One Feather at a Time.....

I have recently been struck by the generosity of others.  Not necessarily strangers, but my awareness of the tiniest gestures have seemed somehow magnified.  Every door opened, kind word.  Offers of help are being taken seriously.  When a life changing event happens to people you love it has an almost Matrix effect.  Things around you are moving at warp speed and frame by frame slow motion at the same time.  People say everyday," live each day to the fullest", " you don't know what tomorrow will bring", I hear these words I fully acknowledge they are true.  It isn't until your life has been touched by unforeseen circumstances that they actually resonate within you.  There are so many ways to spread love and kindness.  I guess what I'm getting at is...no gesture is too small, cliche I know.  What seems insignificant to you, may mean the one bright spot in someone's very dark day.  It doesn't need to make you feel ethereal, although that would be nice.  As the Nike campaign says, 'Just Do It'.... Open a door, smile at a stranger, send a card, a call, even a text to someone who is scared, ill or hurting.  It might not even effect you all that much, but I guarantee the kindness will have great ramifications.  Never think, "what can I do? They don't know me. Someone else would do a better, bigger, more heartfelt job"  Giving generously of yourself should become routine.  Like gardening, the results you see and feel may not happen right away, but they will happen.  The love and nurturing feelings however small will produce contentment, understanding, patience, and joy.  A friend of mine just told me I was an angel......I said I was doing what needed to be done and that I am far from being an angel.  She said these simple words which won't stop replaying in my mind...... Referring to angel's wings, "We all can become angels, one feather at a time.

Dinner and a show?

I admit that I am less of a mediator/parent and more of a referee/parent.  My style is to sit back watch the escalating match of words between three bright sometimes too articulate daughters.   If there is blood drawn, or low punches are thrown I will don my black and white jersey blow my whistle and yell foul.  When you think of fights between siblings you might think of slapping, hitting  a little name calling and crying.  Watching an altercation between my girls is like riding California Screamin' at Disneyland's  California Adventure.  Fast, and furious, your emotions teeter between laughter and terror.  Even though these debates, that's putting it lightly, are a regular occurrence, my girls are actually very close friends. The gloves come on, the bell sounds, the fight ensues and then when it's done...it's done.  My husband retreats at the onset.  He doesn't understand, he wants to step in.  He would like a meeting to convene like the U.N. of sisterhood and have them respectfully, calmly, QUIETLY work out the problem de jour.  Not happening!  There is screaming,  there is occasionally pushing, but, there is always cruel articulation of how they really feel.  Feelings are hurt, tears are shed, gratefully, apologies are inevitable.  You will never find three sisters who can fight against and for each other as fiercely as these.  In the past several years there has been an added element in the sisterly arena of battle.  Her name is Hannah Cobley.  The daughter of a very close friend, or I should say, their friendship started first.  Hannah is nicely placed exactly 2 years in between my middle and youngest daughters.  Because of this I have always referred to her as my missing link.  She has been a dear friend to both Allie and Mary, and a loving annoyance to my oldest daughter Katie.  As the friendship grew, the more often we invited Hannah to join us on weekend trips and sleepovers, the more comfortable she became.  Hannah has not only been privy to watching the sister fights but more than occasionally she has been a real part of them.  Fights between these girls have been long and often times hurtful and down right ugly.  But as the true sisters they are, they love as hard as they fight.  Hannah once said after coming over for an impromptu dinner when a sister fight loomed near, "I didn't know there would be dinner and a show".  We all laughed so hard I can't remember what they were fighting about.  Well, now it's time for Hannah's Outcalt sisters to fight with Hannah on a different battle field.  Hannah has been diagnosed with Leukemia.  Her prognosis is great.  She and her family are ready for this war.  I want to let Hannah know, on no uncertain terms, that this isn't just her fight.  She has three more sisters who are armor clad and battle ready.  So, Leukemia, you better watch out, Hannah knows first hand how powerful Oucalt sister fights can be....Bring it on!

Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do

Let me set the scene...One hundred or so children.  Ages range from 3 to 18, three weeks in the stinking hot Arizona summer.  Three to five different groups, defined by age.  Two crazed women. Kay Randolph, pianist and vocal coach.  Polly Chapman, director and choreographer.  Three to five,  depending on the summer, abridged musicals.  THREE WEEKS!!!  We are talking scenery, costumes, lines, lines lines.....Dancing, blocking, staging, props, more lines...Singing, more dancing more blocking and of course more lines.  My children have had the great privilege to participate in this chaotic, theatrical, menagerie for the better part of their lives.  After 25 glorious years the superhuman production team are turning off the stage lights, packing away the props and wiping away the greasepaint along with countless tears.  These aren't members of my family, but they might as well be.  They have helped me raise my children and have given me unwanted advise more times than I can count. So

I sit here, thinking about how Do Re Mi's Summer Company has affected my life during the past 18 years I have been a part of it...Summer Company has not just been a part of my and my children's lives but an extension of our lives. It all started 18 summers ago when my now 22-year-old college graduate, Katie, was in Hot Sizzling Summer. From that moment on, when Kay and Polly stood on the stage, and said the words I've now heard at least 300 times," Our job is not to make your child a star, but a better person through theater.” with that strong promise I was hooked, line and sinker. It's all true, believe it or not. They had visions of better-behaved, well rounded, likable tots all do to with a simple premise, team work. Like a soccer or softball team these kids ran lines, moved stage pieces, danced, sang, laughed and cried. They rarely let each other down and when that happened, the dynamic duo turned it into a teachable moment. I was not left out of this 25-year escapade. I was sucked into teaching art, have done this for 11 years now. I also have done the props for 13 years, and sold dash o grams for 10. Don't get me wrong I have loved every minute of it! I have convinced myself that I am the only person who could have expertly executed all of these jobs! I've stood in the back of the room during rehearsals every summer and watched Kay and Polly encourage, scold and LOVE all of the children who have been fortunate enough to sign up and spend three amazing weeks with them. My three girls have learned teamwork, poise, and most importantly self respect. They have formed friendships that will truly last a lifetime. I have learned that the time you invest in all children has the biggest return. I know I'm a decent parent but I have to give a lot of credit to two super talented women who forever changed my summers and forever changed my children for the better.....Thanks for the memories Kay and Polly!

Love,

Bethie

Boot the Trike!

Recently I was reminiscing with some friends about rules imposed on us as youth  by our parents.  Here is one doosey of a story.  All true, and the kicker is my parents strong sense of justice.

I was 4 years old.  We lived in a pretty busy suburb.  I had rules to follow that were straight forward, simple and always enforced.  It was a summer afternoon.  My mom had appointments to keep and so I headed down to the end of my block for a play date with a little boy named John.  His mom was "taking a nap" at 11:00am, I'm to this day convinced she had been nipping at a bottle of jack or something of the sort.  We played in his yard and then made our way inside.  We were playing with toys unsupervised in his bedroom when I spotted a large silver piggy bank.  I asked what was in the bank, shaking it near my ear.  He proclaimed, "My money, from being baptized!!"  "Can I see it?" I begged.  He opened the bottom and poured the contents out onto his bed.  There were savings bonds, coins and several bills.  One in particular intrigued me.  I had never seen a 50 dollar bill before.  I then proposed a shopping spree, like any savvy girl would do.   We lived about 2 and 1/2 miles from a Smitty's Shopping Store.  This was like a Target Great-land or Super Walmart in our neighborhood.  Groceries, sundries, clothing, toys and more.....so much more!!  I suggested we take our trikes and some of "his" money and buy wonderful things. I mean, it WAS his money he should be able to spend it however he wanted to..right??  I guess I inherited my powers of persuasion from my father, the attorney.  He thought about it and before anyone was the wiser we were off.  We rode our trikes across a busy street that anchored our neighborhood and rode the 2 and 1/2 miles in over 100 degree temperatures to Smitty's.  We didn't have things like water bottles back then so we stopped once and drank from a neighbors hose.  Remember how good that water tasted??  I don't recall how long it took us to get there but I remember where we headed next.  The Brach's candy display.  We filled what seemed like large bags full of our favorite treats.  We then went to the candy and hot nut counter to pay ordering Icee's as well.  When John handed the woman the 50 she asked, "Where is your mother?"  John replied without breaking a sweat, "Over there?", pointing in the direction of the produce. Wow I was amazed at his ability to fib.  She believed him and off we went shopping playing and spending.  We finally decided we would get a handful of coins to ride the mechanical merry go round out front before our trek home.  When we arrived back at his house, I still do not know how we got there and back at age four without getting lost or abducted,  we sat on his front porch and played with the loot.  His mother still "sleeping" at least 2 to 3 hours later.  His dad got home from work and asked John who gave him permission to have the toys and candy.  He, unflinching, said "Mom did."  Then his mother appeared, bleary eyed, and said, "John, WHO said you could have this candy and these toys?  Again, stealthily he replied,"Dad did."  This is where it all unravels.  Still playing outside in front I see in the distance, my parents.  Not quite running but sort of speed walking arm in arm speaking sharply to one another as they approach me.  After a brief discussion with Johns parents, my mom and dad send me home saying the dreaded words, "We will deal with you later!"  I marched home bag of candy in tow.  I awaited my fate.  When my parents arrived they swatted my behind, yes parents spanked their children back then, and told me I broke a rule.  I crossed Oak Street without an adult.  That was it?  No lecture about Smitty's, candy or toys?  No.  They had never told me I couldn't go to Smitty's.  Crossing the street was my only offense.  Of course after that, they realized the rules needed to encompass more.  I also was never allowed to play with John again.  Not because he wasn't a nice kid but because he was never really supervised by his own parents.  I think, although my parents never said anything , they were quite impressed with my ability to plan and execute such a clever adventure. 


*The title of this blog was provided by my dear friend Lauren, who thought it would have been a good idea to "boot my trike" after such a wild escapade! 

It's my birthday and I don't have to like it!

 The truth is....I don't really like celebrating my birthday.  Never have.  It's not an age thing.  My sister did a wonderful job of making sure I would forever be somewhat uncomfortable celebrating.  How did she manage this?  SURPRISE PARTIES!!!  Not one, or two....Every year from age 3 to 8 she would plan, scheme, and execute the torturous event.  She would gather every child in our family laden neighborhood.  Some of my friends, mostly kids I had never laid eyes on.  I guess after the second year in a row of me screaming like a panic stricken sissy at a horror show I mistakenly thought she would give up.  Oh no!  This reaction, I have come to realize, after many self help books and too much Dr. Phil was like heroin to her.  She delighted in watching me panic, scream, cry and run and hide under my bed.  I did this every time, without fail.   So...I thank all well wishers.  I honestly appreciate the sentiment.  I hold my breath praying no one jumps out at me wearing the dreaded party hat.  I will leave you with this.  This is the book my mother lovingly bought me, age 8 to try and do some damage control.

Today is my birthday and on this auspicious occasion I would like to quote my all time  favorite author, Dr. Seuss.This is from a book I had as a child, "Happy Birthday To You"

If we didn’t have birthdays, you wouldn’t be you. If you’d never been born, well then what would you do? If you’d never been born, well then what would you be? You might be a fish! Or a toad in a tree! You might be a doorknob! Or three baked potatoes! You might be a bag full of hard green tomatoes."

"Or worse than all that…Why, you might be a WASN’T! A Wasn’t has no fun at all. No, he doesn’t. A Wasn’t just isn’t. He just isn’t present. But you…You ARE YOU! And, now isn’t that pleasant!" "Today you are you! That is truer than true! There is no one alive...

...who is you-er than you! Shout loud, “I am lucky to be what I am! Thank goodness I’m not just a clam or a ham Or a dusty old jar of sour gooseberry jam! I am what I am! That’s a great thing to be! If I say so myself, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!”

Why do infomercials seem like a great idea only in the middle of the night?

It's 1:30 am.  I can't sleep.  I have to save the world and my problem solving strategies are making my heart race.  My brain cannot rest,  therefore I cannot rest.  So, I do what every average "middle of the night supermom" does.  I seek help via cable TV.  It is absolutely astounding how many problem solving, life changing, miracle producing items you can find between the hours of 1 and 4 am.   As I scan the channels in an almost coma like trance. I am fixated on a particularly fascinating item.  It's called the "Ahh Bra"  No hooks, no wires and an amazing 4 way stretch.  How can this be?  The testimonials are riveting, the transformations unbelievable.  These women no longer have side spillage, yes, they use that term.  No visible back fat!  I want this thing!!!  Wait! It does even more!  It lifts, separates and makes you look ten years younger.  Who need to diet?  Plastic surgery?  Why?  When this super bra can do it all for you.  My palms sweat, I reach for my purse, and then something comes over me.  I resist the temptation of the Wonder Woman producing glorified sports bra but not before I get sucked into another product one channel below.  Yes, I admit, at 1:30 am I am very vulnerable to the carnival, snake oil, salesman type lurking about on many stations.  I have yet to succumb to the hypnotic rantings, and seductive descriptions of Easy Feet, Pajama Jeans and Perfect Meatloaf....But as soon as the sun goes down, my mind begins to race, and solving the world's problems is at hand,  the allure of the infomercial will once again be beckoning me.

My dirty little secret..

Yes, it's true.  I have a secret.  No, I don't have a love child, I'm not in the witness protection program and I'm not growing any illegal plants in my closet.  My secret is known to only a select few.  My family, best friends and........the unfortunate technicians who have to deal with my feet.   Yes, my feet.  On the surface they appear to be perfectly happy, normal feet. At at a closer glance specifically the bottom of my feet,  you see the ugly truth.  My feet are cracked, calloused, and peeling.  I do shower, wash my feet, and occasionally use Bath and Body Works heavy duty lotion.   I even have regular pedicures.  I also never, ever, wear closed toe shoes.  I am always in flip flops sandals or bare feet.   I know I control the fate of my feet.  I am aware that if I wore tennis shoes, or put lotion on my gnarly toes and then socks before bed, they would be smooth, silky, beautiful specimens.  I must have inherited a need for my feet to feel free!  On the upside, I could probably win a contest for walking across hot coals.  I must admit when I go to get a pedicure I enter with trepidation.  I am convinced that all of the lovely petite foreign techs gather in the back room and draw straws to see who has to work on "the beasts".  Once the unlucky lady approaches me, clad in rubber gloves,  I reluctantly remove my flip flops and place them in the basin of hot water.  Then the nightmare begins.  She removes my polish trims my apparently lovely toes and proceeds to lift up my feet.  The look of disgust is undeniable.  She asks if I want callous remover.  Callous remover?  I try to act surprised at the condition of my neglected pigs.  She shakes her head and goes to work.  As she starts to scrape, inevitably wiping her brow of sweat, she begins to see this as a mission.  Lips begin to change from a disappointed purse to a determined tight lip.  She begins to give me advise about my feet.  Her tone is caring with a hint of disapproval for my lack of foot care.  She advises me to put on lotion and wear socks.  I promise her I will, she discretely hands my a scrubby pumice-like pad.  I swear I will use it every day, knowing I wont.  I leave satisfied with my semi softened perfectly painted toes.  She nods, smiles thinking she has converted me from a barefooted hillbilly, into a pedicured princess.  She hasn't.  I will continue to bare my feet, walking across gravel, never putting on lotion.  And so the cycle continues, I will live with this dirty little secret, probably forever.