What If…

A shout from one of the cooks, “Put away your devices, get your drinks, dinner is ready!”
Grandad chuckles, “In my day, mother called us to wash up, dinner is ready!”
Seven adults and five children scramble around the hand-made farm table. Fast-paced, high-spirited but congenial debate evolves into our common discussion of tactical experience versus technological experience.

“I like it when my cuzeen teacheded me how to find a Gym.” the three-year-old offers, referencing the current Pokemon Go craze. A mix of opinions spanning ages and genders ends the evening in a pleasant feeling of exercised minds.

I represent the oldest generation in this cast of family. I have long been a fan of Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card. I positively believe that the world will be saved by an unknown genius who spent many hours gaming in varieties of worlds, levels, times and spaces limited only by the imagination of the creators and players.

Our future generations will need to be proficient in virtual planning and strategies. Already there is a need for defense of information and people. The primary weapon will be technology as in Ender’s Game. This fantasy novel written in 1985 is eerily relevant in 2016. Set in the future, Ender Wiggen is the hero of the story. He begins like all the other children in the story playing complicated video games. The world has been defeated twice by an alien invasion. Ender’s combination of human empathy and skilled warfare learned through gaming leads to the eventual defeat of the aliens in the third and hopefully final battle. While we have not reached the outer space alien enemy world we certainly do have alien enemies whose beliefs defy comprehension. Planning and following strategies are just some of the benefits.
Cheryl Olson, Sc.D., a researcher in the first large project on video game effects on pre-teens through a 1.5 million dollar federal grant for Harvard, focused on over one thousand students in South Carolina and Pennsylvania. The conclusions note an improvement in self-esteem for boys and girls especially for those with ADHD or other developmental disabilities. In addition, kids are able to try varying roles and behaviors in a safe environment.  Dr. Olson and her husband, Lawrence A. Kutner, Ph.D. have written a book called Grand Theft Childhood. They allow their teenage son to play video games.
Many games have violent themes yet the FBI reports no significant correlation between violence committed by youths and mature rated video games. Child obesity, another concern, has a higher link to hours spent watching television than gaming. Another study conducted by Michigan State University of 482 children found no statistical link between video game playing and weight gain. The study also found that boys who spent hours on realistic video sports spent more time on actual physical sports activities.
My eight-year-old grandson is hearing impaired and has some developmental issues along with the ever popular ADHD. He also reads, computes and comprehends in the 95th percentile. His favorite video game is Minecraft, a world building game focusing on gathering and surviving. He explains to me with a great focus the ins and outs of teleporting, portals, texture packs and the myriad of other creative aspects. Enamored with my friend’s fairy garden, a kind of real world Minecraft, he wants to build a fairy structure with me. We did it today. He gave the vision and direction while I handled the tools. Without his vision, I might have failed. Without my hands on skill, he might have failed. This could lead one to believe that video games v. hands on is a stand-off. I stand on the side of not so. My reason lies in the fact that it is July, it is 101 today in our neck of the woods, and Halloween is the last thing on my mind. Yet, my grandson spotted some Halloween themed tape in my collection of crafty things and his imagination kicked into high gear. Not only did he provide a theme he also decided a tree house would be the perfect structure for conveying the spooky. He is able to think outside the box, not limited to convention. He was not adept at handling a glue gun but he sure knew where the glue needed to go. I can’t say I was much better and have the blister to show for it.
High-fiving me after my squealed curse, “Way to take one for the team G-ma!”

Between us, we built a fantasy any real fairy would be happy to abide in.
The adults in my family play a fantasy game of our own creation, the stolen title is Zombie Apocalypse. The title covers a variety of disasters that may befall our world including plague, war, economic collapse and meteorological disaster. All of our scenarios involve the collapse of modern technology. The primary weapon will be the ability to adapt and create. I have undeveloped property in the Blue Ridge Mountain foothills of southern Virginia. Most of our fantasy quests involve getting to this property from our scattered locations while gathering and collecting things we may need. We are in no serious way doomsday preppers, we are more like arm-chair what iffers. Our schemes involve building a small society of family and friends who survive and thrive in a post apocalypse world. I know our little fantasy gamers even without modern technology will guide and focus working hands to build the best new world on the property should all hell break loose. At least our little corner of the world will be saved. Other little gamers will do the same in their corners and life will go on ready for the next world or level or time or space.

My Life In Lists

 

This post was written by my husband…

My Life in Lists
A biographical letter to my friends and family that turned into something else.

An attempt to put on paper many of my thoughts about me.
Feeling unworthy is a recurring theme. My parents helped me to understand that my worth came from my accomplishments or lack there of. I began work at an early age. My father knew that I would not be college material when I was but seven. I lacked the passion to prove him wrong. I became my work. When I worked hard and did well my parents were content if not proud. When I failed my parents withdrew from me.
I grew older. My parents were no longer central. But my early training ran deep.
I measure my life in accomplishments. If I want to assure myself that I am still relevant and need to find some self-worth, I list the accomplishments of my prime…
30 years working in the paper industry
Raising three daughters
Softball, basketball, weight lifting, running, coaching
Recalled feelings from my prime consist mostly of pride, anxiety, anger, fear, and contentment. It was the best time of my life.
I became a person with high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and diabetes when I was 40 years old.
I ran and played sports and I worked hard.
I loved my children and my wife. I loved my dogs.
I ran 5K’s with my oldest daughter. My form wasn’t pretty, but I was swept up in emotions every time I saw my beautiful daughter flying by with such grace.
While putting up a fence with my son-in- law a major life event happened. I got sick with Rhabdomyolysis an extreme form of heat stroke. I was in acute kidney failure. I spent 4 days in the hospital. A week later I was re-admitted to the hospital with congestive heart failure, while still in the hospital I had a heart attack. Two stents were put into an artery in my heart.
Eventually, I had to stop working.
I felt worthless.
I became the kind of person I had never admired: retired early with disability.
I searched for productivity and self-worth and eventually found it in wood working. I collected the tools of the trade and began making useful things in my garage. People were proud of me. I was proud of myself.
I had another heart attack. Another stent.
I am a person with coronary artery disease, severe depression with anxiety, latent autoimmune diabetes of the adult, chronic congestive heart failure, neuropathy, memory loss, high triglycerides, kidney damage, high blood pressure and little self-worth. I think about these things every single day.
One day while driving I could not find my way home.
I have forgotten what kind of vehicle I drive.
Sometimes written words do not make any sense to me.
I have felt hopeless.
I am really angry.
I dwell on all the wrongs.
I keep thinking if I eat right, exercise, take my medications I will get better. I am very frustrated when I don’t get better.
I know other people are worse off than me. But my glass is half empty.
I can no longer do wood working. I also had to sell my precious tools. My medical bills are mounting.
I had another stent placed for a 95% blocked artery.
I am now a soap maker. I like it. It is not tiring. I can obsess over it with little disturbance to others. People are proud of me and my soaps.
People who help me get up in the mornings:
My wife. I appreciate my wife and all she does for me and for putting up with me
through all of this. It is not what I had planned.
Katherine. Always encouraging, and knowledgable. Willing to drop everything to come
help.
Hannah. The voice of reason and my rock. She treats me the same as ever, not like the
unworthy person I think I am.
Claire. The sunshine on my cloudiest days.
Jeff. His tireless listening when I complain about all my ailments. Putting up with me
saying “when I came down with the Rhabdo.”
Ben. He has made it possible to enjoy the outdoors inviting me on hunting expeditions. He checks on me often and even carries extra medicine for me in his pack.
Ron. He is always there with kind words, a kind card or note or just a good laugh and a pat on the back.
Mark and Angie. They both suffer chronic health issues of their own but always find time for me in their thoughts and prayers.
I love my dogs, they offer unconditional love every minute of every day.
I know what it feels like to be humbled by emotions that are good. My three daughters are instant sources of pride and happy feelings. They are the best thing I have ever done.
My glass is half empty but I strive to see it as half full. I pray to overcome the shadow of depression that hangs over everything. I pray to accept what is.
My doctor told me that I have a multi-faceted disease process. There is no cure, but there is slowing it down. I think I finally get this. It will never go away.
I will never run another race with my daughter. The sadness threatens to over take me.
I am finding a new life, a new way to accept myself, and a new way to value the people and things I have in this life. I want to be done with anger.
I go to bed at night and wonder if I will wake up in the morning.
My grandchildren bring me such peace and joy. But there is such profound sadness too. Will I see them all grow up? Does everyone think this? Does everyone find themselves in tears almost daily thinking about all that they might miss?
My pain also rises when I think of my wife. I feel such despair for putting her through all of this. She did not deserve this.
I will have good days and bad. Everyone does. Right?

Fish Night

Fish Night

Rosemary and that other smell drift by his nose. His occasional forehead wrinkle warns me before he even utters the words, “Fish night?” My stomach twists and happiness fizzles. Why is he always disappointed on fish night? The agreed upon weekly dinner formula is three fish, one beef, one chicken, one vegetarian and one “other.”

I collect tantalizing fish recipes online. Cook-books line the shelf, dog-eared to pages with fancy fish. The fish market man greets me by name offering yet another recipe card featuring fish. The spice rack in my pantry boasts purple basil, funugreek, and a special curry blend. Experiments in olive oil infusions add “sciencey” flair to my kitchen counter. Good food, bene-factions of love to family and friends. Table lingering their gift. Like Napoleon Dynamite I offer a “delicious bass” as a token of my undying affection.

His idea of a fish supper involves batter and grease, preferably with fries and hush puppies. He confesses thoughts of food occupy better than 50% of his brain time. It used to be sex, but now his mantra goes something like this: Food, sex, food, family, food, dogs, food, work, food. Given a choice he will fill the pantry with white rice and pasta and the freezer with bacon and sausage. Fish wrapped in bacon stuffed with sausage served on a bed of rice with lots of butter irons out any wrinkle on his brow.

As newlyweds we were a perfect food match. I delighted in his savoring the prepared meals. He aimed to compliment, I aimed to please. No longer newlyweds, time marched on.

He tries. I am disappointed.

I like it. He does not.

He had a heart attack. I did not.

I am compliant. He is not.

We both eat the fish.

Latent autoimmune diabetes of the adult, type 1.5, has ravaged his heart, liver, kidneys, eyes and feet. He is 54. The dinner formula is an agreement of strangers – us, a doctor and a dietitian. They desire to keep him healthy, my desire is more complicated. Three nights is more than four nights on a calendar. Three fish nights keep his heart healthy, but it breaks mine. Three nights is a lot…for both of us.

Non Rum Drinking Liberal?

I find myself sitting at a VIP table in a strip club. A nagging flicker of a headline jabs my mind. Liberal Church Lady Attends Strip Club Premiere Show. I am outwardly cool. Secretly, I am certain we are all going straight to hell. I blame the government, naturally.

Our economy was on the brink of disaster, again. My husband’s 25 year career was interrupted due to the industry’s demise in the United States. I went back to school. We would have a fall back income, mine. Upon graduation I was offered a job in a sunny, warm, touristy kind of place.

We made the move. I loved my job. My husband had the promise of a new job in the career he loves. There was a downside though. His job would not start for 14 months. He has worked since the age of 14. No reason to rest now. So he took a temporary job in a shoe store. I called him “Al.” (Some readers of this story will get this. Some won’t. It’s OK.)

My husband is very tall, well-built and wears his hair very close to his head. People often ask if he is a policeman. This strokes his ego. I bring him back to reality, commenting, “you look like a guy who enjoys a good doughnut now and then.” I mention all of this now because a frequent shoe customer offered my husband a job as a bouncer in a strip club. Since there was no application or interview, we came to the conclusion the only qualifications had to do with appearance. This was fine because it seemed my husband’s only qualification for a new temporary job was money. The frequent shoe customer promised a weekly take home three times the rate of the shoe store.

So here I sit. I am drinking rum and coke waiting for the main attraction. The riches in pay have been fulfilled. I am sporting a new diamond ring celebrating our 25 years together, paid for by strip club gold. I am about to pat myself on the back because I am so open-minded. I find myself admiring the beautiful lithe bodies. I imagine them all to be here because they want to be. That they too have found a job they love while paying the rent.   A slow trickle of thought begins to erode my pride; I might be a strip club snob. Pride is dashed, snobbery and judgement arrive when the main attraction steps onto the stage. She is well-known in the strip club world, so I think it’s OK to mention her name, but then again maybe not. I will say that she is very short, a little person. She is also very pregnant. My mind threatens to blow. I have never been back to a strip club and I no longer drink rum. I confine myself to wine and armchair liberalism.

*This is a mostly true story. All events did happen but I may or may not confine myself to wine and my armchair.

Irreverent Dark

When we arrived the Power was out. Three days of darkness. Someone finally calls for help. Soon after we stand in a room filled with light. Someone else calls out, “Oh hey, thanks Jesus!”

This was just a little writing excercise prompt. Who turned on the light? Well actually, the question was “who turned out the light?”I just could not figure it out and turning on the light just kept popping into my head. Probably because it is the season of Lent.

Brown As A Berry

Okinawa 1964

Splashing out of the water, I heard my grandmother exclaim, “that child is brown as a berry.” My earliest memories of the proclamation filled me with happiness.  Now I am a grandmother and I have used that same phrase more than a few times. I can not think of any brown berries. A little research and I found the first usage is credited to Geoffrey Chaucer (14th century England), in at least two of his Canterbury Tales. In The Cook’s Tale,”Happy he was as goldfinch in the glade, Brown as a berry, short, and thickly made…” And in his description of the Monk, “He was not pale as some poor wasted ghost.A fat swan loved he best of any roast. His palfrey was as brown as is a berry.” Some scholars attribute this idiom to a description of grains or nuts possibly referred to as berries in the 14th century. In both cases it does seem to mean tanned skin or fur. Which is what it still means to this day. I am in love with this idiom which has survived mostly intact for 6 centuries!

The picture attached to this post was taken in 1964.  It is a picture of me (I am in the swim cap in the background), and two of my friends, Kim and Susie. Our fathers were stationed in Okinawa. We played at the beach often and so began my love of being “brown as a berry.”

Olden Days

“Grandma tell me about the olden days…” I love stories about days gone by. I am intrigued by common and uncommon turns of phrase. I hope to honor those who have gone before us by remembering the stories. I want to shed light on everyday colloquialisms past and present.  Some posts will be fresh, some “old as the hills.”