Blushing and Faking It

Every day I experience embarrassing moments related to hearing loss.  A few are uproariously funny (cheese misunderstood as keys, or hat misunderstood as brat), others mortifying (blessed misunderstood as breast). Sometimes the misunderstandings are small, but other times big ones sabotage an entire conversation!   Following are stories of two embarrassing auditory fiascos at the fitness center this morning.  

         1.) Upon arrival, I stand behind a stately, elderly gentleman while a similarly aged woman, slightly to his left, checks in.  The clerk, a friendly, twinkly-eyed woman with a pleasant smile, is in the process of finishing the woman’s transaction and says something like, “May I help you?” to the man (although I’m not sure of that).  He leans on the counter, gestures toward the woman patron, and speaks a few words to the clerk that sound like, “I’m with her” (although I’m not sure of that, either).  While the patron is returning her pen to her purse, I step forward, closer to the counter, and proceed to offer my name and other information appropriate for check-in.  The clerk barely acknowledges me - flashes an uncharacteristically blank expression my way - and then addresses the man: “May I help you?”  He replies, “Evidently not. She (meaning me) forced her way in and cut me off.”  I apologize profusely, but they seem stiff.  I doubt they know my sadness over making inappropriate assumptions based on lack of hearing.  The resulting uncomfortable climate (agitation, annoyance, frustration) isn’t my fault, or theirs.  It's just the way it is.

         2.) Walking the track at the fitness center is a solitary pursuit, which is appropriate and appreciated.  Walkers don’t bother each other; many wear ear buds and listen to music during their laps.  So I am surprised when a man about my age, whose gait is slightly faster than mine, appears in the lane to my left.  He kindly looks me in the eye (as much as possible while we both are still striding out), and speaks intensely as he passes me.  “You-blah-blah-blah-Einstein…blah-blah-blah-blah-check-it-out…blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-like-a-twin.”  I say nothing audible, but flash him my best, “Oh how delightful, thank you very much” smile, assuming he has either shared something of interest or else a compliment.  This is no time or place to stop and ask for clarification.  My usual rule of thumb applies: just be nice and fake it.* I pass him numerous times during the remainder of my walk without further interaction, wondering what he actually said.  What word could he have used that sounded like Einstein?  Something that rhymes, like guideline? Or lifetime?  And did he really refer to a twin, or could it have been a win?

* * * * *

*I often pretend to understand when I can’t hear, many times every day, in fact.  It’s easier to fake it - to nod and say, “Really?” or “Wow!” or “That’s great!” (if/when it seems to apply) than to ask the speaker to recreate a segment of conversation.  Sometimes I simply act like I hear and nod my head affirmatively.  Other times I catch a key word or two and reply with a question that will keep conversation going: “So what are you thinking about the Super Bowl this year?”  “I wonder what the snow will bring tomorrow?”

Faking it is especially prevalent in conversations with the grandkids.  They can often blabber on indefinitely, and I am clueless – except to maintain eye contact, smile, and gush with expletives.  “Cool!”  “Isn’t that the neatest!”  “Amazing!”

However, sometimes this gets me in trouble, especially with the older grandkids who realize I’m missing the beat.  While faking my way through a conversation, they can be known to stare holes through me.  I realize I’m becoming the old deaf woman with a loose screw.  However, evidently they still love me.  Especially when I make them fresh cinnamon rolls, or text funny messages with techno-savvy abbreviations and emoticons, both of which earn me points in the economy of today’s youth.

Beneath the Bluebirds

Stained-glass bluebirds and orange poppies glow against the amber, high-noon backdrop of my mother-in-law’s tiffany-style light fixture. They reflect the memory of my husband’s mother, a spirited, decisive woman who loved beauty, who loved me because she thought I was the “perfect” match for her son and wasn’t afraid to tell me so. 

This evening I sit beneath her custom-designed glass shade, typing words that require release, wondering at the impact and legacy of beauty.  How I am drawn to it, magnetized even, and yet so often without full understanding or due appreciation.  How I don’t recognize or enjoy it sometimes, how earthly blinders distract me.

And yet I crave beauty. I require it to make sense of things. According to Fyodor Dostoyevsky, “Beauty will save the world.” In some sense, beauty already has saved, and is in the process of saving, the world – doing so with love so expressive, so passionate and demonstrative that it transfigures every canvas it touches, as if with an artist’s brush.

Beauty illumines us, our circumstances, and even our vision.  It offers a glimpse of a greater reality that reconfigures the rough edges of everyday experience, even commonly overlooked minutiae, and sustains us during trials.  Beauty reveals, recovers, and nurtures us. It is our nature to seek it, just as a plant emerges from its seed-cocoon and reaches for light.   

Moby Dick on the Deck

A frozen snow sculpture of Melville’s great white whale, Moby Dick, lies beached on our deck, fins sagging, massive tail silent and still.  As each hour passed yesterday, the snow and wind chiseled the moody white form into a growing hulk with more acutely defined features.  Today it stands glistening in the sun, a completed work of art.

Yesterday's sculpting (facing west):

Today's finished tail (facing east):

This seemingly misplaced aquatic-like figure inspired me to return to Moby Dick, to reread and savor Herman Melville's linguistic artistry.  In the following quote he begins by referencing the Milky Way's white aura, and moves into commentary on other facts of physics: how the sun emits white light, the sum of all colors together, and various earthly objects selectively absorb and retain certain wavelengths of visible light (the colors we see).  Ultimately he speaks of the mysterious symbol-object of his story, Moby Dick.

“Is it that by its indefiniteness it shadows forth the heartless voids and immensities of the universe, and thus stabs us from behind with the thought of annihilation, when beholding the white depths of the Milky Way? Or is it, that as in essence whiteness is not so much a color as the visible absence of color; and at the same time the concrete of all colors; is it for these reasons that there is such a dumb blankness, full of meaning, in a wide landscape of snow - a colorless, all-color of atheism from which we shrink? And when we consider that other theory of the natural philosophers, that all other earthly hues — every stately or lovely emblazoning — the sweet tinges of sunset skies and woods; yea, and the gilded velvets of butterflies, and the butterfly cheeks of young girls - all these are but subtle deceits, not actually inherent in substances, but only laid on from without; so that all deified Nature absolutely paints like the harlot, whose allurements cover nothing but the charnel-house within; and when we proceed further, and consider that the mystical cosmetic which produces every one of her hues, the great principle of light, forever remains white or colorless in itself, and if operating without medium upon matter, would touch all objects, even tulips and roses, with its own blank tinge — pondering all this, the palsied universe lies before us a leper; and like willful travelers in Lapland, who refuse to wear colored and coloring glasses upon their eyes, so the wretched infidel gazes himself blind at the monumental white shroud that wraps all the prospect around him. And of all these things the Albino whale was the symbol. Wonder ye then at the fiery hunt?”

Booting the Brute

A certain saboteur likes to badger me, and regularly occupies my personal space.  On good days I manage to keep a polite distance, but on bad days I succumb to this joker turned nasty.  

It’s not just a matter of sidestepping a deliberate troublemaker, or playing outsmarting games.  All systems must be alert at all times.  This rogue is sneaky and persistent.  And damaging.

Although I withhold the name of the mess-maker at this time, my hunch is that everyone deals with at least one habitual miscreant equivalent to mine.  Maybe a different kind, with a unique voice and wiles, but the result is similar.  Let down your guard and you’re sunk.

After many years of cohabitating and growing weary of inevitable conflicts, I’ve finally discovered victory isn’t about outsmarting or being a tough guy.  I’m not shrewd or consistent enough to pull that off, anyway. 

Rather, undisputable Christ-followers from the third and fourth centuries (commonly known as Desert Fathers) nailed it:

“Watch your wayward thoughts, and every time they begin to say something to you, do not answer them but rise and pray; kneel down, saying, Son of God, have mercy on me.” 

Pay attention. When tempted, pray. Listen for the guidance of the Holy Spirit.  Submit to His divine authority.  Expect the Lord to fight the battle.  Respect His lead, and follow.  This is a discipline, but one of obedient trust and response rather than ineffective militancy.  It is the only way to divert sabotage from a persistent, tyrannical bad habit, and win. 

Risky Business

Life is risky from first to final breath. Try as we might, we often can’t control our circumstances or ourselves.

Sometimes merely existing feels dangerous. Relationships seem toxic, health tenuous, situations unsafe. We are tempted at times to at least hunker down and hide, or at most give up. 

Neither self-mastery nor defeat define the plan for mankind, however.  Somehow the truest reality, and its implications, commonly flies unnoticed - a feathery, unsophisticated wisp in a huge sea of self-protection.

And yet a wispy trace of faith is sufficient to enable calculated risks, to throw open the soul’s shutters and chance open disclosure that leads to a fuller life. 

“To laugh is to risk appearing a fool.

To weep is to risk appearing sentimental.

To reach out to another is to risk involvement.

To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self.

To place your ideas and dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss.

To love is to risk not being loved in return.

To hope is to risk pain.

To try is to risk failure.

But risks must be taken, because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.”

-William Arthur Ward

Old Folks Sampler

Changes come to the aging in all shapes and sizes, like Forest Gump’s box of chocolates when you never know what you’re going to get.  However, some are pretty much standard, like the normal crème-filled truffles and nut clusters included in everyone’s sampler.  Here are a few golden-oldie-goodies that are true for almost every one I know in my age group.

Growing older means you need more props.  These assists could include many things, like orthopedic shoes, bunion pads, hearing aids and hearing aid batteries, trifocals, pills and capsules.  Usually you accumulate surplus supplies of various dosages of the aforementioned pills and capsules  – some of the current ones to be taken first thing in the morning, before meals, during meals, after meals, between meals, and at bedtime.  But who knows when you might need those other (outdated) dosages that cost too much and are therefore too valuable to throw away? For some older folks, more props also means more top-notch-quality food.  More green leafy vegetables.  Kale salad.  Spinach smoothies.  Things like that.

Being a senior involves forgetting, and laughing at yourself when you forget: rewinding, repeating, replaying and being okay with it.  Recently I looked at a grandchild in a state of panic, unable to think of the child’s name. The trick is to consider your brain as a tired, toothless ancient who needs some extra TLC, bless its heart, and then treat yourself like you would a dear friend with dementia.  Cheer yourself on as you would her, even while you’re losing it (because most likely you are).

An older individual is wise to tiptoe on the persistent winter ice like a sadly repressed geriatric ballerina.  After all, Nancy fell and crushed her wrist, and you want to avoid a similar fate if at all possible. PLEASE.

In the economy of aging, you see through a lens labeled less.  You have less strength and stamina, and you often want and expect less. The old saying that insists less is more is right; it refocuses you away from cataracts and jello legs to heavenly realities (even here and now) where more is everlasting.

Old is sometimes fun, and funny.  When you’re old, you can play the trump card and get away with it.  “I think I’ll decline the invitation this time – I’m just getting too old.”  No one contests this or condemns you for this, and there’s no concern about running out of cards.  They’re inexhaustible.  You can keep printing them on invisible paper with invisible ink, like fantasy counterfeit money, for as long as you want.  It’s great.

On the flip side, you can initiate boldly, or talk too long about the good old days and how they used to be so awesome, and get away with that, too.  Young people can be clueless about what it means to be old, and about the life you lived in prehistoric times, but they usually don’t expect old people to be up-to-date with their techno-wizard lives.  They understand you’ve lived a primordial existence. This is fortunate.

Sometimes when you get old it’s easy to worry about things that never bothered you before.  You’re keenly aware of your own prominent vulnerabilities, and begin to see everyone else in this same light even though they’re actually only as young and reckless as you once were. Remember: you once drove too fast on slick roads; you demanded non-stop high performance from yourself and everyone else while burning the candle at both ends.  Remember: you survived to tell the tale.

Dancing at Menard's

The pixie-faced preschooler was probably around three years old, a dancing, prancing bundle of energy dressed in a puffy lavender coat and pink striped hat.  Her bulky snow boots added their own flair to the boogie; their scuffs and clomps punctuated her choreography with perfunctory flair that was just right.

She didn’t know I watched from another checkout lane, feeling her dance pulse somewhere inside myself, remembering the natural celebration of muscles moving to an inner song.  This was play, not work.  And yet it was her work: her assigned vocation for this moment in time.  I’d been there once.

The adult in charge, presumably her mother, robotically swiped a plastic card.  Her expressionless eyes suggested the day’s voices had outshouted everything else, including her own almost-forgotten childlike song.  Instantaneously I imagined a memory of those kinds of voices, felt the resulting neck stiffness and jaw tension mirrored in her face.

Meanwhile the child danced on, responding to her inner drummer. She hopped and skipped authentically, unbridled by her own shyness or the weight of perceived expectations.  True to herself, she was unafraid, genuine, and real – and yet obviously utterly dependent on, and sustained by, parental care and love. “The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”  (Matthew 19:14)

* * *

Thought for the day:

“At my best, I can return to childlikeness.”

     - Tom Shadylac, director of the movie Ratatouille.

Heart Journey Update

“Last fall, we honestly didn’t expect you to live,” my husband’s heart failure specialist said at today’s appointment.  “Your heart seemed too weak to be able to recover.”  Very raw, very revealing truth. 

Today my husband also learned good news - the results of his recent echocardiogram.  His heart muscle is still grossly enlarged, and yet has surprised everyone and gained strength. The improvement is significant: his ejection fraction of 10-15% has improved to 31% (50% is the low end of normal function). It’s not the first time we’ve observed such miraculous intervention.   

What do you do with news like this? 

First you rejoice and praise God. You pray to seek His Presence more consistently, more devotedly.  You treasure life and desire to live well and faithfully, moment-by-moment.  This is my experience, anyway.

But I also find myself connecting the dots and putting together pieces of the larger journey.  After-the-fact they seem to build a bigger, fuller story that deserves to be told.  Here.  Now.

During his first hospitalization in September, followed by two other emergency visits in October and November, I was almost certain my husband was dying.  My surety was based on his severe symptomatic distress, and an extremely low ejection fraction, but also personal experience with two friends who with similar cases of heart failure.  Both had heart transplants: one lived, one didn’t.  We’d been told years before that my husband's extreme sensitivity to drugs might disqualify him as a heart recipient because of the need for anti-rejection drugs.

A couple of days after the cardiologist hastily admitted my husband to the hospital in September, he seemed momentarily stable - so I drove to our pastor’s house late in the evening, deeply in need of encouragement.  Although I tried valiantly to put my best foot forward, grief had its way and I fell apart.  I was entirely convinced that although he was temporarily in reprieve, my husband was teetering on the verge of death. 

To my amazement, our pastor remained focused on the possibility of recovery.  At the time, I thought him naïve.  To me the word recovery smacked of illusion rather than reality.  I said I trusted God with the outcome, but really I’d already made up my mind to prepare for what I thought was inevitable. 

Much later I learned that while I was visiting with the pastor and his wife, my husband lay in his hospital bed engulfed in intense soul-heaviness, sensing he wouldn’t live through that very night.  And yet in the midst of this profound waning of body and soul, an unbidden vision of unequalled clarity came to him.  Detailed images of each family member’s face passed before his mind’s eye.  As the roll call continued, he told the Lord, “I’m not ready to go yet.  I love them and want to live life with them, to watch my grandkids grow.” 

Now that I look back, it seems noteworthy that a trio of closely linked individuals - the heart failure specialist, the patient, and the patient’s wife - all simultaneously shared the same conclusion: death was near.  And yet miles away and separate from the medical scene, a fourth partner, the pastor, boldly held to what seemed an unrealistic hope for recovery.  He couldn’t know the outcome one way or the other, but rather chose to defer to the higher hope.  He believed that with God, all things are possible.

It hardly seems coincidence that during that same hour, the patient developed a definitive longing - a hunger for more time with those he loved - that inspired him to approach the throne of grace and lay bare the desire of his heart: I want to live. 

Is there a correlation between this story from September and today’s news? Could it be that another’s visionary hope could overturn the course of an individual’s life?  I don’t know.  I only know respected medical professionals fully understood my husband’s condition and thought he was dying, and so did I.  Two additional life-threatening trips to the hospital verified that he was, indeed, on the edge. But at least one person refused to endorse the common expectation, and risked deferring to the Lord in hope.  It appears, for now at least, that my husband’s heart is improving.  I leave the conclusions to you.

Purdue Shooting 1-21-14

A spirit of evil snaps its jaws,

Violently invades the campus.

One student aims and shoots, another falls.

Innocent blood carries life from the body,

Seeps tragedy into earthly and supernal realms.

Student screams saturate EE walls and beyond.

The deluded murderer exists the scene,

Gives himself up to arrest without protest.

Police handcuff the savage at gunpoint.

Locals and countless alums recoil in disbelief,

Grieve the sad truth with anger and disgust.

Unbridled sorrow descends.

Shock and dismay echo through time and space,

Reverberate the terror, the horror.

Mournful woe cries out for the Almighty’s Presence.

* * *

Lord, supply strength for those who grieve;

Convict the assassin and lead him to repentance.

Grainless Baking

This evening I baked for a four-hour marathon after dinner, creating gluten-free crackers, bread, buns, and granola from nuts and nut meals (walnuts, almonds) and seeds and seed meals (sesame, buckwheat). The average American would have grabbed look-alike, wheat-laden items from grocery shelves in just a few minutes for a fraction of the cost, but not me.  Not any more.  My husband’s cardiologist says so.

Here’s the bakery display on my kitchen counter:

Heroes

I walked the track at the fitness center for an hour during my husband’s first cardiac rehab session today.  Fourteen rounds equaled a mile. I’d managed forty-two when the muscles in my legs threatened revolt, so I stopped.   The afterglow left me feeling refreshed and cleansed, as if a tangle of old cobwebs had been swept out.

During the walk I entertained myself by people-watching.  I seemed to notice four basic categories of humanity: the super-fit trainer types, the fit-and-maintaining-it types, the unfit-but-rehabilitating types, and the disabled.   As I repeatedly watched certain individuals on recurring laps, I decided to group them into smaller subsets according to their influence on me: inspiring, neutral, dispiriting.

Athletic types – some young, others middle-aged, and a handful of oldsters - obviously prioritized exercise on a regular basis.  One muscular, trim woman about my age, dressed in black leotards and a trendy sports top, appeared blissfully confident and at ease while making seriously harsh demands on her body. Her movements were fluid and lovely to watch. A jaunty, well-kept gentleman in red sports shorts, probably in his eighties, joked with the much younger female weight trainer.  His countenance paralleled hers as he flamboyantly flexed his biceps, smiling more broadly than anyone else in the entire facility.  

Another segment of blank-faced, disproportioned or handicapped types also went through motions on various exercise machines.  A gentleman wearing a black Harley Davidson shirt over a bowlful-of-jelly stomach reminded me of a droopy, sad Santa Claus.  A crippled woman valiantly working with a trainer seemed beyond hope, and yet would not give up. 

By the time I finished walking they had all became my heroes.  After all, THEY WERE THERE, doing something intentional to care for their bodies.  It was inspiring and motivating.  I’ll be back on Wednesday, and wonder if I’ll see some of my same heroes again.

After Losing the Basketball Game

Long years

She learned

Full surrender:

Rampant illness.

Her soul

Forged strength

From suffering:

Redeemed pain.

* * *

Prevailing hope

Defines her

Confident finesse:

Quickened perspective.

She grasps

Son’s shoulders

Following defeat:

Inspired encouragement.

“Look me in the eyes,” she insists of our grandson.

“I love the struggle.”

“I love the struggle.”

Introducing Dorothy

We discovered Dorothy today sitting among a huge family of vehicles in a faraway city’s car lot.  She’s a 2007 Ford Edge devoid of all the technological bells and whistles, which is great since we prefer simplicity.  Dorothy has all-wheel drive, relatively low mileage, and a beautiful soft, Purdue-gold finish.  We plan to get a Purdue license plate for the front, just for old times sake.

And so, the car search is over.  The process was a bit like an involved adoption, lasting for months, and then in a matter of hours she was ours.  I can hardly believe it.  Welcome to the family, Dorothy!

Flashes of Light

Peripheral lightning started flashing in my right eye yesterday in the late morning. 

We have a busy weekend planned, traveling to the old hometown to conduct business at the bank and then on to visit our daughter and her family and drive a potential new car.  However, this morning I knew I needed to see an optometrist before leaving town.

The worst case scenerio?  A torn retina.  I consulted a powerful prayer written by the Optima Elders:  “…Grant unto me grace to surrender myself completely to Your holy will.  Instruct and prepare me in all things for every hour of this day.  Whatsoever tidings I may receive during the day, teach me to accept them calmly…When things unforeseen occur, let me not forget that all comes down from you…”

We do not yet have a local optometrist.  So I called several offices within a 40-minute radius.  One was closed.  Another couldn’t get me in until afternoon.  Bingo, the third was available!

I had a few minutes before it was time to leave, so sat down at the piano and picked out the tune to Kontakion 8 from the Akathist of Thanksgiving, and sang the following words:

How near You are in the days of illness;

You Yourself visit the sick.

You Yourself bend down to the bed of the sufferer

And the heart speaks to You.

In times of hardship and suffering,

You illuming the soul with peace;

You send unexpected help.

You are consoling, searching and saving love,

And to you we sing the song:

Alleluia.

At the time of this writing, I have had the appointment and am back home. I was immediately impressed by the optometrist, and grateful to have ended up in her office.  She ran extensive tests and assured me that my symptoms were associated with an aging issue and would most likely resolve without intervention, leaving a large floater in their wake (and would also repeat in the other eye).  She also talked with me about nutritional eye health, and let me know I have early cataracts forming.

I share this story mainly to emphasize (to myself, as well as my readership) that we truly know little from day to day.  Life requires us to go with the flow, to accept whatever realities confront us, and to trust God to be with us in the midst of them.

Watch Them Soar

The view outside is stark and desolate, but also strikingly beautiful despite the emptiness.  Snowy ice stretches across the lake, gripping the shoreline as if resolved to hold on at any cost.

It reminds me of myself sometimes, clutching what is familiar. However, one day a warm wind will insist the ice release its intense pressure so playful waves can slap the shore. I will also give way to change. The ebb of life is always in the process of becoming the flow, until the flow ultimately ebbs.  It is best to move with the tide rather than struggle against it.

Yesterday morning I had no idea that an atypical, exciting move was brewing for one of our children, one that seems a custom fit. This morning everything is different.  Gratitude and anticipation swell within my mother’s heart like countless drops of water filling a sponge.  But even as I celebrate, there is a pensive, thoughtful side to the news. 

Now two of our four children will be living “on the other side of the moon” from us - one 1,300 miles away, the other 2,300 miles away.  That’s a lot of miles when you’re an old woman, especially an old mother. Motherhood brings with it a sort of mucilage of the heart that refuses to let go.  I’ve learned it is a discipline, as well as an art, for a mother to learn how to love well with open arms that welcome and release adult children with equal eagerness.

The other two kids live within driving distance, 18 miles (almost our back yard) and 217 miles (which seems almost like next door compared to thousands).  I step back and look at all four with joy and thanksgiving for the people they are and the lives they’re living, and have no desire to control them or crimp their style.  I simply enjoy sharing life, and miss them when apart. 

A friend who shares a kindred spirit seems to intuitively know how I tick.  She emailed me this afternoon about the two living far away, and her words gave me much comfort. “You have given them wings to fly and land in parts of the world you yourself have not touched, but they are touching them through and because of you.”  Thank you, dear friend.  Every mother needs to be reminded that she was gifted with precious children so that she can watch them soar.

The Man Without a Donut

Even though fresh snow began falling in big clumps after my husband’s first two-hour cardiac rehab session today, we decided to accomplish miscellaneous errands on the icy roads before returning home.  By the time 5:00 p.m. rolled around, we’d both grown weary and were ready for a dinner of soup and salad and a quiet evening. 

However, I suggested we make one last stop at the grocery for broccoli, a current essential at our house.  Upon entering the store, I zoomed toward the produce section while my husband clomped off in his moon boots (usually for ice fishing) in the opposite direction to search for something more appealing – namely goat cheese, the only dairy-type food he is currently allowed on his rigorous heart-healthy elimination diet.

With my nutrient-dense, green florets in hand, I trekked to the other side of the store to search for him. I’d barely turned the corner to head down the appropriate aisle, and…there he was, hunched over and dejected-looking, still as a stone, staring straight ahead.  Pining after donuts.  Not just any donuts, but his favorite cake donuts with maple glaze.  I stopped and snapped a picture with my iPhone, feeling like a bit of a roving reporter who had just stumbled upon a story of deprivation and sacrifice for a greater cause. 

He’d posed in this way just for me, of course.  We both broke out laughing, almost to the point of tearful hilarity.  It was funny, the way he stood in front of the case like a little boy aching for a treat well beyond the realm of possibility.  The more we laughed, the sillier it seemed. A few shoppers stared at us, probably wondering what could possibly be so funny about the donut case? Why were we acting so juvenile?  But we didn’t care.  It was a great ending to the day. 

So, no donuts.  Tomorrow morning this poor, needy guy will have to settle for my gluten-free cinnamon-apple coffeecake made with almond flour, fresh from the oven.  Yummmmmm.

Naming the Car

Car #3 turned out to be a friendly, classy lady (see yesterday’s blog if you need more information).  She's my kind of gal: playful but powerful, sporty and yet gracious.

Notice I said she.  Not he, or it.  Why do we allude to cars with a feminine pronoun?  This, dear friends, is a deep question for shallow minds.

The fact is, cars aren’t alone in this matter.  Boats, countries, machines, institutions, and even abstract ideas are also referred to as she.  Some believe this practice originated in male-dominant geographical areas where men 1.) depend on the object for their lives or 2.) find the object hard to understand or control.  If males superstitiously label such an object as feminine, flattery could increase their chances of being seen in a favorable light.  Ah, yes.  Sweet talk.

Others claim she is used to refer to things that can contain or hold people, either tangible (as a car, boat, or spaceship) or geographically (as a country).  This seems feasible since women possess wombs that nurture human life.

Boats are often namesakes for an owner’s mother or other significant woman.  We don't know why, although early Greek ships were dedicated to mythological goddesses; the habit of a female pronoun may have continued as a matter of habit.  Male captains and sailors worldwide have chosen female names and figureheads for their vessels throughout history, although actual women have traditionally been considered bad luck at sea. 

On a more practical note, English nouns have lost their original ties to Indo-European gender differences.  A car in French is une voiture, with une denoting femininity as opposed to the masculine un.  Interestingly, the boat in French is le bateau, with le being masculine as opposed to the feminine la.   It is possible that English folk traditions have tried to hang on to male-female differentiations that continue to exist in other languages, although imperfectly.

But back to Car #3.  We’re not buying this exact car, but rather her currently unidentified sister with 4-wheel drive.  The dealer is putting out a search, so we’ll see what he turns up.  Meanwhile, I’m thinking about a name, obviously female. Genevieve, Madeline, Juliet, Beatrice, and Victoria are in the running. I also like Isabella, or Bella for short.  But my favorite at this point is Dorothy.  After all, a car takes you everywhere you want or need to go, but in the end “There’s no place like home.”

Car Shopping

We’re in the midst of serious (as opposed to recreational) car shopping. The dependable but worn-out car we currently own is 15 years old.  Her Victorian plum paint is peeling, and her edges are crumbly with rust.  Poor dear, she’s just plain tired. 

However, I’ve always liked her style: the fact that her windows wind up and down with knobs (our oldest grandchild thinks this is a riot); the way she needs your help to do just about everything.  There’s nothing electronic on the dash, no bells and whistles.  She’s simple, honest, straightforward, and reliable.  A good best friend. 

She’s had her moments of glory, but now necessity beckons.  In the last two days we’ve driven three different models of 2013 Fords.  Following are a few experiences from the test drives.

Car #1:

We jointly try to adjust the steering wheel, our legs sticking out the front doors, while still in the dealer’s parking lot.  This should have required only a few seconds but takes us a good 5 minutes since we’re unfamiliar with the (rather simple) technology. 

I drive first and immediately like the car.  “This is nice! It’s small enough that I feel like I have good control.  It’s maneuverable.  Comfortable.”

He feels cramped when it is his turn.  “My foot is too big – it hits the accelerator and brake at the same time!  Sure, it’s nice, and I think it’s perfect for you, but (he tries to break it to me gently) it will never work for me.”  Then he says, “Do you think you can figure out how to turn down the heat? I’m getting really hot…”

“I guess it would take some studying to figure out how everything works,” I reply.

Car #2:

He drives first and immediately likes the car.  “Oh WOW.  This is a sweet car; I really like this one.  It’s big, powerful, and roomy. I like it.  A lot.”

A manly car, I think to myself.

We pull in to Panera for lunch, and he immediately runs into unexpected techno-trouble. “How do I get the crazy key out?  It came out earlier, but now…it’s stuck!”  We sit there for a few minutes while he wiggles the key without success. Finally I open the glove compartment and pull out the manual.  I read, “You have to put the car in neutral to remove the key.”

As I take my turn on the Interstate, I try to couch my words.  “It would take me a while to adjust, and I definitely could.  But I feel like I’m in a tank! I could do it though, I could get used to it.”  Then in a moment of exasperation: “The turn signal is so touchy!  How do I turn on the windshield wipers, anyway?”

Car #3:

He slips behind the wheel and within the first minute proclaims,  “YEAH!  I think we’ve found our compromise.  You’re going to like this.  You’re really going to like this….I think.”  Then he asks, “Can you mess around and see if you can get the radio to work?  No, that’s the CD…now you’re doing something with the fan, stop messing with the fan!  Try that row of buttons over there.”

He drives us from the dealer’s lot to an evening meeting in The City, and it is well past dark when we return to our own driveway, still with the loaned car.  Millions of little lights shine on the dash, the steering wheel, the doors, and the console.  “Geesh, you need all THIS to drive this car,” he says, gesturing toward the buttons. 

I’m still waiting for my turn behind the wheel of this cute but c-o-m-p-l-i-c-a-t-e-d vehicle  tomorrow morning.  I’m expecting to like it, buttons and all; I’ve been told I will.

Sky Messengers

I walked the road this evening

For the first time in a while,

Relishing dry pavement

And crisp air that carried

A vague but hopeful hint of spring.

To the east a three-quarter moon

Hung in space like a glazed eye,

Staring through white haze to

Expose some inner quality

I’d been unwilling to see.

I felt it study and scrutinize me

With a knowing almost-wink,

While to the west the heavens burned

Like a fierce forest fire turned inferno

That consumed the entire sky.

Between the two I continued on

Keenly aware of a Presence,

One ready to disclose and then consume

Habitual burdensome weights

That had crippled me for too long.

A sense of wonder fell on the road

And over me completely as well:

As I seek God with all my soul and strength

He reveals my deep heart

And burns the dross away.