ThreeGraces

Conflicted

2007-04-27T23:42:00.000-04:00

Talking to myself and feelin' old.
Sometimes I'd like to quit.
Nothing ever seems to fit.
Hanging around.
Nothing to do but frown.
Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down.

I've just listened to Karen Carpenter sing that about 7 times. I just kept hitting replay. Why did I do that? I had a great day and now I have the blues. Sure, music and memory are powerful, but why did I indulge that side and marinate in it?

How can students half my age make a CD with unrelated music that turns out to be all of my all-time favorites? Yeah, Phill. This CD is a perfect blend of upbeat and melancholy, a gift from my students at our year-end party.

I guess that's the reason for my conflicted emotions... the end of another school year. I've given my last exam and just have to turn in grades. I already hosted a party for the Forensics team and now this week I'm having the Public Relations students over. The end of the year is at once liberating and melancholy-producing. Students feel that tension between competing and contrary emotions, but I'd bet most teachers do, too. At least this one does.

So while I've written this, Karen started singing "We've Only Just Begun." I'm not making that up for effect. That was seriously the next song. Seems appropriate. I've slid out of the marinade, but it is still rainy.

2007-02-05T16:31:00.000-05:00

So last weekend I attended a play with a few colleagues and students. Great fun with them and a thought-provoking play. I can't possibly explain it as well as Andrew did, so check out his most recent blog.

So my friend Amy's blog has these really funny photos of life in Egypt. They are 100% real. Maybe they are so funny to me because I once visited there, but I think everyone should look at her blog to see them.

It's been 2 years... what does that mean?

2007-02-02T00:37:00.000-05:00

This is hilarious. My last post was titled "I'm back," and then I didn't write again for 2 years!! What does this mean? There is only one reason I'm writing now... I just heard from my college pal Amy, who lives in Egypt. She has a blog that was so great, full of photos and info on her life. I just posted to hers and thought I should take a look at mine to update it.

If I haven't written in 2 years, what does that mean for my life? Well first, noone missed it. I didn't get a single email asking "where's your blog." Second, I obviously have felt as though there is nothing worth reporting. Third, the college students who lured me to blogspot have all graduated and gone... the new students are on MySpace. I can't possibly learn another system, so here I am.

Hmm. I'll try to write more frequently.

I'm Back!

2005-04-09T00:23:00.000-04:00

In case anyone is still checking this site.... I'm back! There is no good reason I have not been blogging. Just chalk it up to prioritizing, and blogging was low on the list.

I was encouraged to blog again today by J. Stahl after I told him about a little opportunity I have for the summer. He said I had to blog about it. Then again, maybe it was just funny to us at the time, like one of those "had to be there" kinds of things.

The situation is this: I might have an opportunity to intern at a PR agency over the summer. Yes, I said "intern." Here I am helping students find internships, and I just may be vying for one, too. That is where we went off into silliness.

"Sure, student Suzie, let me mail your resume in for you. I'll save you the postage." Then Ann goes for 3 points in the round file as soon as Suzie leaves.

"I'd love to look over your resume, student Johnny. Let's see. No, you really don't want to mention your 4.0 GPA or they'll think you're too academic. Oh, and see here? Don't mention your previous experience because they'll want to train you themselves," Ann smiles smugly.

"Welcome to the firm, Ann. You look familiar. Weren't you my public speaking teacher 3 years ago?" Ann's new boss smiles smugly.

The reality is that I've reconnected with a former mentor who is now principal of a PR firm. I've done corporate and non-profit PR, but a summer stint in an agency would give me a different perspective to share with my students. Besides, I know if I tell them one more East Ohio Gas story that they'll all run out of the classroom with spinning heads.

So, I'm applying to be an "educator in residence." Basically, an intern with credentials. I probably shouldn't have blogged about this just in case I lose the spot to a student half my age named Suzie or Johnny. But then again, that story may make a much funnier blog than this one.

There go any illusions I had of returning to blogging with something really profound!

Clothes Make My Man

2004-11-01T17:05:00.000-05:00

Tom and I went to a Halloween party last night dressed as, what else, tough Harley bikers. (BTW, thanks for the invitation MaryKate and Ashley! It was fun!)

When we were driving home Tom asked rhetorically, "What does it say about you when the clothes you wear every day are considered a Halloween costume?"

Trick-or-Treat

2004-10-28T21:32:00.000-04:00

Tonight was Trick-or-Treat night in my neighborhood. (I had never heard the term "Beggar's Night" until I moved to Ohio.) I set out my once-a-year, terra cotta, jack-o-lantern luminaries in a semicircle around my chair and the scarecrow, and I set up the candy distribution center in my driveway.

Overall, this year's costumes weren't as impressive as last year's when one big-for-his-age kid came in a suit and tie, carrying a bouquet of helium balloons and a giant check proclaiming me the winner of the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes.

There were the too-cute-for-words babies... an alligator, a cowboy, a princess. As cute as they are, it burns me that the parents are really getting candy for themselves. Sure, dress up the 1 year old and take pictures, but do you really need to go door-to-door to get chocolate for the baby?

There were the pre-adolescent enthusiasts... Harry Potters, firemen and policemen, old ladies and 50s girls in poodle skirts. Their goal is to run to as many houses as they can in the 90 minutes. Which is why one particular pair had me in stitches. Two boys dressed up as "fat, bald, old men." They had wrapped themselves in foam padding and were wearing sweats. But they walked like the little brother in "A Christmas Story." There was no way they could get up if they fell. They couldn't bend knees or arms and could barely go house to house. And since speed is the purpose of pre-adolescent boys, I think they discovered quickly that a good idea had turned bad. After watching them painstakingly walk to two houses, I saw them later on skateboards. Problem solved!

And there were the teenagers without costumes. I was so tempted not to give them any candy since they were too old and obviously in it only for the loot, but I was aware that my home would be a target for egg bombs or T.P.-ing. Besides, Tom told me to be extra generous this year because we have a Bush/Cheney sign in our yard. "We want people to know that Republicans are generous with their candy."

A family of nicknames...

2004-10-27T01:17:00.000-04:00

Chick, Chickie, Boodie, Cribbo, Slugger, Sluggo, Weezie, Butchie, Butchicat, Mimi, PC, Laurinski, Sissy, A, Big A, Rip, O, Lloyd, Chippy, Fing, Nana Luv, PupPup, Nana, Papa, Hobbes, Googs, Eggie, Dooders ... these are just a few of the nicknames in my immediate family. Yes, I'm still stuck on why we give them, what they mean, why some make it and others don't, why some people have multiples and others have none...

My Original Grace

2004-10-22T02:42:00.000-04:00

There is a fourth "Grace" in the personality amalgam I'm creating. Actually, she is the first.

My mother, G. Marilyn (Bloom) O'Data, celebrated her birthday last week. She has gone by "Marilyn" her entire life. But her first name is actually "Grace," named after our home church, Grace Evangelical Lutheran.

Ironically, she began to loathe her first name when classmates in grade school teased her about Gracie Allen. They would repeat the closing line "Say goodnight, Gracie" and infer that my mother was as airheaded as the character Gracie Allen portrayed. (Read earlier blog for the real deal on Allen's intelligent portrayal and why I hold her in great esteem.) Of course, also ironically, "Marilyn" would later have its own meaning, wouldn't it?

My mother is the epitome of graciousness. She is sacrificial in her care for others. More than simply taking the steak that falls from the grill and onto the grass, she consisently puts others' needs first. There have been times that her good intentions and concern have been misunderstood as controlling; it cuts to the bone to feel her hurt as she is bewildered by those who misinterpret her actions.

In my early 20s, I was one of those who misunderstood her servant's heart. I am a strong combination of both of my parents, and the part of my father that is independent and self-reliant viewed her advice and concern as intrusive. I am overjoyed to say that now I understand her better and appreciate her more. I aspire to be as loving in service to Christ and family as she is.

We have taken several road trips together. What a laugh riot! I remember one particular trip to Chicago about 15 years ago. As we drove through the first toll booth in Ohio, I prepared to pay the toll and navigated the traffic and lanes. She began to cry. "I am so proud that I have a daughter who knows how to do this and isn't afraid," she said through tears. My mother has always been afraid to drive more than about a 15 mile radius around our house. It has been debilitating and restricting on her life. I have not taken my independence for granted since that talk.

I remember another of the conversations on that trip. We talked about a manner of her speech which was grating on me at that time (in my early 20s). She had a tendency to speak in plurals. "We don't like to garden"..."We put toilet paper rolls on with the paper going under"..."We like ceilings painted white." It seemed as though anytime she had an opinion she would use the plural to boost her argument. I felt that her assumption of my agreement was an assault on my indepenndence. "You don't speak for me!" I would scream inaudibly, inside my own head. She was a bit shocked to find that she talked in plurals. She had never noticed it, but she thought perhaps she picked it up from her mother as she began to think about it.

As I have matured and become more confident in my identity as being separate from my mother's, I stopped noticing whether or not she speaks in plurals. I have come full circle from being her clone, to rebelling against the assumption that we are the same, to embracing the part of me that is exactly like her. (Sounds like a "Cathy" cartoon.) Afterall, she embodies many of the qualities of the kind of woman I hope to become, so why not hold fast to that inheritance?

My original and best role model. My mother, Grace.

Names...

2004-10-08T21:28:00.000-04:00

.
I've had a great week! I love my job! More than that, I love the relationships that have developed because of it. Wednesday I spent nearly 4 hours laughing and chatting with Audrey. This week I had a phone message from Bemis; blogged with Nate; talked with Kristy, Kat, Keegie, Kristin, Erin, Jen, Marie, Duenke, and Adam; went out to eat with Trena; worked with Ryan; made lunch plans for next week with Jeremy; got a surprise knock at my door from Josiah; laughed and cried (and danced in my heart) with Lonette. My life continues to be blessed by the students of Malone College. Thank you!

.....

In one tangent of the conversation with Audrey, we discussed nicknames. I was never really aware that I had so many until I got married and Tom became confused at family gatherings. "Who's Biz? Your dad was looking at you when he said it." Yes, I'm Biz. (see a previous blog) Have you ever read the children's magazine Highlights in the doctor's office? When I was a child it contained a cartoon about a family of bears. The children were named Poozy and Woozy. Yup, that one stuck, too. My mother would call me Pooz and Tom would look over with a silent, inquisitive expression and tilt his head, much like a dog who's heard a high-pitched screech. Yes, I'm Biz, Gypsy, and Pooz.

My nephew Aaron started calling me EE when he was just learning to talk. Our best guess is that it comes from the "sack of potatoes" game I played with him when I would carry him around the house singing The Wizard of Oz flying monkey song, "E, Oh. Oh, E, Oh." When his sister Lauren was born, she simply continued it. Yes, EE is one of my favorite nicknames.

I had an aunt named Anastasia. No one ever called her that. She was always Aunt Ann. So, to keep it straight on that side of the family, my mother began referring to me as Little Ann... which is better, I suppose, than my aunt getting the moniker "Big Ann." But mother would say it so fast that it sort of sounded like Li'l Ann ... or Lillian. Lucky for me, that one didn't stick. If only I was as lucky with Pooz.

My complete name at birth was Ann Jenifer O'Data. All the relatives on my dad's side, for some reason I have yet to discover, insist on calling me "Annjenifer" as if it was a single name. Go ahead, say it out loud. It doesn't flow off the tongue particularly well, does it? But every reunion I am bombarded all day with "Annjenifer, Annjenifer." They must all think that I want to be called by the whole name... because surely in nearly 40 years someone would have shortened it.

Tom doesn't have a nickname for me. No real pet name. Nor do I have one for him. I don't call him Honey or Sweety, and I'm not Cupcake or Darlin' or any such thing. I wonder why that is?

You can't force a nickname on to someone else. I can't say, "Tom, I'm now going to start calling you Stretch cuz you're tall." And you can't really make up your own nickname. If I could, I wonder what I'd want it to be? Some stick and some don't, and you don't have much say in why.

What do our nicknames say about us? What do they say about the people who gave them to us? About a month ago, my nephew called me Aunt Ann for what I think was the first time. Since he turns 15 next month, he figures he's too old to still call me EE and he wants to use a more grown-up name. I got all choked up. I didn't choose the name, I'm still not sure of the derivation, but I want him to call me EE forever! What does the loss of that name mean? Does our self-concept change because of what we are called? How much do our names contribute to who we are and how we see ourselves?

Style vs Substance

2004-10-01T17:07:00.000-04:00

I'm still thinking about this concept since my last blog. And then I watched the media pundits after the Presidential Debates. Many of them were saying Kerry won, not for what he said but how he said it.

Kerry is a more polished speaker than Bush, who had a few too many "umms" while he was thinking. Kerry stood straight and tall, Bush not quite so much. Kerry looked at his own podium while Bush talked, Bush pursed his lips and sighed (though not anywhere near as badly as Gore did last time.) Kerry wins in the Style department, I will acquiesce.

But Kerry REPEATEDLY started sentences with "I believe..." until I was ready to smack him for his lack of creativity. He also said repeatedly, "I have a plan..." But he never really outlined what the plan was except to say his was better. And, in my completely biased view, the substance of Bush's speech had more merit and was more (rightly) straightforward. :)

Funny thing is, I bet Americans with opinions about the debate didn't even watch it. They waited to be told how it went and who won. Then they base their opinions on soundbites and commentaries. What the commentators say afterward is really what sways the public more than what the candidates say. And pundits are saying Kerry won. Style over substance.

A couple of years ago Greta Van Susterern left CNN to host her own show on FNC. They wooed her because of her credibility, legal knowledge, etc. But before she started her new gig, she took time off for eye lift, collagen injections, new hairdo, etc. She said it was something she wanted to do for herself. Her substance got her the job, but she chose a new style for her new digs. Substance over style... barely.

There's a new reporter in Iraq for MSNBC or FNC, I'm not sure which. I was shocked to see him on air the last couple of days because he has a goatee-like-thing on his face and long hair. He's handsome and looks cool, but he doesn't look like an on-air reporter. Maybe a print journalist, but certainly not on-camera talent without the requisite helmet-hair. Substance over style... or just a different style we aren't used to? YET!?

Can substance ever really win on its own over style? Do we always need some sense of style to get the audience's attention, to get others to listen? Please, someone give me an example of substance roundly defeating the challenger of superficiality and appearance...

And all this reminds me of a poem my neighbor taught me when I was 5 years old. Mrs. Swager, a little white haired waif of a woman, gave me rootbeer barrel candies every time I visited her. Being a very chubby and sugar-motivated child, I naturally visited daily. One Spring, she taught me a poem to recite for my mother for Mother's Day. Not the best poetry, but I remember it still...

I found a rosebud in the street,
All faded crushed and brown.
The leaves were gone from off its stem.
Its little head hung down.
Tenderly, I took the flower,
Cast off each withered part.
Beneath, I found it warmly pink
Around a golden heart.
It spoke a message to me,
As old as the world is old.
Judge not by outside wrappings,
For within may be purest gold.

You Look Mahvelous.

2004-09-30T13:49:00.000-04:00

Have you noticed that my blog page is pink?

I embrace my femininity. I like to get dressed up every day. I keep my "face" in a makeup bag on the front seat of my car... just so I can do emergency touch-ups before I go home. Sure Tom sees me without makeup every day, but I think he should come home from work to something prettier to gaze upon over dinner. My own version of the "Feminine Mystique," I suppose.

We usually want to look our best, put our best foot forward, make a good first impression, etc. Men, too. Of course, this taken to extreme is vanity, a trait which God warns us is contrary to where our focus should be, on Him.

But I have no moral or ethical objections to someone wanting to look better. It improves their sense of self-worth or confidence. Clothing, hairstyles, makeup, plastic surgery, I don't see much of a difference except for risk and cost. I had plastic surgery in college to correct a muscle defect in my lip. It was one of the best gifts my parents ever gave me. If I had the money and the time for recovery, I'd correct my crooked spine, a result of Scoliosis, and get rid of my Quasimodo hump for the rest of my natural life. That isn't exactly plastic surgery, but it is deemed "cosmetic" since being twisted like a pretzel doesn't severely impact my health, aside from occasional back pain.

This all said, I do have problems with doctors who agree to perform unnecessary and drastic procedures on people who are not emotionally stable. (ie Michael Jackson, the woman who wanted to look like a Barbie, etc.) I also have problems with exploiting the patients of plastic surgery for ratings... in offensive television shows such as Extreme Makeover and The Swan.

And I am steamed about something I just read in The Lutheran, a magazine for people of the denomination. It said CosmoGirl has hired a Columbia University college junior, Colleen Taylor, to be the magazine's first-ever political correspondent. Ms. Taylor is a member of a Lutheran church in PA, not far from my hometown, so I kept reading. Ms. Taylor said, "Feeling like I'm making even a little difference by kind of showing these girls that politics is as much their world as it is their parents' has been really gratifying." Aww. This is nice. A college student gets valuable journalism and political experience while 14-year-old readers get info.

Then the kicker: "Although she doesn't get paid, she received a makeover and a professional wardrobe."

Are you kidding? Is the job about her journalism skills and political saavy or about whether her jacket style is this season and how short they should crop her hair? Puhleeez. Yes, put your best face forward, but the reward for your Columbia University education is a make-up lesson? The pay-off for years of perfecting a journalistic voice is a perfectly matched lipstick?

OK. She also got help with interviewing techniques and political knowledge. And her airfare and hotels were paid for covering the campaigns. But still.... a makeover? Why should I be dumbfounded, it is CosmoGirl, after all.

Nia Vardalos, the screenwriter and star of the film "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," talked about her shock when the reviews for the film came out. Reviewers wrote that the character got the man "after she had a makeover." Nia said the character, Toula, did NOT have a makeover. SHE MADE OVER her LIFE. She went to school. She became educated. She gained experience and as a result, self-esteem. These changes made her confident and open to a loving relationship. She didn't get a nose-job or perm and VOILA!, the cute guy likes her.

Looking our best is important in our culture, like it or not. But it is just that, looks. Superficial. Coverings. Masks. What counts is what is going on in the head, inside the heart. Unfortunately, our society doesn't look much deeper if it doesn't like what it sees at first glance.

For some people, the outside is all that matters, all there is. For others, changing the outside can help to repair what's troubling on the inside. And of course, it's what's inside that counts.

Yes, the three Graces are debating this issue.

Motoring.

2004-09-27T09:44:00.000-04:00

We went for another bike ride yesterday after church. (And by "bike," I mean Harley, of course.) It was cloudy and overcast for most of the ride. Only during the last of the 4 hours did the sun warm our faces, which was a nice change to the sandblasting wind that had marked the day.

A car is a cocoon that travels, a capsule where you control the ambient temperature and the sounds from the radio. On a motorcycle, you abdicate that control to the world around you.

Riding piques all your senses. Smells of hay, cut grass, manure (and skunk!) are more potent when you ride. There is no filter to clean the air or vents to shut off. The noises of barking dogs, lawn mowers, 18-wheelers and construction jackhammers are not muffled by glass and steel.

And the colors... the colors are truer than when viewed through a windshield. For instance, I've always thought that the "colors of autumn" were gold, orange, red, burgundy, maybe some lingering green. But there is purple out there! Deep, rich purple blooms along every roadside.

As we were riding, I began to form the idea for this blog. My mind was wandering about the metaphor of life being a journey... or maybe life as flying by... or life lived with risk as opposed to security...when, all of a sudden, there was a huge accident right in front of us. Two 18-wheelers, a mini-van, a pick-up truck and a car were all toppled into the grassy area between the lanes of I-76. The mini-van looked like an accordian. Broken glass and the back hatch of the truck were scattered on the road. It had just happened. The plumes of smoke from locked rubber tires and median dirt were still rising.

As we weaved through the wreckage, thankfully watching everyone emerge from their cocoons safely, I realized that we had been spared by just a couple of minutes. We had stopped to make a phone call to my stepson to tell him how far away we were from the restaurant where we'd meet. We wanted to time it so that we all arrived at the same time. But we got his voice mail. We stopped a few miles later to try the call again, this time successfully. So what originally seemed like an annoyance turned into a potentially lifesaving minute.

Right about then, the idea of a cocoon sounded really good. And within a few minutes, we were at Big Boy munching on burgers and strawberry pie, thanking God for His protection and His decision to leave us here a while longer.

Grace Slick rides again!

2004-09-22T09:55:00.000-04:00

I'm going on a Harley ride tonight!! Grace Kelly packed the Grace Slick leather in the car this morning. Vroom Vroom!

Mona Lisa irony

2004-09-21T20:39:00.000-04:00

Sunday afternoon I settled into the couch with a blanket to watch mindless movies and nap. I was trying to recover from the 24 Hour Theater experiment, my lack of sleep and the crash of my adrenaline.

I began watching Mona Lisa Smile, a movie set in 1954 where Julia Roberts becomes an instructor at Wellesley College. She encounters brilliant young women whose only aspirations are to become wives and mothers. She challenges them to shun the conventions of their day, to eschew the culture of their time and to dream of more meaningful lives for themselves. She wants them to find more purpose in life than cooking, cleaning and caring for husband and children.

The movie is a women's liberation version of Dead Poets' Society. But one student challenged the instructor's "subversive" teachings by saying something like, "You wanted me to have a choice. I choose to be a wife and mother. " She accused Julia's character of demeaning the choice of women to stay home. The student said that not all stay-at-home wives and mothers are dumb, nor do they lose their intellect for making that choice, and she demanded respect for her choice.

The irony is this: I was only into the first 20 minutes of the film when Tom came home from work. He said he was starving. I immediately jumped up, made him a snack and started dinner. He sat on the couch and asked if he could change the channel to the football game. "Of course!" I replied. Afterall, he had worked all day and I had been resting.

Was I disappointed to miss the rest of the movie? Sure. But I knew I could watch it later that night. Could Tom make his own food? Sure. But I derive great pleasure from cooking for him, serving him, making his home a comforting refuge.

It was funny. Here I was... a working woman in 2004 readily giving up the illusion of power in favor of a 1954 spirit of servanthood that was being derided. The movie makes it clear that women should aspire to something more. And women have made great progress in the last 50 years. I wouldn't have had the career I enjoyed, otherwise. But in some ways, I agree with the student. Simply having a new choice doesn't make the former options less valid or worthy.

I have witnessed some in my generation who pursue career to the detriment of their marriages and families. Is it really "progress" of humankind to become increasingly self-centered? Is it admirable to be more concerned about personal fulfillment and less concerned about the needs of others? What is a more meaningful purpose to life, for a man or a woman, than demonstrating sacrificial and selfless love to those around you?

I've failed plenty of times. But I hope I made a step in the right direction on Sunday afternoon.

By the way... the movie was pretty good. Formulaic, but good.

Skunk... and other favorite smells

2004-09-16T21:18:00.000-04:00

The smell of skunk is wafting through my house right now. It is coming from outside, of course. But since every window is open, the breeze is carrying it through to permeate every room. I don't mind. In fact, I love it.

Skunk reminds me of when I was a kid. During hot summers, we'd often take rides on Sundays after church to escape the heat of the day. (Oh, the joys of growing up without whole-house air conditioning!) We'd roll the windows down to get the breezes or we'd turn the car's air conditioner on. Our rides usually took us out of town and into "the country" where we'd invariably encounter skunk smell. Mom and Dad would wrinkle their noses and make funny "pyew, pyew" noises. We'd giggle with glee. (OK. I giggled. My brother most likely ha-ha'd.) Those rides are such happy memories that whenever I smell skunk I am transported to my childhood and the feeling of family.

Smells can trigger vivid memories, good and bad. Most of us will probably agree that freshly mown grass means Summer and sugar cookies are Christmas. In our great, capitalistic :) society, an entire industry has sprung up to help us evoke the good memories without having to mow or bake or travel to the ocean. Yankee Candles and its knock-offs capitalize on our need for "good" smells. I admit that I'm hooked on Yankee's Ocean Water, Green Grass and Clean Cotton.

Some of my other smelly memories:

Since I was a "walker" and didn't ride the bus to/from school, diesel fumes only remind me of riding the bus to the amusement park every year on the last day of school - GOOD.

Niagara Falls has a peculiar water odor, but it is - GOOD.

Colonial Williamsburg has a strong aroma of the southern Boxwood shrub - VERY GOOD. (Sometimes I have to drive there just to get an intoxicating whiff - I don't have to stay for tours, but I do need a fix every year or so.)

Because I have never, ever tanned and I suffer awfully from sun poisoning, coconut-y or suntan-lotion-y smells are - VERY BAD.

And again, skunk is - VERY GOOD.

For small periods of time.

Seconds maybe.

Like the amount of time you pass by it in a car.

But I may be altering my opinion if the breeze doesn't shift directions soon.

Gallivanting...

2004-09-14T01:06:00.000-04:00

I have wanderlust.

I have Gypsy blood.

I want to pack up a few precious belongings and hit the road.

I want to live for a year to feel each season in New York City. In Savannah. In Coeur d'Alene. In London. In Edinburgh. Outside Rome. In Jerusalem. My life is too short to live everywhere I want to.

This weekend I went home to PA for my brother's birthday. As I whizzed by at 75 mph on the Ohio Turnpike, I noticed two Amish men working their farm. How do they do it? How do people live their whole lives in one place? How do they work daily beside a highway and never take it wherever it goes? Do they ever have the urge to cross the field and flag down a car and just go to.... to ANYwhere? I haven't traveled much, but I can't for the life of me imagine not having the option... or more accurately, not having the desire for the option.

One of my first nicknames was "Gypsy." Our neighbor and my dad's best friend was Sam. When I was about 4 or 5... back when neighborhoods seemed smaller and safer... he was cutting the grass out front and saw me skipping by. When he went to the backyard, I was traipsing down the alley. When he returned to the front to water plants, I walked by again with a great sense of purpose. Where I was going or what I was doing, no one could tell. He told my folks that they had a real Gypsy on their hands. I have been gallivanting... or wanting to gallivant... ever since.

When I read Huckleberry Finn, I immediately wanted to cut down trees and rope a raft together. From the end of my street you could see the Beaver River. I knew it flowed into the Ohio. I got a map and figured I could float down the Beaver to the Ohio to the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. My mother said it wouldn't work. There were locks on the rivers and they wouldn't let a lashed-log boat through. That didn't stop me from daydreaming about it every day for an entire summer.

When I read Little House on the Prairie, I wanted to cross the country in a Conestoga wagon. A few years later, during our country's Bicentennial celebration, a group of reenactors did exactly that. When they came through our town I nearly ran away... not to join the circus, but a traveling group of covered wagon riders.

My dream came true in 2001 when Tom and I took our RV to Alaska and back. We christened it the Gypsy Chateau (Chateau being the oh-so-fab name of the manufacturer). I was Laura Ingalls Wilder in a modern Conestoga!

God knew what he was doing having me born in this era. I never could have hacked it without my own, private toity.

Showered in His grace,

Starting my blog

2004-09-10T23:57:00.000-04:00

Reading others' blogs has been fascinating, edifying, humbling and hilarious. After months of absorbing from them, I thought perhaps it was time that I contributed to the mix. Besides, what better way to feed my fault of "inappropriate disclosure" than through blogging?

I get my talkative nature from both of my parents. My brother says that my childhood vaccination was with a phonograph needle (a reference lost on those who don't know about real record players). But my storytelling penchant is from my dad. I remember as a child listening from my upstairs bedroom as Dad would spin tales with friends around the dining room table. The joy of making others laugh and guffaw was infectious, and I wanted to be able to make my friends smile in the same way.

It seems I have a story for everything. On each Forensics/Debate trip after talking incessantly about something or other, I would tell students that I was all out of stories. Sure enough, five minutes later something reminded me of another story I could share. When it comes to work, I'm most productive at home alone because once I'm in the office, talking with anyone and everyone in the hallway occupies my time.

As I've matured (?), I've tried to pay more attention to the reactions that my stories (and my mere presence, for that matter) elicit from others. I've tried to be careful not to enter the game of one-ups-man-ship, vying for the spotlight, or the perception of both. However, since every story reminds me of one I could tell in turn, this is difficult. I'm still struggling with reading people to know when to talk and when they've had enough of my blather.

Therefore, one problem for me with the idea of blogging is not being able to see the immediate response from those who are hearing the story. How can I gauge the reaction? When is enough enough? And if I thrive on the immediate and tangible responses of others' laughter or tears, what is the payoff for a blog?

I was just speaking with friend Kristy O. who shared her thoughts on this subject: "Sure, we theatrical and communication types thrive with an audience. But the fact that Christians claim the cross means that the purpose of our storytelling should not be merely the enjoyment of the audience reaction, it should be something bigger than that. Even if only one person is entertained, you meet them where they are from where you are."

My conclusion is that this blog has to be for my own purposes. I write so I may explore, contemplate, document, and put into writing the things that matter or that simply pop into my head today. Hopefully, writing will provide some entertainment as well as illumination for my growth. And just possibly it will do the same for a reader or two.

Grace to you.

Grace Slick

2004-09-09T23:28:00.000-04:00

"Grace Slick, to the public mind, is synonymous with Jefferson Airplane and Jefferson Starship in the way that Mick Jagger is synonymous with the Rolling Stones. Ironically, Grace was not an original member of the band, nor was she with Starship at the very end. But Grace's importance to every phase of the band cannot be underestimated. White Rabbit, which she wrote, helped define not only Jefferson Airplane but also the acid rock era. Her unconventional vocals on Somebody to Love gave the Airplane its biggest hit. As one of the first female rock stars (as opposed to pop singers), Grace helped redefine women's role in modern music as more than just a sex symbol backed by a band."

Grace Kelly

2004-09-09T23:20:00.000-04:00

"Grace Kelly was one of the most admired women in the world. Even today, she is upheld as a standard of classic beauty, grace, style. Her talent and persona influenced the great motion picture director Alfred Hitchcock so strongly that he attempted to make other actresses into her image. The Academy Award and Golden Globe winner starred in 11 films during her brief Hollywood career. She left acting when she married Prince Rainier Grimaldi of Monaco, becoming Princess Grace."

Gracie Allen

2004-09-09T23:10:00.000-04:00

"Gracie Allen transferred her popular fictional persona from vaudeville, film, and radio, to American television in the 1950s. Allen had performed with her husband and partner, George Burns, for nearly 30 years when the pair debuted in The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show on CBS in October 1950. The Burns and Allen act, a classic vaudeville routine involving a "Dumb Dora" and a male straight-man, proved infinitely malleable.

The impetus to comedy within the program was the character portrayed by Allen. Her humor was almost entirely linguistic. Often an entire episode hinged on her confusion of antecedents in a sentence, as when the couple's announcer (who also took part in the program's narrative) informed her that Burns had worked with another performer until he (meaning the other performer) had married, moved to San Diego, and had two sons--at which point she concluded that her husband was a bigamist.

Allen's character challenged the rational order of things without ever actually threatening it.
The character's success on the program, and popularity with the viewing public, depended in large part on her total unawareness of the comic effects of her "zaniness." The onscreen Gracie was a sweet soul who on the surface embodied many of the feminine norms of the day--domesticity, reliance on her man, gentleness--even as she took symbolic pot shots at the gender order by subverting her husband's logical, masculine world. "