.

Tuesday, driving down the Guide Meridian, which I hate doing anyway (obnoxiousness crosses multiple borders on The Guide) a woman with Canadian plates very suddenly, with no blinker, cut in front of me. There is no room for exaggeration, because she was that close to hitting me. She continued for about 15 feet and then just as suddenly cut over one more lane, with no blinker. The driver she cut off there, hit their horn at the precise moment that I did. As I passed her she turned (not watching the road) and mouthed very clearly to me: “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM!”  Um, well… the fact that you just cut me off; the fact that you don’t use a blinker; the fact that you don’t seem to know where you’re going (which I actually have empathy for, but then pull over and figure it out); and the fact that you are yelling at me, on my turf.

That’s right, this is becoming a turf war. I admit, it is very good for local business that Canadians come to Bellingham to shop. We can use it and I have no issue with that. However, when in Rome… or Bellingham… you know the rest. If I go to Canada, I try very hard to be respectful of the rules that apply. In fact, I love Canada and go as often as possible. We’re neighbors. I like my neighbors. However, if my dog poops in my neighbor’s yard every day, my neighbor’s going to get pissed off. And it seems like I’m stepping in a lot of Canadian poo lately.

When I got to Costco the driving issues only multiplied. Again, the middle of the aisle driver. Then, there are those who see that you’re waiting for a spot (blinker on!) and they pull in in front of you. This in fact happened this week, after the cut off and the middle aisler. Inside, there seems to be more confusion. The same people, no doubt, who drive down the middle of the aisle, seem to leave their carts in the middle of the store aisle as well. They park them and then stroll. They park them and get the free samples. They mill around the free samples. I know, I hear you: how do I know they’re Canadian? Yes, Americans do these things too. However, I listen, I hear the conversations about “coming down,” “before we go back,” “wow, this is much cheaper than at home;” I know they are Canadian. Could you please move your cart, eh?

So I come out of the store, (and who doesn’t leave Costco a tiny bit more frazzled then when they came in ?) and I watch as a group takes a ginormous Costco macaroni salad that they’ve been eating (it amazes me how many people from all over, come to Costco to eat lunch!) and they put the mostly empty container on the curb. Yes, just leave it there!  They get into their car, a car with Canadian plates, and as I stand gaping, they drive away. This is pooing in our yard. And this is NOT an isolated thing. I am so tired of people coming here to save money, but emptying all their bags, removing the boxes and labels and leaving them right in the parking lot of the Mall, Costco or the other stores where they shop. Poo! It’s poo’ing in my yard!  Don’t explain it to me please. I get it, you don’t want to claim it or be taxed. Hell, I hate paying the taxes on things I buy in Canada. And I’ve surely cheated a few times. But, I have always put my evidence neatly in a waste bin. I have NEVER left my packaging in a Canadian parking lot. Never! I have lived by “Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute” since I was a young girl and I do it wherever I am. I find it hard to believe that this is done in their own yard.

All of this is that t much harder to swallow when I can’t get gasoline at Costco because there are already 43 cars in line (yes, I counted) and I refuse to wait outside the cooler to get milk, behind the Canadians who are buying an entire cart load of milk. And is it really that odd that we are all staring at you 2o something gallon milk person? Has it not occurred to you that this does in fact look odd to us? What the hell is all that milk going back to Canada for?  I’m sure not going to drink any milk products when I’m in Canada, since all the Canadians seem to be buying ours… there must be a problem with theirs!

As I write this, I admit that I want to deflect all of the counter arguments that are bound to come my way. I have had enough conversations about these types of things with my Canadian friends, or with people I meet when I’m there, to know the counter arguments. A few:  Well, when the dollar was reversed and things were half price in Canada, Americans were flocking up there and driving Canadians nuts. I have no way to argue whether Americans drove down the center aisles or left their packaging in the parking lots, but honestly, I’m skeptical. I would believe that we were pushy. I would believe that we were greedy and tried to cheat the Canadian government out of taxes. And yes, the grandaddy of all Canadian insults, even though I’m pissy right now, I can’t name all branches of my own government and I don’t really know how my Congress works. You win that one Canada. You guys know so much more about your government than we stupid Americans, BUT, I have never poo’ed in your yard.

As if all of this was not enough to push me over the edge (and it does sound as if I am, over the edge…) Canada (AKA: Middle Man, our 19 yr old son) resumed limited relations with the UN this weekend, home for “Fall Break.”  An aside:  for the purposes of all UN posts ( this is the third), Middle Man will be referred to as Canada. That stems from the fact that he attended a private high school in Vancouver, Canada for three years. By the way, that is further testament to my general love of Canada, despite all the pissy comments contained herein. The fact that we were willing to pay that kind of money and trust our boy to the Canadian educational system, says a lot. I will admit, it’s possible that Middle Man may have poo’ed in a few Canadian yards, but he seems to have maintained very good relations up there, so no harm done.

Brief update from the UN:

Canada resumed limited relations with the UN. China and Denmark enjoyed learning a bit about their brother to the south, California for now. Canada, however, demonstrated  subdued interactions and neutral reactions. All four countries experienced some trepidation as bedroom boundaries were challenged and use of computers, TVs and sofa space had to be divided by yet another country. There is some concern as to where all nations will sit, to watch Modern Family, hang out with friends, eat at the table (as China and Denmark have usurped the spots previously held by Israel and Canada for ten years)… when Israel and Canada both return in December.

(<– mild hot pot) While the Secretary General was abroad in Port Townsend, Canada, China, Denmark and the US all attended a Hot Pot hosted by local friends, who are also caring for a Chinese exchange student. Denmark and the US found one of the Pots to be too spicy to consume, while Canada and China enj0yed the heat. Ping pong was played by all and the Secretary General was disappointed to miss out. All agreed that future Hot Pots will need to occur.                                                                                                                         (spicy hot pot ^^)

The Secretary General and Canada experienced conflicted relations despite good intensions, adding to this writer’s issues with Canada overall.  Some resolutions were reached before Canada’s departure, but future negotiations will be needed before Canada’s return for winter break.

In an attempt to purchase a dress for Homecoming, an event that is new to both Denmark and China, China caused some International condemnation when he stated in public that Denmark’s shoes “would be forbidden in China” (the country) and that her “shoulders should be covered.”  The Secretary General was forced to impose sanctions on China regarding all future commentary on the dress codes of Denmark, or any other females within the United Nations.  The elderly Italian woman who was watching this found it all very humorous.  Denmark and China resolved all differences, though Denmark may have the final word: as China is totally confused about this Homecoming tradition and had not considered appropriate clothing at all. US and China will figure this out before Saturday’s dance, when they go shopping.

The Secretary General prepared a pasta dish with shrimp for dinner one evening. China approached the pot and performed his customary sniffing of food and wrinkling of nose.  China: Ma, what is this?  Sec.Gen: This is shrimp.  China: Is it American?  SG: It’s from the ocean; shrimp is shrimp and the ocean is not American. China: No! Not the shrimp. Is the cooking American.  SG: (aware of what China meant, but having fun) Well, um, I’m American; I’m cooking in America; I’m going to call this American too. Do you like shrimp? China: Well, I like shrimp in China, but I’m not sure in America. China enjoyed the “American shrimp.”

So, I will end here. I will not rant any further or dirty the good name of Canada any more (country or UN member), today. It was a challenging week and one must put their frustrations somewhere. This week it was squarely on Canadian shoulders.  At the end of my Costco nightmare day, grapefruit cocktail in hand, the sunset was especially beautiful and that, made it all feel better.

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit Like; it helps me build the blog. Use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful.

Posted in Blog, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, My world, The U.N., Writing | Tagged , , , | 11 Comments

Write, Eat, Drink, Sleep, Repeat.

Posted on October 15, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

For the past three days, I’ve been at a Writing Conference/course in Port Townsend , WA.  The Centrum Writer’s series takes place on the campus of Fort Worden State Park, and we met there each day in a small cabin or the main “schoolhouse,” in a freezing cold room. Classes started Thursday night for three hours, Friday from 9-3:30 and then again from 7-9:45 PM and a full day again today, Saturday. Trial by fire. The focus was “Character Driven Fiction and Plot Development.”  The subject of character driven fiction is relevant to the novel I’m working on, and I came hoping to get some clearer ideas about how to tighten up some of the loose ends I still see.  The course was  taught in both English and Spanish by two separate author/teachers. The Spanish speaking group and the English speaking group met separately during the first part of each day and then convened in the afternoon and evenings to share our work and discuss subjects that are relevant across culture and language.

Our teacher, Kathleen Alcalá was of Mexican descent but writes primarily in English. The Latina Instructor was Mariá Victoria, who is both a bilingual attorney in Seattle, and an author who writes in Spanish only. As we discussed plot development, character outlines, building suspense, etc, it was fascinating to hear the places where our cultures and writing experiences diverge and where they are shared. Listening to passages in Spanish the lyrical sound of the foreign words were mesmerizing and compelling. The translations sometimes surprised, while other times I found myself delighted by how much the English words matched my interpretation, of what I’d heard in Spanish. Universally, we all want our stories to resonate with our readers and that is often much harder than it seems. While I didn’t get quite as much from the class as I’d anticipated, it was really exciting to share so much time with so many really talented people, share our work, our cultureand get some feedback on things I’m generating. In the end, I came away with some provocative ideas regarding new directions for my characters and story line, and that part is very exciting. I also met some wonderful people, who I hope to stay in touch with or at least cross paths with in the future.

The other, sugar coated bonus of this trip was that I got to stay at my aunt and uncle’s, one of THE most wonderful places on earth. My aunt and uncle are two of the finest people you could know (I am blessed to have them in my life), but beyond that, they have created such a magical place to visit, that it’s hard to imagine leaving again tomorrow. They are the creators and makers of Townsend Bay Soap Co., one of the premier Washington based soaps (now featured in Made In Washington stores), and frankly, one of the best soaps anywhere. Don’t trust me, I’m clearly biased, BUT lots of other reliable sources will tell you the same thing. (Click this link to check out the cool video from –> The Motely that features Townsend Bay Soaps).  An offshoot of the business, is that their home, my guest suite, everything on their property is infused with the amazing scent of fresh lavender, mint, lemongrass, eucalyptus, etc. The smell is instantly relaxing and when I enter their home, everything else seems to melt away and I am instantly at peace. My other aunt lives nearby and makes the liquid version of my favorite soaps. So I go home each time with a bag full of goodies. I love to put the “uglies” (mis-formed bars) in my drawers and closet, to keep the good smell close at home.

(<– Room with a view. The “bar” beneath my window and lighthouse at the point. That blue is real!)  My aunt and uncle, my father’s sister and her husband, have created such a unique spot, on the bluff overlooking the straight and lighthouse. This trip, they set me up in their guest suite, so that I could write freely and have some privacy. I had never stayed up here and at first was sad to not be in the wonderful guest room, in the main house.  Instead, I had a slice of heaven in my little annex. The room looks out at the water and the beautiful courtyard and gardens below. With the windows open, the sound of the buoy just off shore or the giant ships passing by, lulls me. The silence, otherwise, is complete and I am free to sit here and write, undisturbed. I am writing the blog, working on new chapters for the novel, putting down a few pages for a new story that is fighting to come out… I’m write, write, writing, and it feels wonderful!  These times when the words flow and my thoughts take flight, much more abundant of late, are so inspiring. I’m really grateful for these past few days to tap in to that.

(<– What a spot to read or have a drink!) Another treat in visiting my family, is that each time I come, there is some new treat to enjoy in the house or yard. My uncle hasn’t met a project he can’t whip and he and my aunt work side by side to make everything just a bit more special than ordinary. My uncle has created beautiful fence/gates for the bountiful garden my aunt tends, built from the driftwood he collects.  He designs new pathways through the gardens, she plants; decks that mimic docks (with a little sail boat for their grandchildren to explore their imaginary seas); gardens filled with whimsy and beauty; and inventions that make my aunt’s soap business thrive.  He has constructed bottle fillers; a machine to pull the lavender buds from the stems; an entire system for forming, cutting and aging the soaps, that is poetry to see. If you watch The Motley link above, you can see all of the tools, tricks and gadgets that my uncle created, so that my aunt can make her wonderful soaps. He literally built every detail in their “factory,”  and it’s a wonder to see.  I would tell you that I call him stud muffin because he is the ultimate Renaissance Man, but he is also one of the most humble men I know, and he would be embarrassed. My aunt would simply laugh, or say “oh lord.” Being in their space is nothing short of bliss and I bask in what they lovingly share with me.   Together, they are my inspiration for a life well lived and well loved.

  

So this weekend was a win win in every way. The sun was out and the sky and sea were blue. I took some time to focus on my writing, the thing that is most exciting for me right now. I got to spend time with both of my aunts and uncles. I had some free time to explore the adorable town of Port Townsend, a place I adore. Put it all together and  I was surrounded by love and nurturing and I was working on things that fill me. Is there anything else?

Reminder:  If you enjoyed this post, please hit Like; it helps me build the blog. Use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You won’t get any other spam mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.Thanks for helping me make this blog successful.

Posted in Beautiful places, Beauty, Blog, Daily Observations, Musings, My world, Natural beauty, Parenting, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

The Middle… I hope.

Posted on October 12, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I am hoping that this is the Middle.  The middle would mean that I’m half way through something and that seems very appealing right now. Half way through a week from hell, check.  Half way through too many decisions, check. Half way through the difficult stuff and ready for some relief, double check.  If you read the last post, you know I’m talking about my mother again. Sorry, I guess that’s where I live right now. I’ll try and be a bit more positive here though.

Yesterday we met with a palliative care doctor, Dr. J, to discuss my mom’s future. I went to the meeting (as I told her later) feeling cynical and fairly frustrated, having done this kind of thing several times before and figuring that I knew all she could/would/might say. Wrong! Wrong! This woman is a kick ass, straight to the point, no sugar coating or soft sell professional who knows her subject. She recently left her post as Chief of Geriatric Care at UCSF (Univ. Calif. at San Francisco), one of the premier programs in the nation. She fell in love with this beautiful place where we live (I’d move here,—> if I didn’t live her already!) and decided to finish out her prestigious career here. Lucky us. Lucky mom. Her suggestions were different than everything we’ve heard until now. Up until this point, the goal has been keeping mom ambulatory and independent, often at the expense of good pain management, because the pain meds caused more falls and difficulty with walking, etc.   Dr. J explained to us that another option for us all is that mom might not be ambulatory anymore, but her pain could be managed. (ok, I’m getting to the positive, promise.)

This new approach would mean that mom is not up and moving around. However, since she broke her arm, she can’t use her walker and a wheel chair was going to be very hard. We all dreaded the likelihood of more falls and more uncertainty. Instead, they are ordering a “cardiac chair” for her to sit in. It reclines to a position that she actually likes. It relieves the stress on her back and bottom. However, she can’t get out of it. That means she can’t just stand up spontaneously and then fall. We have ordered one with wheels, so that mom can be brought down to the front desk, as she likes, when she wants.  She will not be treated any further, medically. No antibiotics, no IV fluids, nothing medical. She will however, have complete management of the pain that she feels constantly, from falls too numerous to keep track of anymore. She will be able to relax and not feel pressure to “participate” or do things that she doesn’t really like to do, honestly. We’ve all just been pushing her to be involved and (pretend to) be happy. The new approach involves allowing her to just rest, just be.

So the shocking (and I don’t use that word lightly) outcome of her care this week, a “side effect” of the pain medication, has been that meds bring my mom back from her silent, locked up world.  The meds seem to help a “system in the brain” to work properly again, and she can speak and cognitively process things around her. Mom has been totally lucid for 36 hours now. She talks in absolutely clear sentences of substance and length. She says things like :  “why the hell are you doing that?” or “I refuse to attend this meeting (palliative care), I’d like you all to leave my room now.” or “You don’t have to come to visit so much honey; you look tired.” Or, in the grand-daddy of all lucid comments (in response to my “this must be very frustrating Mom,” as I fed her) my mother said to me: “I hardly think that the word frustrating is the appropriate term for how I feel about my condition.”  Knock me to the floor!  Seriously.

(<—Mom in a pig pile with my sister and 4 of her grandchildren)

Today she had a 10+ minute phone conversation with Middle Man about college, his exams and school life. All of her comments and responses were appropriate and clear. It was surreal. My eyes kept tearing up, just listening to an every day conversation that was once normal, but is now extraordinary.  A lot of what has been locked up in there has made her angry, left her feeling helpless, and she can tell us now.  It was hard to hear her tell us: “Dawn, I need my glasses (that had been missing for weeks)! I was in that strange place (hospital) for three days, alone, and unable to see anything! All those forms they asked me to look at, I couldn’t see a thing.” Ouch. While I wanted to argue, that she wasn’t alone all the time, I was there a LOT… That wasn’t the point. We all knew it was inconvenient that her glasses were missing, but it was down further on my list of things to worry about.  Mom told me where it should be on the list, that was the point.

She was also able to clearly and strongly express her feeling about Hospice Care and what her next few days, weeks or months might look like. Having spent the last day and a half dealing with these decisions on my own, it was such a relief to have Mom tell me what she wants or doesn’t want.  Having all those options laid out for me along with my mom’s independent and invested perspective, I left her today feeling such relief. Listening to her share her thoughts and have a normal conversation were amazing gifts, in this otherwise awful five days.  She was so clear, so herself, that at one point I looked at her and said: “Hell mom, you’re so verbal and with it, I’m waiting to have an argument with you.” “Ok,” she said and then grinned from ear to ear.

I am leaving for a 3 day writer’s conference tomorrow. I’ll stay with my aunt, who gives unconditional love and takes care of me like I’m a baby. Favorite foods, comfort items in a house where I am the most happy. Writing for three days and getting spoiled= just what the doctor ordered.  I do have some regrets about leaving Mom now however. Before, it seemed like a respite from all of this. Now that mom is here, for however long that will last, I hate to miss one minute of hearing what she has to say. I have so many questions I want to ask her. So many things I thought of when it was too late, that I can now bring to her and discuss.  I don’t want to miss this amazing time that we’ve been handed because who knows how long it will last.  And she and I are long overdue for a good argument. I’m going to let her win this one.

Posted in Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments

To Each His Own… Troubles.

Posted on October 10, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I’ve said it before, life is not about fairness; it isn’t fair.  Each of us has our own troubles to work through and who hasn’t said, at some point, this just isn’t fair. However, this weekend felt like being smacked over and over by that clichéd message, watching my Mom go to the hospital and have emergency surgery, for yet another fall, yet another broken bone. I’m long past brooding and asking why, when it comes to Mom’s Huntington’s Disease and the endless decline it has forced on her. There’s simply no point. However, it’s really hard sometimes, times like the last several days, to not say “What the fuck? Really?”  Sorry, but I really don’t think in clean language when under duress. I don’t think in clean language most of the time. Hard times call for hard f’ing language in my book, and this weekend was hard, really f’ing hard.

Mom’s decline has been so long. I wrote about it recently in Ode To Birthdays Missed. She has disappeared in bits and pieces over weeks, months and years.  She’d already tested positive for Huntington’s by the time we all were forced to watch my grandmother (her mother) slip away and finally die. However, when grandma was diagnosed, it felt different. We all still had the luxury of resting in denial for a little longer. We all knew what might lie ahead for some of us, but until tested, we each pretended we were safe. It didn’t seem real, even though we watched it take down a goliath of a woman.

(Perhaps the only “pretty” thing about Huntington’s: microscopic imagery of HD –> neurons)

After Mom was diagnosed, however, it all felt a lot more real, pretty damned fast. We (her children) each knew we had a 50/50 chance of having it too, and until I was tested and heard that I was negative, each day was an agonizing effort to not see each forgetful moment, each trip, as a death sentence.  With Mom, nothing seemed overtly different at first, but I definitely started watching, looking for signs that she was symptomatic. Was she snappy with me because her symptoms had started, or was she just being difficult again? Did she get lost driving home because she was new to the area, or because she was confused? Would I have tripped over that step too? Which came first,  the chicken or the Huntington’s egg?  Everything became a possible clue, to confirm what DNA testing had already told us, but what our minds and hearts couldn’t quite accept: she was leaving us.

I still remember so clearly the first time I really thought, Oh my God, there it is; she really does have it. My husband and I had taken her to dinner at a very nice restaurant in Michigan, where we all lived at the time. The owner, a friend, came over to meet Mom and suggested a wine he loved.  As I watched her talk to him, something seemed off, something in her expression. And then it clicked: her eyes, here eyes seemed empty, for a flash, lifeless. It was so upsetting and so clear to me, that I went outside for a minute, feeling tearful and shocked. My husband followed me out and wanted to know what had happened. I explained what I was seeing, and that it was just sinking in that mom did in fact have HD. He comforted me, and reassured me that I was seeing things that weren’t there. However, what I saw was not visible to his surgical eye, it was something only a daughter could see. It was not long after that that others began to notice the change. Her once deep blue eyes were just not the same, and while not everyone could put a finger on it, friends and other family members started noticing that she just didn’t seem to be “focused.”

 (<– Mom as a new, young grandmother. So beautiful and happy, 1990)                      The decline began there and has continued, without relief. Now, she often stares off and says little. It is rare that we see prolonged life in those eyes, though we know that she sometimes reaches out to us with them and tries to communicate what she can no longer say.  The hardest part, aside from my own personal loss, has been watching her disappear to her grandchildren. Once the favorite, the “Grammy” who took them to the beach, crawled on the floor to play silly games, cuddled each of them when they were with her, has been replaced by a grandmother that makes them uncomfortable, leaves them struggling to know how to act, how to feel around her. Now they feel sorry for her, they know they should care, but they don’t really know her anymore. They don’t know what to say to her.  They’re all good people, so they know they should feel something, but they don’t really.  They love her, but it’s become an obligatory love, not the unabashed adoration they felt when she was healthy and made each of them feel special to her. And they were so special to her.  Mom adored each of her grandchildren and spent as much time with them as she could. She was the best baby cuddler and frankly, as a young mother I resented her insistence that maybe my babies preferred to be held by her. Now, through the gauze of wistful memory, I want to give her that one. They each loved Grammy hugs.

 (<– The gang grew and she loved it. Two more grand babies would still come,  1996)                When she lived near us in Michigan, each of my children vied to be the one who got to have sleep-overs at Grammy’s house. She would take turns letting them stay over, eating out at favorite restaurants and eating junk food, while watching a movie. I’m not sure how many times she and Principessa saw Titanic together, but they saw if for the first time without my permission and Principessa loved Grammy for that. The boys put up with movies they may not have wanted to see as much, just to have the same fun their sister did. They loved to walk her dog Meea, an annoying pug puppy, who we all came to love. Everything was fun at Grammy’s house. I miss that my kids barely remember that anymore, and have a hard time seeing her beyond the withered shell she has become, beyond her injuries, her awkward sounds and gestures, the embarrassment they can’t help but feel, in public with her. They, like others, see her disorder first and then remember she is their grandmother as well. I resent that loss most of all.

(<–Some of the best days were at the beach.  Florida 1999)                                          This weekend, Mom had yet another fall. We’ve stopped keeping count, but there have been way too many of them lately and frankly, sometimes when I get a call from the nurses, it is more of an annoyance than a concern. There’s little I can do, but they call me because I’m the one they notify. Most of the time, the call consists of letting me know the details around the fall and then an accounting of the injuries and what’s been done. Lots of lacerations, skin tears, bumps and bruising these days. Not much to be done about them. She’s had two pretty ugly head wounds lately and taking her out, she looks like someone beat her up. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel self-conscious, wondering what other people think might have happened. It’s petty of me, but it’s the reality of this decline. A lot of what I think and feel seems wrong, dark and devoid of compassion. I can’t help it, it’s hard to remain upbeat or hopeful, think positively.  Hell, those emotions became obsolete here a long time ago. There are rare occasions when I can still tease Mom and she laughs, and gives me an exaggerated grin that makes us all laugh back.  Sometimes we get a glimpse of her sense of humor, once dry and sarcastic and it makes us all smile, to see her instead of the Huntington’s for a moment. In her former life, she was often the life of the party or family event. Now she fades into the background and we all politely ask her things from time to time to make ourselves feel better. We pretend that she wants to be part of things, but she doesn’t. She is happy to be with us (or that’s what I keep telling myself) but she is no longer all that concerned with what’s going on around her. Still we ask: How was your day grammy? Do you like that mom? To convince ourselves that she’s there, that she’s part of things. Often she doesn’t answer.

(<— Still happy around animals. The llama visited her nursing home! 2010)

So this weekend I got a call at 12:30 AM on Saturday. Honestly, it was annoying. I was almost asleep and the nurse on duty, who was not the sharpest nurse I’ve dealt with, told me in very vague terms that Mom had fallen again and had a “bump, about 8 cms on her elbow.” I asked if it seemed broken, and the nurse became flustered and said she “wasn’t sure, maybe not, (she) would call the doctor.” I was tired, but something nagged at me and I took the phone to bed with me. When there was no call back, I presumed there was another bruise another bump. I called when I got up and the much sharper morning nurse told me that Mom’s elbow looked “really bad” and they had ordered an x-ray. In short order, the x-ray confirmed a break and I was on my way over to take Mom to the hospital. Even then, I imagined a cast and a few hours at the hospital. I was frustrated; it was a friend’s last day at the Farmer’s Market and I promised I’d stop by her stand. The sun was out and I was now going to spend my day in a hospital. Daughter of the year. Seriously.

When we got Mom’s jacket off and I finally saw her elbow, I truly felt ill. Her arm was so discolored and swollen that it was actually shocking. I felt guilty and remorseful that I’d been whining about Market salads and sunny days when mom was clearly in far more pain than I’d believed. I’d been (insincerely) pacifying her for an hour or more already, convinced that this was all another small thing to manage. The sight of her injury was sobering in a kick you in the head kind of way. From then on, I was acutely aware of making sure that she got pain medication and that the various techs, nurses and aids, understood her condition and didn’t talk down to her or didn’t address her at all, as so often happens.

It was determined that she would need surgery, but since she’d eaten late morning, it would need to wait until Sunday morning.  Morphine brought relief from the pain she’d been in for nearly thirteen hours with the added benefit helping mom speak much more clearly and in full sentences. Interesting thought that a low dose narcotics patch might help her communicate better? More challenging was the discussions we needed to have about her DNR (do not resuscitate orders) with a friend, who would also be her surgeon. Such a surreal moment to talk to a friend and reassure him that “whatever happens,” we didn’t want him to feel responsible and that if things were to go very badly, we would not want him to take measures to save her, my mother. He has had Thanksgiving dinners with her. He knew her when she still drove her own car. Now we were discussing the fact that he might  have to let her die, and we are telling him that we know that might be best.

There, it’s said. It is the ugliest part of this entire ordeal: the endless space we live in, waiting for… her to die. We live from one crisis to another and it’s become so regular that I don’t even jump when the phone rings late at night. I don’t rush over and check to see what a 8 cm bump on her elbow looks like. I don’t hope for her to come out of this whole or better, because she wasn’t whole when she went in. I spend so much time imagining what it will feel like when we finally lose her, what will be the cause. Will she fall, will she choke (one of the most common ways HD patients die), how long will she linger in this terrible state where quality of life is so vague and meaningless that I jump on any smile as an indication of any quality? Honestly, I there is no real quality to her life and it’s nearly impossible to not just wish it was over. The mother I knew would hate this and I hate watching it. How will I feel when this happens: when the nebulous becomes real?

Selfish? I feel selfish so much of the time. Please, spare me the reassurances that I’m not. I appreciate the kind words and support, really I do. I have good friends and loved ones who reassure me all the time. However, much of what I do, many others would do in these shoes. We all have our  challenges and difficult life issues, and we just get through them. We do what we can. But so much of the time, I honestly just feel selfish and callous.  I didn’t rush over there at 12:30 AM Saturday because I wanted to go back to sleep. Granted, the information I got was useless and it made it easy for me to dismiss it and go to bed. But, I felt it. I knew something wasn’t right, in my gut, and I went to sleep anyway. Mom, lay there in what had to be agony until the next day. All these false alarms and near disasters make the real ones easy to miss… or easy to dismiss. Nurses passing by in the ER, telling me what a good daughter I am as I rub her feet, and silently pray that she will just slip away peacefully when they take her in that sterile room.  That would be kind, that would be fair.

(<– 2 days ago, pre-op)                                                                                                                As she lay waiting to go into the Operating Room, she drifted in and out of her morphine dreams. She would begin talking quietly, but in clear, complete sentences and I couldn’t help but hold my head very close and hope to hear something that would tell me what she’s thinking, what she wants. She talked about her dog (who died three years ago); she talked about her surgeon and her hope that he helps her pain and doesn’t make it worse; she mentioned seeing an old friend. Who? As she lay there, eyes closed, her face relaxed, she seemed almost well again. She smiled and I hoped that her dreams were sweet. Maybe she was dreaming of babies to hold or dogs to cuddle with. Maybe she sees herself whole and well? I wish I could see inside those smiles, hear her thoughts. Selfishly, again, I wonder if she is thinking of me, of my sister and brother, of her grandchildren. In those dreams, does she see us all and know us? Does she know that we don’t really want to lose her, but that we already have?

As a joke that she once would have done herself, I pulled up her gown and wrote in black pen, just above the area where the surgeon, our friend, would cut her arm:  “My surgeon’s hot!”  (For the record, he is and she would tell you that, if you asked her). The OR nurse chuckled and I told her that Mom would have done it herself if she could. Later her surgeon told me that they all laughed when they pulled back the drape and saw it. He’d never had that happen, and it mad him blush. Mom would really like that. He put in a metal plate and several large screws, to hold her fragile elbow together. The recovery will be 8-10 weeks, a very long time in my mother’s world.

Those weeks will be so difficult. She’s lost the use of her left arm, and she’s left handed. She can no longer use a walker, the only way she could move actively around the nursing home. She can’t feed herself and she is in constant pain. Her risk for infection is very high and that too becomes something to wonder and hope for?  In discussing the various things that her doctors fear, I ask:  would she suffer? They reassure me that if she developed any of these complications, they would keep her comfortable. Again, I find myself thinking that keeping her comfortable would be a better quality of life than what she currently has. Oh the irony, that she may feel the most relief, the most peace at the very end. Life has not been fair to her, but neither has death. They both taunt her, play with her and with us, and it’s just not fair.

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Posted in Death, Mothers, Parenting, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Death and All His Friends

Posted on October 7, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

The news this week that Steve Jobs had died, came as both a shock and not-a-shock-at- all to most people. It was not a shock, because anyone who has been paying attention over the past couple of years knew:  Mr. Jobs had pancreatic cancer; he has not looked healthy for quite a while; he took medical leave early this year and he stepped down from Apple in late August, stating that he was no longer able to perform his job.  In the huge world that he created and dominated for all these years, those things certainly did not go un-noticed.  The fact that his death was a shock is, I believe, a little more complex.

In an address to the 2005 Stanford graduating class, Steve Jobs delivered a truly inspiring speech (click to see in it its entirety). Listening, I found it interesting  how often there was (inappropriate) laughter throughout his address. I believe it is because his words are serious and from the heart, and perhaps some of the 22 yr olds sitting there expected something lighter from the man who brought us Pixar. However, at the time Mr. Jobs had just come out of a very close call with the pancreatic cancer that would finally kill him this week and he was looking at life, no doubt, through very different glasses than the ones worn by many young people on graduation day. As I listened to his speech, I found myself deeply touched by the very personal side of himself that he revealed that day and from which so many of us have drawn quotes in the days since his death. I noticed how often this titan of industry appeared as vulnerable as any one of us might be when faced with our own mortality, or when we open ourselves up to be examined, as he did that day.

There has been so much written about Steve Jobs since his untimely death on Wednesday, at the age of 56. I certainly don’t need to regurgitate it here. Yet, I found it powerful to revisit some of the stories about this man that have over time, either become myth or have been lost in the hype surrounding his enormous success. There is no denying, the man changed all of our lives. I sit here typing this on my MacBook Air. If I wasn’t using this, I’d be using our iMac desktop. I don’t go far without my iPod and even if you’re not a member of the Mac junky group that our family is, you’d be hard pressed to not stop and acknowledge how this man changed your life. His influence and creations have literally changed how we all see the world, how we tap into the world around us and how we enjoy the world: in the world of music, information, knowledge, news, you name it. He was a genius the likes of which we may not see for a while. (My first iPod, the Original. ^^ It still plays)

However, I think his death came as such a shock because he was also a good man… a good man who many saw as a giant, and it’s just hard to really accept that those men die too. During the speech at Stanford, Jobs spoke at length about his own views on death. They are powerful remarks from a man who had just cheated it, but who would lose that battle only six years later. Staring at 49 (a few months away) myself, I see him as a man who died young. Given all of his amazing contributions to our world, and the brilliance he still demonstrated up until months before his death, that is especially true. He died a young man, with much left to offer. For many, that makes his death that much more hard to comprehend. He wasn’t a drug addict, like so many talented stars who die young;  he wasn’t racing in his fancy car or piloting himself in a private plane; he simply died young, of cancer, and that my friends scares us all. Even the richest, most brilliant, with so much to offer and access to so much, could not dodge Death.  That’s hard for a lot of people to grasp.

In the Stanford speech, Jobs tells three life stories that he learned from. It’s near the end of this address that he talks very movingly about death. His words are particularly meaningful now, in the days following his own. He shared that when he was a young man, he had read the quote: “If you live each day like it may be your last, one day you will certainly be right” (laughter). The quote impacted him powerfully. He stated that each day from then on, when he looked in the mirror, he asked himself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today? And whenever the answer has been no for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something. Remembering that I will be dead soon (laughter) is the most important tool I’ve ever encountered to help me make the big decisions… all other external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment, fear of failure,  just fall away in the face of death.” I found this particularly powerful, because it really makes me stop and think. How often do I take stock and think about that question? Not enough.

Many of us  know someone who died before they “should have,” but it continues to surprise me how many people actually don’t know someone, or have not had a close encounter with loss. My entire life has been defined by loss and I am rarely surprised when someone, good or not, dies tragically or dies young. My father was killed when I was ten years old. His motorcycle was hit by another driver and he died instantly. My life and my views on permanence, loss and what we can expect also changed instantly. I can remember every detail of the day I heard that news. Every detail. And I have spent the thirty-eight years since (six years longer than my father lived) aware that our lives can change in an instant, that we or those we love can be taken from us with no warning, no reason; that life is not a given.  I have not lived my life morosely pondering this, or dwelling on the sadness of the loss that taught me this, but that reality sits with me every day.  I have also not used that knowledge to make more of my life. Listening to Jobs’ speech, this hit me harder at this junction in my life. Life can change at any moment, and am I doing what I want to be doing, if this were my last day alive?

When I was little, I was sure that everyone I loved would be taken away, as my father had been. It’s hard to think rationally as a child, in the face of such enormous irrationality.  There was no logic, in my young mind, to explain why a man I loved so deeply could be taken with no warning. As with all who die too soon, my dad, Robert Quyle, has remained the young man he was when he died.  I can not imagine him with wrinkles or gray hair. I can’t imagine him doing things to disappoint me or challenge me later in life. He will never be critical of my life choices or criticize what I do.  He remains a young man who made his daughter believe in magic and the wild beauty of the world around us. He will always live in the forests where we camped and explored, the beaches where we flew kites, the Delta of Stockton where we road our bikes and watched the boat races. I can only see him through the eyes of the child who idolized and adored him. And that is what happens to those who die young: we wrap them in shiny paper and they stay that way forever.

Frankly, there have been far too many untimely, “unfair” deaths in my family. The year before my father died, my fourteen year old cousin was killed by a drunk driver. I had been very close to him before we moved back East and his death was inconceivable to my nine year old brain. He was that cool, older cousin that I had played with when we were younger, who I felt grown up around.  His death was shocking. Still, I was removed from him geographically and hadn’t seen him in a while. Losing my father the next year was, clearly, a blow of enormous consequences. It impacted every level of our family life and my perceptions of safety and permanence. I was sure, each time my mom took a trip, or was out late, that something terrible had happened to her as well. It was bound to, right? Death had his eye on us.

In the years since, our family has suffered some fairly difficult losses, as well as the typical ones that come as grandparents and other relatives age. I have already written a lot about my mom and Huntingtons here, so I’ll spare the readers those details again. However, losing my cousin John in a plane crash (he was 43) three years ago, just weeks after my 49 year old aunt died of Huntingtons (her onset and death were scary fast), and then losing my mother-in-law to cancer two years ago, were all powerful blows in short succession. Death, that bastard, was perpetually in my rear view mirror.

For much of my life, it’s been tempting to wonder if Death chases us, if some people really  are cursed.  Few would argue that the Kennedys have the lock on that one, but like my family, there are plenty of others who have had an unfair share of loss. Because of this, I think about death more than some might. The scenarios play out in my head and fate scares me sometimes. I imagine the worst, as if to prepare for another blow. Death is the enemy and  keeping my enemy close seems a wise approach sometimes. While this may sound morbid or superstitious to some, from where I sit it’s hard at times to find the logic and not fall into a fearful belief that we (my family) be “cursed.”  I spiral into the thought that I’m bound to loose others I love, or that I will not live to be an old woman myself. If my kids or husband are out especially late, my mind immediately leaps to the darker places that so many other people avoid. While this is common with many people, for me it is intrinsic to the way I’ve viewed life, since my father’s death: threw the filter of death.  I know the smell and texture of death and by visiting these fears occasionally, I keep Death close and perhaps trick my enemy into passing me by. Fair is fair, I’ve already met my quota, I think.

When I graduated high school, I sought out my father’s best friend, Eric, a man who had known him his whole life, so that I could get a broader, more flesh and blood idea of who my father was. When we met for the first time, we embraced warmly and both cried. We shared a loss that was enormous to us both. The opportunity to meet and bridge the gap of my father’s death, meant the world to us both and has sustained us over the many years since. Some times, when I am with Eric, I can feel my father, as the older man he had the potential to be, reflected in Eric, though they were very different men. (This picture is of Dad-right,  and Eric-left,  when they were young boys. Later, my dad would be buried in Eric’s suit.)–>

There are fewer and fewer people left in my life who can recall my dad in detail, or share him with me. That is a sad reality of losing someone young. There is only so much to say about a man who only lived 32 years. He had three children, who have all lived longer than him now. He never knew us as teens or adults, just as we never got to know him beyond his role as “daddy.” His two sisters, my aunts, are still alive and play an important role in my life. Sadly, we rarely talk about my father. His younger sister wrote a wonderful biography of him for my brother, sister and I, that fills in some early family stories and speaks to the athlete, naturalist and young man he was. But the story ends there, as it must. None of us can fill in the blanks. There is no way to know what would have come after or who he might have become as our father, as a grandfather, as a man. It is impossible to know what Steve Jobs would have done with the next few decades. He will remain 56 and a giant.

So when the news of Steve Jobs’ death was announced this week, I was not one of those people who was shocked by his youthful death, or all of the things he left unfinished; that is part of the package. While he was not as young as my father, he was a young man with much to look forward to. He left four children who will not know their father as an old man. He will live on as the middle-aged genius of a generation. Like my father, he will surely be remembered by his children for the occasions and times that they shared together, not the amazing things that made him a public figure.

At the end of his Stanford speech, he said these words: ‎”Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.” I find this message timely for me and one that I wish I had been able to hear and embrace much sooner. As I go into a new phase of my own life, I believe I will take this message with me.  They are words to live… and die by.

If you enjoyed this post, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest entries, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I write a new post. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Honest observations on many things, Musings, My world, Parenting | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

The Middle- Continued Negotiations at the U.N.

Posted on October 5, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

For new readers:  This year we took in two foreign exchange students, known here as China (16, boy) and Denmark (16, girl), making our home the U.N. for ten months.  Our youngest son, Little Man (15), represents the U.S.  Our middle son, Middle Man (19, soph. in college) attended high school in Canada and so represents Canada.  Our eldest daughter, Principessa (22, a Sr in college) spent 1.5 yrs in Israel, so represents her spiritual home, Israel, at the U.N.  As head of this multi-National group, and the writer of this blog, I am the Secretary General. I try my best to rule with a fair and steady hand and to find humor whenever possible. There’s plenty of it… but some days, well…

Relationships within the U.N. have continued to develop in positive ways over the five weeks since Denmark and China joined the assembly.  Initially, all countries strived for (overly) positive interactions, though the Secretary General (a title I am claiming, here and now) believes that initial efforts were  unrealistically zealous.  All sides have now settled to more sustainable interactions.  Early on, Denmark and China were careful not to upset the U.S., clearly aware that he had sovereign domain in the hearts of the Secretary General and Hubby. While eager to build positive connections to the leadership, Denmark and China were savvy in their efforts to not push the U.S. out of this dominant role. Wise strategy in the long run, as U.S. has clearly forged positive new ties with both nations and is happy to share the parental wealth. Now, all sides are able to manage reasonable disagreements, maintain humor most times and call “shotgun” for the car, without the need for arbitration.

China suggested that using less electronics might be a positive step toward nurturing other creative enterprises. He shared that when he was young, and China (the actual country) was “not as wealthy,” his family did not have a computer at home. He and his friends would play a simple game using a hoop and stick. “I was very happy then,” he wistfully lamented.  The Secretary General and US practiced diplomacy and said nothing. We are aware that this is a fairly antiquated game, that was played during the birth of our nation, now only <–in Amish communities.  Thus,  proving that China (nation) is not in fact ahead in everything.

China removed several games from his laptop and has been trying to spend less time on line. U.S. is strongly opposed to such actions and believes China is not stable.

Denmark asked if she could join other exchange students, in another town (about 40 minutes from here) for their post-Homecoming activities. “They are getting a limo and will go out after the dance. They invited me to come too!” Secretary Gen.: “After the dance? What are their plans? That would be quite late at night.” Denmark (deer in the headlights expression): “I don’t know what they will do.” Negotiations came to an abrupt halt as Secretary General vetoed all limo plans, with other nations, to unknown destinations.

China suggested a jigsaw puzzle as a family activity.  Secretary Gen. had purchased a 2,000 piece World Puzzle last summer. All parties are now passionately involved in puzzle building. While Denmark started on very easy sections, then gloated, she has redeemed herself with the Kremlin. Several negotiating terms have come to light in the process:  Puzzle Whore:  a person who waits until others gather all the pieces, does most of the construction and then swoops in to finish what that person worked hard on. (China seems to be vying for this role). Puzzle Tyrant: someone who accuses everyone else of moving their pieces, turning pieces over or other similar nonsense. (U.S. is the front runner here). Puzzle Pig: someone who claims too many sections for themselves. (This may be the U.S. as well).  Puzzle etiquette: rule #1: never, ever finish someone else’s section. Ever. Ever. Puzzle Stalker: someone who doesn’t participate, but stalks the puzzle and slips pieces in occasionally.  (Hubby, the clear winner)  Puzzle Queen: ahem, clear winner: Secretary General. It’s my blog.

  

U.S.: “Hey China, how has it been without Warcraft (video game)?”  China: “Life is so much more colorful without video games!”  “ohhh, that’s so sweet!” Denmark and Sec.Gen were charmed.  U.S.: “Man, you are such a Taoist!” China: “Taoist?”

It has been firmly established that China has terrible taste in music, preferring Backstreet Boys, Avril Lavigne and other (older) pop stars. Denmark has eclectic taste, bringing some interesting new artists to the US’s already extensive iTunes library.  (Of note, most music in the library belongs to the Sec. Gen. or Principessa/ Israel)  Denmark denies that the pop music in her collection is indeed “pop.”  The U.S. strongly disagrees and points out that even Danes can sound an awful lot like Rihanna/Brittany/insert female pop flavor of the year.

Having been invited to dinner at friend’s house recently, we brought a collection of “Moon Cakes” that were a gift from (other) Chinese friends. Moon cakes are round cookie-like baked goods, that have various fillings: bean paste, lotus, dried fruit, etc. These were authentic, beautiful to look at, and most of them were interesting to eat. <—However,  only China appreciated the variety “salty egg.”  That yellow circle is the salty yolk. It’s really an acquired taste! I think you need to be Chinese.

U.S., China, Secretary General and Hubby are all trying to find ways to halt the excessive use of perfume by Denmark. Negotiations have stalled thus far. This delicate issue requires delicate intervention, and may result in sanctions against all perfume use to maintain healthy air quality.

China is very amused (and surprised) by how many things are “made in China.” Other nations are not.

Food issues have subsided a bit. Dinners are increasingly well received, especially when Sec.General’s homemade BBQ sauce is used, or an apple or peach crisp is made for dessert. This leads to generally favorable responses by all nations involved.  Sec.General believes that the 7x taste theory does indeed work.

Sec. Gen, U.S. and China had a heated debate over whether tigers are eaten in China (nation). While China was skeptical of Google findings (“controlled by the government”), which showed this to be true, he finally acquiesced and agreed that it might be possible. Several days later, while shopping at Fred Meyers (loaded with college students), China said very loudly to the Sec. Gen, “Ma, where can we get the tiger meat?”  College students all looked our way. Sec. Gen: “It’s in the endangered meat isle, but only the Chinese eat it.”  China: “I think maybe only Hong Kong, not Mainland.”  There was some very serious staring. China and Sec. Gen. share a dark, wicked dry sense of humor.

Fair Trade has been established in managing chores. When Denmark has Choir on dish night, she will trade for dog walking. Workers are fairly compensated.

China: “Ma, there is a Chinese girl at school who wants to go to Homecoming with the U.S.”  U.S.: “Don’t tell her anything!”  Brief stand-off between China and U.S.  All dialogue has stopped and there has been no more leaks regarding possible Homecoming dates. Secretary General is seeking alternative information sources.

The General Assembly is working hard for continued good relations. Leaders are satisfied with current status in all Nations.

  

(Please note that size does not indicate national superiority. Unless you’re China.)

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Blog, Daily Observations, High School, Musings, My world, Parenting, The U.N. | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Brought to you by the number 10,000…or One Big Ego Trip in the Blog World

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  This is one big, tooting my own horn blog entry. If you just can’t stomach it, move to another page now. Seriously, switch pages. I could even suggest some other things to read instead: Some of my favorite books; or check out some of my favorite blogs that I read regularly: Dig This Chick* (I really, really dig her! Big time successful blogger too), Rita’s Reflections (short, hilarious and local), Me 2.0* (Another big Blog success story. She is sharp, witty and funny, recreating herself post divorce; love it!)  Further note: I am not in the arena with Mikalee Byerman or Nici Holt Cline, the cool women who write the blogs mentioned*; but one can dream, which is what this post is really about anyway!  If you stay, you are bound to hear me go on and on about how great I feel about my blog and why I feel so excited to hit 10,00o reads.  That in itself might turn out to be entertaining, a reason to keep reading.  So, while I generally tend to be fairly self-depricating; buckle up for a rant of Kanye West proportions.

This is big, really big! I have just hit the 10,000 reads mark!!  This means that my blog has been read 10,000 times in the past three months! (cue Kool and the Gang) Woot woot!  Hip hip! Booyah!  Happy, happy, joy, joy! Dance around the kitchen and greet each family member with this detail as they come sleepily up for breakfast. Call Principessa and Middle Man and skip right to my big news. Yeah, yeah, glad college is going well, but guess what I did? I am celebrating today!  It’s all about my blog today and that really big number. I’ve had my eye on the 10,000 mark for a while now, counting down and watching the number tick upward, so to wake up and see 10,024 this morning, is huge!  If only I could actually have The Count chime in on this one!  One read, ha ha ha; Two read, ha ha ah; Three reads ha ha ha…. thunder clap!

I will now cease with the exclamation points (momentarily), self-aggrandizement and add a little perspective. When I posted my first entry on June 28th 2011 (that’s right, only three months and 4 days ago! Oops, ego slip), my goal was to commit to writing entries regularly and to eventually have some readers. I had no aspiration for 10,000, I was just hoping to maybe hit 100 readers for a post one day.  Mind you, not in one day, but 100 reads for a post, over however many days that took. I got started with my blog with virtually no experience in blogging, no idea how to make my blog site appealing, or how to do all the super cool things I started finding on the other blog sites I began viewing. If you check out the blogs* I’ve posted above, you will see what I mean. Those ladies really have it going on!  For me, writing a blog was something I’d thought a lot about, but had done pretty much nothing to prepare for.  I knew what blogs were, but hadn’t read others to see how they worked. I asked a few people if they had a recommendation for how to “do a blog” and I heard WordPress (the site that you are reading this blog on, for those of you who are not bloggers too, or don’t know how this works) mentioned a few times, so I went to their website and checked out how to get started.  Then, one morning, I impulsively logged on and started setting up my blog site. I should own up to the fact that even the super clear tutorial on WordPress was Russian to me at first; I didn’t get it. I had a blog name in mind, had some thoughts and just wanted to start writing. At that point, I only  hoped that my blog would find a following.

At first, I wasn’t really sure how to accomplish that, so I contacted the uber helpful Support staff on WordPress pretty regularly. Actually, almost every day. Patiently, their staff would respond to my queries as I tottered along, and often they threw in cute, little notes of encouragement.  Some of them answered more than one question and I sometimes hoped that certain staff would get my questions, as I started to have favorites. No names, I’m not burning bridges here.  I will need help again, that I’m sure of!  They really push the self-promotion and getting technical with your blog (making it visually appealing), both of which I was struggling with.  After a few weeks of playing around with the settings however, I actually found myself learning a little bit about the techie side of this stuff, through trial and error.  I learned how to use “widgets” which included: “share,” “archive,” “subscribe,” and other cool buttons/links/whatever they technically called. It was a big day when I finally figured out how to add photos to my  posts as well. I had moments, in the beginning, when I felt like a total idiot for my unbearable lack of tech knowledge and days when I wanted to high five myself because I’d figured those things out, without calling in Middle Man or Hubby. Of note, my blog page is till relatively simple, compared to some of the super slick posts I check out sometimes, but that too will evolve.

So, back to 10,000 reads and the unmitigated ego trip that this post honors. I was plugging along for a several weeks and getting very few hits (readers) on most of my posts. It was a pretty depressing thing really. In whiny moments, I practically said aloud: I could write in my journal if I wanted my writing to go unread.  I admit it: I wanted readers, I really did. I started putting a couple of toes in the self-promotion waters by telling my close friends, sending the link to them and then asking if they’d “had a chance to check it out.” I posted the link on my Facebook page early on, and hoped a few people might check it out there. The day I figured out the widget for Facebook was golden. Now my blog entries are automatically posted to my Facebook page and my FB friends can see when I post. Those who weren’t interested, probably blocked me from their newsfeed, but there are losses in any enterprise worth building, I reasoned. It’s mutually agreeable, as I now don’t see their Farmville updates. (If you click this link, and find yourself drawn in to this apparently addictive game, please do us all a favor and do not post every single vegetable you buy or each time you feed your chickens.)

Another ironic boost to the growth of my readership was that around the time I started this, I ran away from home. I was driving my youngest son, Little Man (to blog readers, not his real name) to camp in Yellowstone and I was having a melt down at home, dealing with my two college age kids (Pricipessa, 21 and Middle Man 19). Frankly, I wasn’t feeling all that happy with pretty much everything happening at home. Call it a mid-life crisis; call it waking up to smell the coffee (after you give up caffeine); call it college age kids home and pushing every button on this aging model of a mother… whatever you call it, I ran away, and there are few other things to call that. I packed the car with Little Man’s camp gear and then threw in pretty much anything I imagined I might need to be away for two weeks. I mentioned the idea of taking some time to myself once before doing it, but no one took me very seriously. So, I waited until I got to Jackson Hole, WY and then called the family and announced my plans. At that point, honestly, I was still thinking I might “free fall”  (hit this link, to read from the start of that adventure) for two-three days and then skidaddle home, tail between my legs.  Nope, I had two of the most incredible weeks of my life, seriously!  I went where I wanted, when I wanted, ate by myself  for all but one meal, and spent a lot of time clearing my head and getting back to my writing. And the people reading my blog, liked it. I started going on line and seeing that 30 people had read a post, that some had sent me messages. These were all people I knew I think, but I did have one early follower from New Zealand, and that was really thrilling.

However, there is no doubt that the single biggest thing that sent my blog to warp speed, the reason I’m celebrating 10,000 reads, was being Freshly Pressed on August 5th.  That’s right, one month and a week into my blogging and I woke up one morning to 240 comments. I was traveling at the time, attending my 30th High School Reunion (read reunion story), and had not been on line in a day or two.  Consequently, I had not seen the email from Erica, a “Story Wrangler” at WordPress, telling me that my post was chosen for Freshly Pressed.  Instead, I logged on to get my emails, so I’d know where to meet friends that day, and there were hundreds of emails from WordPress.com. I was sure that someone had stolen my info and I was being spammed.  I was incredibly slow on the uptake, reading the links and comments and finally realizing that I had hit “the big time!”  In warp speed, I went from confused and annoyed, to amazed and then giddy.

The night before my post The Grass Is Always Greener on Someone Else’s Head was Freshly Pressed, I was with old friends from high school, at a pre-30th Reunion party (so yeah, we are OLD friends). I had shared that I had stared a blog and a few of the people there asked me what I hoped for in doing it. Not knowing what was happening with my blog, that very day, I told them that I would be thrilled if I eventually had regular readers and could feel like the blog was doing ok. I also shared that I was working on my novel and hoped that the blog might lead to some open doors for that (my ultimate life goal: getting published) and that blogging would encourage me to do more writing, which could only help the novel as well.  Mostly, I shared, I hoped that more people would start reading my blog. The next day, that small expectation would blow wide open. That blog post was read by 5,000 people in three days, 7,000 over the month of August! By the time I got to the reunion that night, my head was spinning and you could not pry the grin from my face. Talk about cosmic irony and great timing; I was on a major ego cloud, sent along for me to ride, for a week, maybe ten days. It was Christmas, Hanukkah and all the birthdays that have been ignored, all wrapped in one big exciting package.

I answered every one of the (eventual) 300+ comments. I skipped around with a grin for an entire week. It was incredible!  And then: it faded and I had to accept that some days I’d have only 11 readers again.  My 15 seconds of fame were over. It’s a shock to that same ego when you see that cool WordPress graph go from big, huge, bold lines that represented nearly 2,000 readers a day for three days and then several hundred per day for the week following, then drop down to 15, 27, etc per day again. Blah. However, I’ve plugged along and I’ve kept track of which blogs seem to bring in more readers and which ones fall a little flat. At this point, it’s exciting to me that nearly every post gets a minimum of 100 reads, but more “popular” ones get more. Ode to Birthdays Missed had 126 reads on its first day, Call Me Gay, Call Me a Fag had 176 its first day!  That’s exciting for me! And while the ones that limp along are a bit of a bummer, I also feel like they tell me something, as a writer, about what resonates with people and where my strengths lie. It’s disappointing to see some posts fall flatter, but it’s all a journey and overall that journey has been far more exciting than I could have projected on June 28th.

So I’ve grown, I’ve plugged away, I’ve stuck to my goals and written regularly and my blog is growing too.  As noted at the start of this hubris ladened post, I did not have the wildest anticipation of hitting 10,000 any time soon; it wasn’t a number I had my eyes on. I truly thought 1,000 would be very exciting. However, after the big one, I started looking at my chart and hoping for more. As I started to find a groove in my writing and noticed the numbers becoming more steady, I imagined what an amazing kick it would be to hit 10,000 by my third month anniversary. That was my goal, and that date was four days ago, so I missed that target by a smidge. Four days, I’ll take it.  I’m really quite proud to reach this goal and feel like things are really falling in to place for future goals. It’s all good.

This ends my 10,000 reads,   trip post. I’ll just say one last time 10,000, yes that’s ten thousand, is a really effing amazing number and I may be grinning for a while!  I want to point out that part of the self-promotion thing is to tell my readers that each time you hit my “Like” button on this page (the WordPress page), just under the post,  not (just) my Facebook page.  It helps my blogs standing. Each comment posted, helps my blog grow. So think about celebrating with me this time and hitting Like. This concludes the full blow narcissistic portion of your read. I will be back to deflecting compliments and hoping people read my work, momentarily.

Humbly, I end with thanks. A sincere and heart felt thank you to all of the friends who encouraged me to stick with this and who have read my posts regularly. Some of you were the only people checking in when I was just heading out to Montana and typing away. It has truly meant so much to me!  To the readers I’ve met along the way: what a kick this has been!  It was so weird in the beginning to know that strangers were reading this but I’ve loved your feedback and encouragement. There’s an honesty to the comments that come from people who aren’t as worried about my feelings, as friends are, and I’ve really appreciated your time in sharing those thoughts.  Knowing that people are reading my work at all has been a journey in itself.  I still write things and have that moment of panic, when I wonder who will read it and what they will think… think of me…think of my views… think of my writing… how they might judge me.  But mostly these days, I sit down to write these posts and I feel inspired, excited, and proud… and that, feels very, very good indeed.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Blog, Ego, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Women's issues, Writing, Yee haw | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 23 Comments

Off the Wheel.

Posted on September 30, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Change is a tough thing. Or, maybe it isn’t for everyone? It is for me.  So the biggies can be truly brutal.  Picking new colors for the rooms of my house, took forever. Not a biggie in the biggie picture, but as an artist, the idea of living with any color that didn’t “speak to me” seemed unbearable. I collected color swatches for months and painted samples on several walls, numerous times. Luckily, my wonderful painter was a Zen kind of guy and got it. He waited patiently and nudged me gently.  Now when I sit in my “Ravishing Red” dining room (where, until I finally take on clearing my “office,” I type most of the time), the “Dolphin Blue” bathroom, “Iceberg Blue” game room, or any of the other rooms and halls I colored,  I feel incredibly satisfied with my decisions.  Buying a new car, oh my; that one was an entire year of coming to terms with the fact that I did not need a mini-van anymore! It took another year to actually part with said mini-van and it may take a couple more for me to stop wishing we still had it, when we go on any kind of car trip with the whole family.  When the savvy dealer who was showing me all of the wonderful bells and whistles on the kick ass car I would eventually buy, and he pulled down the back seat and said “you probably wont be driving kids around in this much longer; you wont need that third row seat,” I melted in a puddle of bereaved paralysis in the buttery leather in the back seat.  A year and a half later, two kids off in college and lots of time to myself, I feel just fine about shifting in to the zippy gears “my baby” offers and prefer that my son’s friends do not put their muddy shoes inside my car. Our dog Luke is only welcome with plastic cargo bin and drop cloths. It all just took time.  Again, in the Big Picture these did not end up being all that big after all. The wall colors, the car  (I’m still going back and forth on the car color, but that may take longer), which book for book group, hair: long or short? … Ultimately, smaller things on life’s scale.  (My Ravishing Red writing space/Dining Room/Puzzle space ^^^)

However, this whole “next stage of life” thing is turning out to be a Biggie Biggie and what I’m finding is, that it requires a lot of… procrastination. As a matter of fact, some days it seems to require that I do close to nothing, all day…  as I figure out what comes next.  Procrastination is the word I’ve adopted for taking it easy. It’s something that plenty of other people do easily but it’s been a big step for me: spending some time doing nothing of any measurable “value.”  About six months ago, I broke it down for my husband, after I found myself trying to explain why I hadn’t gotten a whole lot done one day and he asked (in that made for movie slow motion voice): “So, what did you do today?”  Instead of ripping his face off, as I considered, I sat him down and announced: “I am now officially Semi-Retired. My job was to raise three incredible kids and two of them are now gone. That means that I have accomplished the major part of my career. Now, I need to figure out what to do do next, and that will takes some thought.”  Surely you jest, was virtually carved into his expression.

Generally, I would say that for the past twenty-two years (Principessa is 21, and I quit working as a therapist when she was on the way, so long Masters Degree) I’ve scored in the higher performance levels of “checking things off lists.”  I’ve got a “Just Call me Martha” mug, and I used it for a long time.  My resume or check list would include:  I’ve been very involved in my kids’ schools, check (that includes volunteering for loads of committees, PTSA president, tutoring, reading in classrooms, and lots of other “jobs”).  I’ve taken more than my share of cooking classes and can confidently say that my family eats pretty damned well, check.  No one has run out of underwear or socks or grown out of clothes, without me picking up replacements, in years, check.  I clean up ok when I need to show up at the various work/community related things attached to my husband’s work, check.  I’ve sat up waiting, worrying, grounding and hugging for countless dances, parties, sneaking outs, and other teen challenges, check.  I’ve helped work on two rounds of college applications, check (and both applicants are now attending excellent schools), and I’ve more than met all requirements for jumping in and being involved outside of family. I can say with authority, I have not spent much time sitting around relaxing.  In fact, the wheel I put myself on has been spinning non-stop for a very long time.

What I finally admitted a few years ago was that I had always wanted to be a writer, but had taken on as many things as possible so that I would never really have to shit or get off that pot. I could get some writing done in various newsletters, working on projects through the hospital, PTSA,  Medical Alliance, or the various tutoring things I did with teens, but I didn’t really have to see for sure if I could do anything more with it.  Six years ago, I sat down and wrote a novel in three months flat. I worked like crazy and felt excited and motivated to get it published; writing each day was really fulfilling. However, when faced with what to do next and the potential rejection of what I’d been wanting to do for so long, I put the manuscript on my desk and forgot it was there, for about five years. I should clarify here: I tried to forgot it was there. Middle Man in his never ending quest to push my buttons (or hold me to a higher standard?) would routinely ask: “So mom, when are you going to do something with your book?”  Man it pissed me off!  Mainly because I knew I’d filled all that open space with other stuff, that would continue to keep me from doing anything worthwhile with my writing. “I’m going to start a blog and call it Tales from the Motherland,” I started saying about two years ago… tick tock, tick tock.

So, three years ago I decided to make a move, at least test the waters.  First, I took a writing class with the author Laura Kalpakian.  From there I met some really amazing other writers and asked if they would like to continue meeting after the class, and from there I started considering really writing again.  The premise of the group is that any member can submit up to 15 pages of writing, for the other group members to read and give written and verbal feedback on. It’s a pretty brutal process frankly, having your “babies” dissected and judged, but I figured I was finally doing something.  However, if truth be told, I wasted the first year that our group met by submitting chapters as is and not really thinking that they needed to change. Hell, did I get a lashing!  The group liked what I wrote, but it was nowhere near the completed novel I thought it was!  So a lot of the 2nd year I struggled with how to change that, how to improve the chapters and make them solid and I spent a few months whining and thinking of burning the whole manuscript: this thing is crap, and it’s not worth the effort I would say some weeks. But, when you finally find your passion, your fire, when you really get your groove going, that’s when the real magic happens. In the past few months I’ve finally done that, and I finally think I know where I’m headed next.

I finally started this blog, just three months ago, and it has exceeded any expectations or hopes I had! Being “Freshly Pressed” one month in to my blogging was unreal!  That weekend, which coincided with my 30th high school reunion was a dose of encouragement that I could not have envisioned to wish for!  I had been straggling along, watching some days go by with a handful of readers (um, a handful, technically is 5 right?) and some days none. I was woefully lame at figuring out the technical aspect of how to work my blog: inserts, tags, links, photos, etc… BUT, I was at least doing it and that felt great!  Today, I am at 9, 880 (current) reads in three months; I have 102 subscribers (half in other countries) and my posts get an average of 100 reads each.  I love doing it and I’m motivated to sit down and put words to page, three times a week. My novel began to turn around when I finally got what my writing group Godesses had been telling me for ages: show us, don’t tell us!  My God, stop with the narration and give us a story! I got it and finally started re-writing at least part of every chapter, and the feedback turned around electrically.  I was hearing “best chapter yet” for weeks in a row and I wanted to find ways to improve the story:  the dialogue, the movement of characters, the dreaded arc. I wanted to figure it out and move forward. Hallelujah! (Original manuscript,-> glad I didn’t burn it, but can say that most of it will never leave this desk. Rewrites!)

When I ran off to the wild wild west this summer and left house, hearth and kinders behind, to figure out how to really harness my groove, it all fell in to place. I wrote several new chapters that I think really enhance the novel. I listened to myself for two weeks and took some chances, only to see that I could do it just fine on my own, and it actually felt good. Damned good. I came home charged and really motivated to see this through, to whatever conclusion is in my cards. When one of the women in my group said last week, “you are very close to having a publishable novel here,” I really wanted to weep. I also wanted to vomit. The anxiety of seeing this through, of following through on something so big, is really daunting. It’s very exciting, but enormously daunting as well. I am racing up on fifty and I keep wishing I just had more time, that I’d done this years ago… oh, but then… I can hear the sage voices: You wouldn’t have taken the full path grasshopper. You would have skipped steps and it wouldn’t have been the same. You wouldn’t be the person you are now. You would have missed all those other moments with your children.  True, true, all of it true. Still… to be forty and here.

(<– The office, I will eventually use… really.)  So, I am writing every day now. On the days when I’m crashing (like today, waking up at 4:30 on fire with ideas and falling to pieces by 10: am) I force myself to procrastinate. I watch dumb TV; I take a nap (or try to); I eat silly foods; I play with my friends… I get nothing checked off. On those days, I still feel a little guilty, so I race around just before Hubby gets home and make it look like I got a lot done. A pan of brownies can make a whole day look productive. But more often, I am feeling entitled to my procrastination and the freedom to do my writing for as much of a day as I want to. The chapters are falling in to place and I’m now doing final edits on the “final” copy, before I pursue publication, which is in itself a ridiculously long and frustrating process. I’ve met with someone who is involved in the book world, who gave me lots of great advice, helped me work out a plan, and was very encouraging. Hmm, could it be that I might attain this long held goal?  I’m off the wheel, and in the flow.  Now, I just need to keep my eyes on the road I’ve chosen and see it through. It’s a thrill, it’s amazing … please excuse me while I go procrastinate a little longer.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Blog, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

The Middle- My Jewish Identity Crisis

Posted on September 28, 2011 by Dawn Quyle Landau

L’Shana Tovah!  It means (simply) Happy New Year, in Hebrew. Tonight at sundown marks the start of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, and for me brings to focus the identity crisis I’ve been in for just over a year. I was not raised a Jew, nor did I convert. However, I have raised three Jewish children and been married to a Jewish man for 25 years this February. I have acted like a Jewish mom, viewed myself as one, and for all intents and purposes, have been Jewish for twenty-one years at the least. However, about this time last year, I began questioning what that really meant and whether I can continue on this road… and if I don’t what does that mean?

Last year I really began to feel some disconnect from Judaism, as it had defined my life for the past twenty-five years. I was not missing the “Christian Mutt” back ground I came from: a bit of Christian Scientist, a bit of Protestant, some Catholicism and tiny bits of other churches I attended as a child. I was not particularly seeking any other faith, I just wasn’t sure I wanted to be pseudo-Jewish anymore either. I had recently learned (after 10 years of membership) that my votes at the Synagogue we belong to were not being counted, as a non-Jew.  Silly me had been voting all this time, and had assumed it counted.  Principessa, who had just begun a year abroad in Israel was telling us that she wanted to convert to Orthodox Judaism. She didn’t intend to live a strictly Orthodox life, but she needed to convert in this manner in order to immigrate to Israel one day. Immigrate! These changes for her, had strong implications for me and my perception of our relationship. As I non-Jew, I could no longer cook foods for her unless I made efforts to have a kosher kitchen. Some of her previous favorites (hello: ribs, Dungeness crab, shrimp pesto, etc) were now permanently forbidden.  I would potentially not even be able to poor wine for her, as a non-Jew. And, more importantly, in explaining some of what she was going through, it became clear that her mother (me) not being Jewish was really at the crux of her dilemmas. Because I am not Jewish she and her brothers are not considered fully Jewish, amongst Israelis and more conservative Jews. Frankly, that translated in my mind to:  all that you have done, all that you sacrificed in your own family, all the Passover meals, the drives back and forth to Hebrew school, the Onegs you’ve hosted, etc, did not really matter, because  your kids are still not Jewish enough!

I tail-spinned into this crisis. No sugar-coating that one. That then tail spinned into other crises, but that’s another post for another day. I wanted to go back and clarify things, do a little more Christmas and little less Hanukkah maybe? I wanted to see all my Jewish family (my husband’s family) finally come to our house for one Christmas. I needed to skip Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services, to assert that I was not obligated to attend. And this past summer, when Principessa came home from Israel and set up her 2 burner cook top, in my kitchen and bought a set of kosher dishes/pots and pans, I wanted to put bacon bits on everything. I had pork on the brain for months! It’s fair to say that there was less passive in my passive aggressive than aggressive, for sure.

Now a year later, I am still working much of this out.  It’s been a hard year on so many levels. However, I’ve come a long way baby and I feel things clearing a bit, on this and other horizons. After a hard-fought “battle” our synagogue reversed its policy and is now allowing non-Jewish members a full vote, as family members. I was the poster child for that touchy issue, that involved several congregation meetings (each time leading to me being questioned and asked to represent the non-Jewish nation).  It has been and continues to be painful that for the first time in our life together, my daughter and I have really been at odds… for an extended time, for an important reason. This is not the stuff of dances and whether she can stay up later. That is still brutal, tough stuff of self-identity and faith. Tough on both of us, because we love each other so much but see some things so differently.  She is back at school now and I see her happy and exploring her choices and paths, as I am doing here.  There are bound to be a few more speed bumps in our road, but we’re both slowing down a bit and the bumps may not be as damaging.

Today, I feel as if a New Year is indeed upon me. I am beginning to breathe a little easier and relax a bit about the things that have troubled me. I feel like I’m moving into a new skin, that fits better and allows for growth. Tonight, I will go to our synagogue and celebrate the New Year with others who hope for new starts and positive things. This year when they blow the Shofar (the sound of which is much more powerful inside the Synagogue)  I think I will feel good again about my quasi-Jewish identity.

Note:  I know this wasn’t as short as “Middles” should be, but it’s what came out.

If you enjoyed this article, please hit Like and/or use the Share button to pass it along. If you want to get the latest posts, Subscribe and you will get an email each time I post a new entry. You wont get any other mail. And if you’re new to this site, check out some of the older posts, by hitting the Archive button.

Posted in Mothers, Musings, Parenting, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 17 Comments