What We Believe When We Are Fifty

A follow-up to my last post, in which we reflected on what we believed when we were six:


Now that I'm fifty, I realize I may still know more than my young adult children, but that the gap is quickly narrowing.

I believe that no one should ever try to run away from their problems, but that a temporary escape into a great book or movie can be a life-saver.

I've concluded that each time I watch the movie Groundhog Day, I learn as much about how to live one single day as Bill Murray did, while laughing twice as much as the first (or eighth) time.

I realize my parents didn't know everything, but they weren't too far off about much.

I may be fifty, but I still believe in magic.

I've learned that pets may interfere with my independence, my housekeeping, and my sanity, but that I still wouldn't want to live without them.

After studying old photos, I now know the tight perm and oversized glasses I wore in the eighties were not, in retrospect, such a good idea after all.

I've come to accept I may never again be a size six, but that being healthier and happier are still good and achievable goals.

I realize that I've sometimes succeeded and sometimes failed, but that the two weren't always mutually exclusive.

I know that yesterday lingers and tomorrow beckons. And I believe that what's important, today, is to make the most of them both.


What have you learned, at your age?

Friends Indeed

Sometimes you have no idea where a road will lead you until you've been wandering it a while.

I had no real expectations when I began this blog over two years ago. I figured it to be a short-term device to keep my creative juices flowing while I took a break from writing a novel. Any actual readers, outside of obliging family members and a few close friends, would simply be an unexpected bonus.

What I never fathomed were the friends with whom I'd reconnect, nor the new ones I'd make, along the way.

Through this little internet writing gig, I've rekindled friendships with people I haven't seen in thirty years. And I've struck up electronic relationships with dozens of readers whom I've never met and likely never will encounter in person.

But the greatest phenomenon of all has been developing a community of fellow writers and bloggers. And eventually meeting some of them face-to-face.

Who'd have thought writers are real people? That the words appearing each day on my computer monitor were typed by hands I would one day shake? That the personal stories shared with me grew from the creative minds--and warm hearts--of people whose arms might eventually wrap around me in a mutual bear hug?

First, I met the fabulous Amanda. Except little did I know when I read her comment on another blog and followed it back to her own website, that I'd actually seen her around and said hello in passing because she worked in my own office building? (Seriously, what are the odds?)

Then, I spent a weekend this past June with Betsy. Including Betsy as part of my own writing community is either a clear understatement or a vast overstatement, since she is the queen. An award-winning author and kick-ass literary agent, her two books (especially the one with the warm and wonderful personal inscription) hold prominent places on my bookshelf. Her blog is the first I ever read--and it's still the best. So is she.

I met Bluzdude in August. He's originally from these parts, and if we'd known each other when we were teenagers, we surely would have been great friends then, too.

This past weekend, I traveled to Chicago for the biggest meet-up of all. Four of us--a group of women writers who met through Betsy's blog and have become fast friends in a circle of more than a dozen--spent the day together.

AmyG, Lyra, Teri and I talked for hours. We shared our thoughts about writing, about our day jobs, about our mothers and our children, about our successes and our struggles.

We discovered how different we are from each other, yet how very much alike. We talked. We listened. We nodded. We hugged.

If we'd had a full week to spend together instead of a single afternoon, I doubt the conversation would have ever run dry.

Some relationships, even ones forged through printed words on a computer monitor, end up meaning so much more.

I never dreamed, when I typed my first story on this blog in April 2009, that people like you might see it. That you'd find anything I said worth reading. That you might take the time to comment and then come back the next week, and the next.

Writing, so often, seems a solitary and lonely effort.

Until it's not.


Not going to bother with any trite questions here. Just two words: Thank you.

To Have and to Hold

Traditional wedding vows spell out what is expected of us in marriage: "To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Parenthood requires no such verbal agreement. Yet these same vows surely apply to having a child. Most of us who sign on acknowledge this, understanding this is one irrevocable deal.

The To Have part generally proves unpleasant, especially for the mother. We endure nine months of anxiety, emerging stretch marks and intrusive medical instruments. The incubation period culminates in a formidable event purported to be part of the cycle of life, but which seems to indicate God has a rather sick sense of humor.

But the To Hold component wipes the slate clean. As soon as we hold that infant in our arms, we've already--in our minds--ushered in the For Better part.

Oh, the For Better! It's the stuff parental dreams are made of. The first smile and first steps, the soccer goals and dance recitals, and that march across the stage for the happy hand-off of a diploma. We cling forever to the moments--and the memories--of the For Better.

Yet, in between, lurk those For Worse times. Lord, we struggle with those. The grocery store tantrums, the turmoil of that first broken heart, the wild arcs of teenage rebellion or withdrawal. Sure, we've been warned, but nothing truly prepares us for them. If we've ever considered backing out of the deal, it's during the For Worse.

And For Richer? Well, that's a misnomer. From the cost of diapers to college tuition, parenthood sucks us dry. Once children enter the picture, it's always, always For Poorer. We can only sigh at our pile of bills and write another damn check.

We welcome In Health with a different sort of sigh--one of relief and gratitude. As we look around and view children who are the victims of fatal genetic diseases, cancer or life-altering accidents, we reconsider the possibilities of what we once believed to be For Worse. Nothing puts our own In Sickness experiences--the middle-of-the-night ER visits and basketball injuries--more in perspective than a child with a brain tumor.

None of us chooses to dwell on the idea of Until Death Do Us Part. We can endure almost anything. Except that.

We strive to keep our unspoken vows to our children as they grow up. And even as they grow--or move--away.

We'd like to be by their side for everything they experience: for the agony and the ecstasy. But from that first slumber party to their first night in a new apartment eight hundred miles away, we realize we must allow them to inch away from our arms. To become self-assured, self-motivated and self-sufficient.

We take a forever-vow to Hold them, yet we can't hold our children in our grasp forever.

All we can do, ultimately, is hold them close in our heart.

And have them promise to call us, frequently. They can keep that one little vow, right?


Any trouble letting go? What's the For Better or the For Worse you've experienced?

Take a Sad Song and Make It Better

When I was a teenager, my life was defined by music and words. And these two forces culminated in a special sort of ecstasy every time I bought a new record album.

Each step of the ritual remains as engrained in my memory as the grooves in the now dusty and warped vinyl disks.

I cradled my new record between both hands. Gently placed it on the turntable. Dropped the needle. Rushed to sprawl across my twin bed in the room I shared with my older sister, and picked up the stiff cardboard album jacket.

Only then, once the music began, did I allow myself the magic of studying the album's back cover and--if I was particularly fortunate--the lyrics printed on the liner. A song never hits its mark, never fully transported me from my parochial world, until I read the lyrics.

My friends and I listened to all the popular rockers. My first concerts included Aerosmith and the Stones. We all had our favorite Party Music and later, our favorite Cruising Music, enjoyed on tape by the lucky few with an eight-track or cassette deck in their car.

But at fifteen, I envisioned myself a poet. And, especially when I was home--alone in my room--I gravitated toward the musical poets: the brooding deep-thinkers, the songwriters who wrote of soul-searching, lost love and loneliness.

Not that I personally knew much of those emotions, except a bit of youthful discontent and rebellion. I'd been enveloped within a safe harbor, with loving parents and a secure neighborhood. I was never sexually abused nor truly socially maligned. The worst horror I'd experienced was the betrayal of a teenage boyfriend.

So what drew me to these types of songs? Did I simply want to open my arms to the shower of all human emotions? Was I under the power of hormonal overdrive? Was I suppressing a buried sadness I wasn't willing to acknowledge or admit?

Even at those occasional moments in which I did feel burdened by some teenage angst or weepiness, I immersed myself in it. I listened to my old favorites: The Beatles, Bob Dylan or Neil Young. I'd hear Cat Stevens' Father and Son, and know my feelings were universal. Or read the lyrics to The Needle and the Damage Done, hug myself and hold out hope that my life would end less tragically. I'd drop the needle on the stereo a second time, a third.

I'd listen and sing along, until feeling worse somehow made me feel better.

Later, I'd find myself writing my own poetry. I configured pieces of my emotions into rough words I might decide to submit to my high school paper, but more often than not would just hide in a notebook under my mattress.

I haven't written a poem in thirty years. My writing has changed, as have my reading tastes. Yet nothing still touches me more than a melancholy melody or an introspective tune.

Oh, how I still love a sad song.

It's not the same now, of course. I seldom buy a CD. When I do, I don't sprawl across my bed, pull out the paper insert and attempt to memorize every tiny printed word.

If songs still came embedded in scratchy 33 1/3 rpm disks, with full-size graphics and lyrics, I wonder how music might affect me now. Would it still encourage me to dig deeper within myself? To try to connect with others through their musical words? To live fully--for a few moments--within someone else's soul-searching short story?

Or do we view the world in a whole different way when we're young?

All I know is I never felt so sad, so often, as when I listened to music at fifteen.

Man, did it make me happy.


What kind of music moves you? Does a sad song make you better? Do you still hoard all that vinyl, inside dusty boxes in your basement?

Bruno: A Bear of a Man, Reprise

Seem to be thinking quite a bit about my grandparents these days. With Father's Day approaching, I wanted to once again share a story about my grandfather.


His name was Bruno, German for "brown bear." A fitting name for a man tough as a grizzly, soft as a child's teddy.

Emigrating to the United States at age 12, Bruno found himself plunged into a new world and a different culture. Without knowing a single word of his new country's language, he managed to achieve all A's in school--except in his English class. He spoke of this years later, in now perfect English, with pride at his accomplishment and a twinge of disappointment at that one failure.

But education was a luxury for many families, especially immigrants, in the 1920s. He left school after the eighth grade, his carpenter father insisting boys his age must learn a trade. Bright and good with his hands, Bruno trained to be a machinist. A humble occupation, it didn't bring great wealth but ensured a decent enough living, and of that he remained proud. Decency--in a person's character and their work ethic--mattered much to Bruno.

If he'd been born wealthier and a half-century later, his calling would have been an engineer or a computer scientist. At a holiday gathering when he was about eighty, he quizzed my computer salesman brother-in-law.

"How are things at your shop?" (Every workplace was a "shop," whether the person worked in a factory, an office or out of their home.) He leaned forward, listening, as my brother-in-law fumbled through an explanation of the computer network sales business. Bruno nodded, his bushy gray eyebrows knitted together and his ever-alert blue eyes particularly intense.

"But now explain this to me," he said, in his legendary line of questioning of everything in life. "How exactly does a computer work?"

No one could satisfy his insatiable curiosity.

It was even more impossible to deter the man's determination.

A heart attack, when he was only in his forties, fortified his will to live. Damned if he'd let a bad heart get the best of him. That heart attack was Bruno's first and his last. He survived another forty years.

While he was in his sixties, the company for whom he worked more than thirty years folded. He lost not only his job but his entire pension. Self-pity or despair were never an option. Bruno simply persevered and found another job.

Years later, a horrific car crash left him with injuries that included several broken ribs and a pulverized face. (His jaw would be wired shut, rendering him unable to speak and on a liquid diet for weeks.) The day after the accident, he ignored the hospital staff's heeding and plodded down the hallway to the ICU to be by the side of my grandmother, who suffered a broken neck.

Bruno didn't believe in giving up on giving his all. That's what I remember most about my grandfather. Plus his exuberant bear hugs. And his misty-eyed, frequently repeated words, "I'm so proud of you kids."

I wish I would have, just once, said I was proud of him, too.

Bruno outlived his wife of sixty-two years, who never fully bounced back from that accident. He also outlived my father, whom he never called his son-in-law but always his son.

My dad died from cancer, at age 53, only four months after the car crash. (Ironically, while already scheduled for chemotherapy, he was the only one uninjured out of the vehicle's six passengers.) My father-in-law died just two years later--also at age 53--when my two sons were just babies.

Although he was their great-grandfather, Bruno is the only grandpa either of my now grown boys remember.

Bruno lived to a more-than-decent age of 89. He'd be 100 next month. He's been gone for more than ten years, yet I see his warmth and his fortitude alive still in my mother. I'd like to believe that I possess just a bit of both of those qualities, too. And when I look at my two sons, I'm certain I see fragments of their great-grandfather.

Yes, he was a Great Grandfather.

Happy Father's Day, Grandpa.


Any characteristics you wish a parent or grandparent passed down? What would you say to your grandparents now, if you had the chance? Can you please explain to us all how computers actually work?

A Cupful of Memories - Reprise

I grasp my grandmother's hand as we wait for the bus. She squeezes back, and I peer up at her. Even at age six, I sense she's the kind of woman who draws admiring looks: dark with high cheekbones and a slightly beaked nose, traces of her Algonquin Indian blood from generations past.

I do not know, until years later, the effort required to maintain that beauty. I don't realize the toll taken by years of factory conditions. I pay little attention to the ointment she applies every night to her face and arms, to soothe wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin, or to the wigs that cover the thinning hair from similar spots on her scalp.

In 1967, I comprehend none of this.

We climb on the bus. Grandma Stanfa doesn't drive; she is accustomed to this ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. The only bus I've ridden is the one to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade.

"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"

"Shh." She raises her finger to her lips. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."

I nod, sneaking another look at the woman across the aisle. I've never seen a colored person in my neighborhood or school. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, whom Grandma loves to watch on TV. Later, Grandma talks about the importance of respect. She explains that words, even spoken out of innocence, can offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I hope I don't either.

Grandma sits straight. She rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I swing my dangling feet, kicking them against each other, and chatter away. Grandma smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.

Although she has six other grandchildren, today is just about Grandma and me. She allowed me to choose our supper menu, bought me my very own can of black olives and even let me pick today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma. But today I feel special.

I hesitate when she stops at the concession stand. My family's far from rich, but I know my grandmother is worse off than we are.

My mom says Grandma's first husband died not long after my Uncle Bob was born. She married again and had my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I'm not sure what happened to my grandfather. I guess my dad met him just once, when he was three. I overheard my mom tell that story, too. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.

My Uncle Bob still lives with Grandma though. He was in the Korean War, and he hears voices that nobody else hears. Grandma tells me I don't need to be afraid of him.

Grandma finally convinces me to get something to drink. I chew my bottom lip, considering my choices. I order a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.

I have never been to an indoor theater before, only to the drive-in movies with my parents and sisters. From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare at the movie screen, mesmerized. I accidentally slurp--too loudly--through my straw. Alarmed, I glance up at my grandmother. She winks at me.

When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.

The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.

When my parents pick me up, Grandma kisses me goodbye. I wave as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.

Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then--and what you still remember now.

Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a grape-shaped purple cup.


How well did you really know your grandparents? What is it about a rainy day that makes us remember, with a wistful smile, those we loved and lost?

Superheroes in the Waiting Room

So Blogger.com ate my May 12 post the same day I published it. (I won't take it personally, since writers everywhere experienced the same fate.) I've been out of town at the FABULOUS Midwest Writers Workshop Retreat and couldn't deal with it before now.

It has miraculously reappeared in my draft folder, but the handful of reader comments made before it disappeared are gone for good...

Shall we try this again? New--and old--comments are welcome!

Superheroes in the Waiting Room

As they spill through the doctor's office door, every head in the waiting room turns. We crane our necks from the TV and peek over our outdated issues of Good Housekeeping. Those here for our weekly or biweekly allergy injections have learned to expect this procession. Yet we still can't keep our eyes off them: the five blond little girls, all under the age of eight.

We divide our attention for the next half-hour or so between each of them and the mother who every week single-handedly accompanies, corrals and cares for them. We're mesmerized.

Large families weren't once such an aberration. Two of my dad's uncles each had ten children. And even in the sixties and seventies, most of my Catholic school classmates hailed from families of six or seven siblings. My family fell in the minority: I was the last of just three (much to the relief of many of our teachers and our principal, Sister Mary Sadistic).

Whether due to the expense or the physical and mental exhaustion of raising a large litter, even Good Catholic parents gradually caved to the accessibility of reliable birth control. That's not to say big families are fully extinct. The omnipresent media reminds us of the extreme examples, such as Octomom and the Duggar family (population currently 21). The public seems to view those as freakshows. And perhaps some parents do procreate in great quantities for questionable reasons.

Yet isn't it possible some people want a large family simply because they love children? Because they welcome the joys and feel fairly equipped (no parent possesses total confidence) to accept the challenges? I recall a family from my two sons' grade school: eight stair-step children, all who seemed to thrive and excel, whose parents somehow found the time and energy to be engaged in their schooling, their sports and their scout troops--and still keep their sanity.

What does it take to successfully raise a big brood like this? Time management skills? Fortitude? Damn good luck?

The doctor's office buzzes with the sound and activity of the five little girls. Their mother simultaneously assists one with a hand-held DVD player, oversees the oldest's homework, reads a picture book to another and breaks up a squabble between the other two.

The waiting room crowd watches, all eyes riveted. We steal a smile at each other as one two-year-old twin climbs over the back of a chair and the other twin drops her drawers in the middle of the room.

A few of us seem to be awaiting the train wreck: the final crash and explosion. But while the train occasionally coughs and sputters, rocks and shakes, and maneuvers its way over a stretch of rough tracks, no train wreck is in sight. Because this appears to be one well-oiled machine.

We're not witness, of course, to the daily challenges that may erupt from the time their parents get them all dressed each morning until they finally fall asleep each night. But having to haul five young children to a doctor's office each and every week? This must surely rate among the greatest potential nightmares any parent can imagine.

One of the twins wanders across the room to admire a newborn in his carseat. Her mother drops the other toddler from her lap and rushes over, to intercept any unacceptable interaction.

"Sorry," she says in apology to the newborn's mother.

"No problem," the other mother replies. "She's just curious. All of your girls are so well-behaved. They seem so happy. And you're great with them."

The rest of the women in the room nod our heads and murmur, "Yes, they are. Yes, you are. Yes, we're amazed."

She thanks us and sighs. "It's not always easy. But sometimes it's really great. Five is enough though. These youngest two will definitely be our last."

At those words, every smile in our group fades.

When someone appears so successful at something--whether it's making music, running a business or raising children--we tend to hope they'll never stop. One mere mortal becomes our personal superhero. We don't ever want to see them give up their gig, especially when we know few people would be willing or able to put on the cape and take the job.

Superhero capes, especially in the world of parenting, aren't one-size-fits-all.

Not every mother or father is equipped to oversee Metropolis. Most of us peer down at our tiny kingdom of one or two, occasionally don a mask and just hope for the best.

Yet whether we're the parent of one or of ten, we devote a lifetime of love and attention and energy to that responsibility. No matter the size of our own kingdom, surely our own role is equally important--and something to be admired.

And that makes every one of us a superhero.


Any of your own large family experiences to share, as either child or parent? What superhero powers does parenting require? Do you ever get a whiff of baby powder, sigh and wonder 'what if'?

Playing Truth or Dare

Our favorite game in junior high was Truth or Dare.

Nearly everyone at my Catholic school picked the Dare, even when playing the game in our most reckless venue of all--weekly Mass. (Years later, I've come to hope God possesses a good sense of humor. And a short memory.)

We believed choosing the Dare proved our confidence and our courage, two attributes that play heavily in a thirteen-year-old's popularity.

Even then though, I knew the Dare was the safer choice. Answering a difficult personal question with honesty? This required true bravery. At thirteen, we're far too guarded and insecure to open ourselves up to that transparency, vulnerability or potential peer disapproval. It's a self-defense mechanism which becomes even more ingrained as we grow older.

Hiding from the Truth is a game we play much of our lives.

When we confront difficult personal issues, we tend to evade. We conceal. We occasionally outright lie. Sometimes we're not honest with someone else. Sometimes we're not honest with ourselves. Denying certain Truths, especially troublesome ones, is always easier than acknowledging them.

On a night out a few years ago with a group of girlfriends, someone suggested a grown-up game of Truth or Dare. We quickly dismissed the option of Dare. What are we, kids? No, we most certainly are not. We laughed. Just as friends don't let friends drive drunk, middle-aged friends don't let middle-aged friends run outdoors in their skivvies.

The rules were simple: Each woman in the group would ask one question, and everyone had to answer. We agreed the questions should be thought-provoking yet benign. After all, we were out that night to relieve our stress, not to magnify it.

Choice of plastic surgery? Nose, boobs and all the usual suspects.

Biggest fear? We toyed with the common themes of flying, of tornadoes, of heights. But every one of us with children eventually gave the same answer.

Number of men with whom you've slept? Ah, maybe not such a benign query, this one! Of all the questions, it caused the most consternation and cringing. We tried to veil our surprise at the woman who answered "just one" as well as the woman who said she'd long ago lost count.

Then we came to my--seemingly mild--question:

If you could succeed at being anything in life (actual talent not a factor), what would you be?

We nodded and smiled at the responses: Broadway actress, singer/songwriter, president of the United States. We turned to the last friend in the circle, awaiting her answer.

"My dreams aren't as exciting as all of yours." She hesitated. "Because honestly, if I could choose to be anything, I'd still choose to be a housewife." She looked away, then added in a near whisper, "But I would want to be a happy one."

The table fell silent. None of us would ever have guessed her wish. Because most of us had no knowledge of her reality.

We weren't able to provide a solution to her situation. What we offered her that night was a roundtable of empathy and sympathy, and a bit of friendship-inspired therapy.

I can't be sure she's found peace even now, but just maybe she feels less burdened and less alone in facing the Truth. Maybe she's succeeded at the first crucial step which will allow her to face the next step, whatever that might be.

Truth or Dare is a tough game at any age.

But by daring ourselves to acknowledge one key Truth, maybe we can find answers to other important questions in the bigger game of life.


Have you ever lied to yourself? What's the most frightening or embarrassing Dare you ever accepted? If you could be anything, without the possibility of failure, what would you be?

It Only Takes a Moment

The law says we become adults at the age of eighteen. Yet no one turns into a grownup at that particular midnight hour. No magical hour or legally defined day determines when we truly cross over from child to adult.

There are simply a handful of tiny defining moments.

We all experience single instances which cause us to pause and think, Damn. I guess I'm an adult now.

Many of us feel initiated into adulthood the first time we flash a legal driver's license to buy beer. (Years later, when a store clerk glances at our face and doesn't bother asking for an ID, we experience yet another defining moment.)

We know we're adults when we first feel the freedom of making our own decisions and choices: the first time we buy a painting and decide where to hang it, in our very own home. Or bring home a stray animal--without needing anyone's permission to keep it.

The epiphany of adulthood often surfaces when that new-found freedom is accompanied by responsibility: paying our own rent or buying groceries from our own paycheck. Applying for our first credit card, mortgage or life insurance policy. (Only adults even consider the long-term need for life insurance.) Or glancing around our trashed apartment and realizing our mother won't simply get fed up and clean it for us. Yes, we grow up quickly the first time we have to unplug a clogged toilet.

We seem to transform into adults the very moment we first mark the "married" box on a doctor's office form. Many of us experience a similar but more sobering feeling the first time we're forced to check the box "divorced."

And some of us feel we're forced to grow up overnight when one of our parents is suddenly gone forever.

Not all the defining moments of adulthood are easy ones. We know we're adults in the instant we accept that life changes and that the most well-adjusted adults are those who learn they must keep moving on.

Perhaps nothing initiates us more into the world of adulthood than becoming a parent. We realize we've crossed the threshold that very first time we carefully lay our newborn baby in his crib and think, I brought this child into the world, and my life has changed forever because of it. Every tiny step that child takes throughout his own life is another defining moment: his first day of school, first soccer game, first driving lesson.

And when that child begins experiencing his own defining moments? There is no question then. The parent of an adult clearly must be an adult herself.

Strange how we sometimes feel sixteen still in our heart.

But as I knock cautiously at the door of age fifty, I know a lifetime compilation of such moments signals--undeniably--that I am an adult. Each of those moments defined not only what I am but who I've become: a grownup with my own set of strengths and faults, successes and failures, disappointments and dreams.

And I wonder: Does being grown-up mean we've fully finished growing? Or is growing up simply an endless stairway we climb for all of our lives?

Perhaps it's a journey, and not a final destination.

Maybe the defining moments never end.


When did you first feel like an adult? What were your defining moments? How do you still hope to grow?

(And a note to my regular readers: Writers are fickle. I am now blogging on Thursdays. Look for me then--barring, as my bio reads, any emergencies or extreme laziness.)

Be a Man, Reprise

If I could teach a boy to be a man, I'd tell him to play football. Or take up theater. I hope he'd learn that neither measures the man.

I'd tell him his mother may have read his mind when he was eight, but it was an easy guess that he felt sad after losing his soccer game. Mature men must communicate their feelings and needs--with mature words.

I'd advise him that sending flowers is always, always good. Sending them for no reason at all? Even better. And when he calls the florist, he should be sure to remember his mom.

I'd explain that being a father requires that he discipline. And also that he hug. Real men know the appropriate time for each and that the two actions are not mutually exclusive.

I would tell him to compromise when he should and apologize when he's wrong. Being a man does not mean command and control. Nor does it mean blind surrender.

I'd suggest that it's all hunky-dory if she cooks and he mows the lawn, but that defined roles only work if both partners embrace them. I'd add that raising children is a tag-team sport, even if she happens to be a stay-at-home mom. I'd remind him, softly, that his six-year-old son won't be there for bedtime stories forever.

I'd warn him that being a hard worker is an asset, but caring about nothing but his career will just make him an ass.

I would ask him to call his mother--and his father--more often. Mothers may be more vocal about it, but fathers miss their grown children too.

I'd let him know that it's OK to cry if his favorite pet dies. Tears won't make him less manly, only more human.

I would tell him he's free to ignore anyone's advice or opinion. But a real man takes the time to listen before he disagrees.

And if he disagrees with me, I hope I'm woman enough to admit if I am wrong.


If you could teach a boy to be a man, what would you tell him?

Looking Past the Obvious

I wasn't the worst behaved child in Mrs. Kasper's sixth grade class. I don't doubt that at least one has a nice mugshot plastered on a post office wall somewhere. But if she ranked the students who made her head--and her ears--hurt most at the end of the day, I'm sure I'd rate right there at the top.

At age eleven, I'd finally managed to step out from the shadow of my two, more outgoing older sisters. I'd acquired my first boyfriend and experienced my first kiss (a closed-mouth, snot-smeared meeting of shivering faces on a sledding hill). And I was just popular enough to enjoy a bit of attention through my adolescent wisecracks and ill-advised antics.

Looking back, I realize I was exactly the kind of preteen girl whose screeching dialogue and megawatt giggling at the movie theater now makes me want to bury my head in my bucket of popcorn.

When you're in the sixth grade, however, you embrace whatever notoriety you can get.

Mrs. Kasper was no newbie to irreverent young girls though. I spent more than my share of time banished to the hallway or repenting my classroom sins in the office of our Catholic school principal, Sister Mary Sadistic.

Yet strangely, even as I knew Mrs. Kasper frowned on my endless chatter and bad behavior, she never once showed signs that she disliked me as a person. God knows a few other teachers throughout my academic career weren't so thoughtful. Such as the one the very next year who glared at me and announced in front of the entire class: "Miss Stanfa, for such a little girl, you have the biggest mouth I've ever heard." (Granted, the embarrassment shut me up for the rest of the day.)

Mrs. Kasper saw every one of the faults and failings I displayed as an annoying and immature adolescent. Yet she also managed to look past the obvious. She sought the diamond in the rough.

By sixth grade, I'd already taken an interest in writing. Our English class assignments encompassed a number of creative writing projects. Throughout the school year--even as she punished and pleaded with me to change my wayward behavior--Mrs. Kasper encouraged my writing ability. An occasional compliment in front of the class, a few nice words when we talked one-on-one and a host of supportive comments noted on my papers.

The last note she wrote, in her impeccable cursive script, read: "You better do something with all your talent, or I will come back to haunt you."

Given what I'd dealt her all year, she easily could have written instead: "Your smartass remarks and incessant chatter will come back to haunt me." But she didn't. She pushed aside the obvious negatives and focused on the single, most positive attribute she could find.

That sixth-grade short story, with her last comment, is stored away in a box of school mementos. Her encouraging words have lodged themselves in my memory for nearly forty years. They still bring me confidence in moments of self-doubt. Because, all else aside, someone believed in me.

I'm sure Mrs. Kasper has nearly forgotten me, yet I will never forget her.

We may never know the impact our words have upon those we meet, however brief our relationship. Most times, we never even consider it.

But maybe, if we choose to look past the obvious in people, we can give them just what they need to search for their own diamond in the rough.

A Cupful of Memories

I grasp my grandmother's hand as we wait for the bus. She squeezes back, and I peer up at her. Even at age six, I recognize she's the kind of woman who draws admiring looks from others. Dark with high cheekbones and a slightly beaked nose, traces of her Algonquin Indian blood from generations past.

I do not know, until years later, the effort she makes each day to mask the wear her daily factory work takes on that beauty: the ointment she applies every night upon her face and arms, to soothe the wounds from the flying metal fragments embedded in her skin. The wigs she wears to cover the hair that grows thin from similar spots on her scalp.

In 1967, I realize none of that.

We climb on the bus for the ride from the Old South End to downtown Toledo. I've just become accustomed to my bus ride to my suburban school, where I'm in the first grade. This bus ride is markedly different. Grandma, who doesn't drive, appears used to this route and its array of passengers.

"Grandma," I announce with wide eyes, "look at all the chocolate people!"

"Shh," she whispers. "They're called colored people. You know, like Moms Mabley."

I nod, still staring at the dark woman across from us. I don't know any colored people. But I'm familiar with Moms Mabley, one of my grandma's favorite entertainers. Later, Grandma explains that we must be careful to show respect for everyone; that my words, even spoken out of innocence, could offend or hurt someone. I'll bet my grandmother has never hurt anyone's feelings. I don't wish to either.

Grandma rides the bus with a quiet dignity. I chatter away, like my mother and my mother's mother--my other grandmother. Grandma Stanfa smiles down at me. Unlike so many other adults I know, she answers my endless questions not just with patience, but with interest.

I'm one of three children and one of my grandmother's seven grandchildren, but today I feel special. I was allowed to pick out our supper menu, given a whole can of black olives to devour by myself, and even asked to choose today's movie: The Jungle Book. I know my sisters and cousins have had their own days like this with Grandma; we're probably all special to her. Yet that doesn't diminish my feelings.

I hesitate at the concession stand. I've been told Grandma doesn't have much money. I've learned that she's worked for many years at a factory job. She raised three sons without a husband to help her. Her first husband died of pneumonia. He was the father of my Uncle Bob, who still lives with Grandma and was in the Korean War and hears voices. I'm kind of afraid of Uncle Bob, but Grandma makes me feel safe. Her second husband was father to my dad and my Uncle Sonny. I don't know exactly what happened to him. My dad met him once, when he was three. I overheard the story. "You're doing a good job with the boys," he told my grandmother when he visited. Then, he was gone for good.

At the concession stand, Grandma insists I get something. I squint, considering, before ordering a grape drink, served in a plastic, purple fruit-shaped cup.

From my velvet-covered seat in the Pantheon theater, I stare mesmerized at the movie screen. The only sound I make is an occasional slurp through my straw. I look up to see my grandmother gazing down at me with a smile.

When we return to Grandma's house, she pours herself a drink. Whiskey. She lights a cigarette. When she's not looking, I stub it out in the ashtray. When I'm not looking, she lights another.

The next morning, we walk to Mass. I attend a Catholic grade school, but my parents aren't so religious about weekly Sunday services. Grandma's a good Catholic. The kind who goes to Mass every morning, seven days a week. The kind who doesn't remarry after a failed marriage and a long-gone husband, because the Church doesn't believe in divorce.

When my parents pick me up, I casually kiss my grandmother goodbye. I wave at her as I climb into our car. I leave her behind in her tiny two-bedroom house, with her freshly printed church bulletin, her pack of cigarettes and her schizophrenic grown son, for whom she will care until she dies in a hospital bed, seven years later.

Some people leave your life too soon. Often, years pass before you truly know them and can begin to understand them. Before you fully appreciate them for what you didn't know then and what you still remember now.

Sometimes, you wish you'd collected every one of those memories and saved them, perhaps in a purple, grape-shaped plastic cup.

A New Gig

"I think I need a new gig." She fingered the stem of her wineglass, sighed, took a slow sip. "You know? Something different. Something new."

I nodded. "You mean a new job?"

"I don't know. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. I just need a way to jump-start my life, a way to reinvent myself."

"A new house? A move to a new city?" I squinted, studying her, seeking to comprehend.

"Yeah, all of that. Or none of it. I don't know, really." She sipped more wine and frowned, her eyes focused on the distant horizon, searching for something beyond her vision.

"Yes." I nodded again. I understood.

Nearly all of us understand that, don't we, at some point in our life? Some vague sensation of discomfort and unrest which we wish to overcome and repair. We don't know what we want or need, exactly. And even if we're fortunate enough to figure out that much, something often stands in our way of initiating the means to change it. Uncertainty. Fear. Weakness. Simple inertia.

"So, what do you really want most in your life?" I prodded her. "The comfort of a relationship? The challenge of a new career? The excitement of different surroundings?"

She bit her bottom lip. "Do I have to choose? Can't I have it all?"

I shrugged. "Perhaps. Some people believe they do."

"But how do I get it?"

"Well, I think you first need to decide what you want. And then you need to take the necessary steps toward it."

"So I need to figure out what I want?"

"Yes."

"OK. That's easy."

"And?"

She sighed again. "I want a new gig."

The questions are simple, for all of us. For most, the answers don't come so easily.

What We Take Away

Such a beautiful service, we murmur. The eulogy was so touching. Everyone seemed to be holding up well, considering. She looked good, peaceful, didn't she?

We wipe away our last tears and stuff the tissues in our pockets. We hug a cousin we haven't seen since his wedding ten years ago, and likely won't see again until another occasion like this. We take one last glance at the casket.

We wander to the parking lot, our throats tight and our chests heavy. Yet we're still somehow buoyed by the day's exchange of warm memories. Comforted by those who shared our loved one's life and now, our grief.

As we climb in our cars, grasping the hand of our spouse or our child or our friend, we know the reality of our loss hasn't quite hit us. We will resume our life tomorrow, as we must. And in a few days, or perhaps a few weeks, the void will surface with a jolt. It will rip a hole within us. We will suddenly miss her smile. Her phone calls. Her quick wit that left us in giggles. Her warm embrace which now leaves us with empty arms.

The grief that follows the loss of someone we love never fully disappears.

But in the best of relationships, some bits of that individual linger behind forever: what we learned from them, how they enhanced our life, who they helped us become.

We will always carry that with us. Mere mortality can never rob us of the gifts they gave us in their lifetime.

What was taken from us will be outweighed, always, by what we were able to take away from them.

Leaving Home

The smell of new carpet has faded, and fresh paint on the walls dried. Except for a stack of framed pictures awaiting rehanging, renovations are complete.

My eighteen-year-old home feels new once again. I plan to enjoy the newness, the HGTV-dicated updates, for a few more years. And then I'll do the logical thing, the sensible one. I'll put the house on the market.

As a recent and single empty-nester, selling this two-story, twelve-room house should seem a foregone conclusion. Yet that logic is swayed by sentiment. In my mind, this remains the dream house my former husband and I designed and built--when our marriage was still intact and our children still toddlers. It's the house where I raised two boys to manhood. It's the only childhood home either of them remembers.

Memories lurk in each corner of the house, linger in every inch of the yard. How will I follow through with letting it go, on the day I finally move away?

As I glance at the front porch, I'll recall the home's early life: its rising wooden frame beckoning us all toward the future. The image of my towheaded two-year-old, his Fisher-Price tools clutched in his mittened hands, remains frozen in my memory. "I build the new house, Daddy," he announced with a proud smile, his plastic hammer rapping on a four-by-four board.

Wandering around to the back yard, I'll admire the pine tree. It was nothing more than a stick when Son #2 brought it home from his preschool Arbor Day celebration; now it nearly reaches the rooftop. The back lawn and mulched flower beds somehow survived years of Capture the Flag and pick-up football and baseball games. Our back yard also served as the setting of many teary-eyed funerals for tadpoles and hermit crabs and guinea pigs, who did not survive the years.

The wooden deck appears weathered and worn after countless barbecues and birthday parties. I smile, remembering the neighborhood concerts held here too: the exuberant voices of eight-year-olds, who fortunately still lacked the self-consciousness their teen years would bring, as they belted out the Backstreet Boys to an audience of parents and neighbors.

I'll roam through the house, wandering into the dining room, where we hosted holiday dinners for nearly two decades. I will stroke the sleek surface of the long mahogany table, which will likely not find a place in my new, smaller home. At the adjacent piano, my two young sons once played a duet for their great-grandfather, just a year before he died.

Peering down the basement, I'll recall my sons' tiny fort beneath the stairwell. Only the rough-hewn wooden door remains. The fort has sat dormant for years, eventually vacated for more grown-up occupations. But once upon a time, it held the rapt attention of several flushed-faced young boys wielding hammers and saws, building a place to call their own.

Finally, I will pass the upstairs bedroom which once held our last baby crib. If I close my eyes tightly, I'm sure I can still imagine the sweet scent of baby powder.

Is a house simply some physical structure in which portions of our life play out? Or is it more? Is it our memory-keeper, our field of dreams?

On the day I leave here for the last time, I will commit this all to memory--the images of our lives which took place in every room, every hall, every inch of the yard.

And once I know I can take all of that with me, I will tell myself I'm ready to move on.

Contemplating Happiness

We hadn't talked--not really talked--in a long while.

Much had transpired in both our lives.

We relay our stories, in between drinks and admiring glances at family photos pulled from our purses. As we each listen to the other's tales, we nod. Some stories elicit grins. Others cause one to draw in a breath and grasp the other's hand.

Life elicits a myriad of responses. Years condensed into one dinner outing encompass them all.

"So, are you happy?" one finally asks the other.

"Happy? I don't know." A pause. "Are you?"

The one simple question grows into an hour of contemplation. Because what is happiness?

Does happiness mean we wake each morning, eagerly anticipating both the expectations and the uncertainties of the day?

Does happiness mean our everyday activities provide us satisfaction?

Does happiness mean our loved ones bring us joy?

Does happiness mean we bring joy to others?

Does happiness mean we feel productive and somehow valuable?

Does happiness mean we can manage to laugh?

Does happiness mean that, amidst anything else, we retain hope? Or faith?

It's a broad and vague term, this idea of happiness. Meaning such different things to different people. Its connotations change even for ourselves, at varying times in our life. Something we once thought would ensure our happiness isn't, one day, enough. Something we never before dreamed might bring us contentment can unexpectedly make us sigh, and say, "Yes. This is good."

"Are you happy?" Neither of us truly answers the question tonight.

But before we leave, heading back to the comforts and the challenges of each of our lives, we smile and embrace each other. It is good.

And we realize that, maybe, happiness should be measured by an accumulation of single moments like this.

Bruno: A Bear of a Man

His name was Bruno, German for "brown bear." A fitting name for a man who was tough as a grizzly, lovable as a stuffed teddy.

Emigrating to the United States at the age of 12, he was plunged into a distinctly different culture, a whole new world. At his new American school, without knowing a single word of English, he still managed to achieve all A's--except in his English class. He spoke of this many years later, in now perfect English, with pride and just a twinge of disappointment.

But education was a luxury for most immigrant families in the 1920s. He left school just after the eighth grade, his carpenter father insisting that boys must learn a trade. Bruno was smart, inquisitive and good with his hands. He became a machinist, a humble occupation which brought little wealth or fame, but ensured a decent living. It was enough. Decency was what truly mattered to Bruno.

If he'd been born wealthier and half-a-century later, his calling would have been that of an engineer or a computer scientist. I remember a holiday gathering, when he was about 80, just after computers had become common household fare. He leaned forward, his bushy gray eyebrows knitted together, and his blue eyes intense, as he quizzed my computer salesman brother-in-law about his job. "But explain this to me," he said, in his legendary questioning of everything in life. "How exactly does a computer work?"

It was often difficult to satisfy his insatiable curiosity. It was even tougher to deter the man's determination. Of that, we were always envious.

After a heart attack, when he was only in his forties, he fortified his will to live. That heart attack was his first and last.

When the company for whom he worked for more than thirty years folded, when Bruno was in his sixties, he lost not only his job but his entire pension. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and despair, he simply persevered and found another job.

Years later, a horrific car accident left him with injuries including several broken ribs and a pulverized face. (His jaw would be wired shut, rendering him literally speechless and on a liquid diet for weeks.) The day after the accident, he ignored the hospital staff's heeding and stoically marched down the hallway to be with my grandmother, who'd suffered a broken neck.

Bruno didn't believe in giving up on giving his all.

That's what I remember most about my grandfather. Plus his habitual hugs. And his often repeated words, "I'm so proud of you kids."

Bruno outlived his wife of sixty-two years, who never fully bounced back from that accident. He also outlived my father, who was never his son-in-law but always his son. My dad died from cancer, at age 53, only four months after that car crash which, ironically left him the only uninjured one of the vehicle's six passengers. My father-in-law died just two years later (also at age 53), when my two sons were just babies. Although he was their great-grandfather, Bruno is the only grandfather either of them remember.

Bruno lived to the ripe age of 89. Although he's been gone for nearly ten years, I see his warmth and fortitude still in his daughter, my mother. I'd like to believe I, too, possess a bit of both of those qualities. And when I look at my two grown boys, I know I see remnants of their great-grandfather.

Yes, he was a Great Grandfather.

Happy Father's Day, Grandpa.

Leaving a Legacy

I sit on a university scholarship committee which, among our interrogations--I mean interviews--of candidates, annually poses the question: "What was your greatest contribution to your high school, and what will be your legacy there?"

Not an easy question for any incoming college freshman, even one with a 4.0 GPA, a near perfect ACT score and an impressive resume'.

It's an even tougher query for the average high school graduate, particularly one whose high school legacy (theoretically speaking of course) was being named Best Party Giver.

Fortunately, the value of one's contributions in life are not based solely on their high school experience. We all have a lifetime to accrue personal achievements, to impact other people, to make our mark on the world--however tiny and intangible it might be.

Some may be recalled for success in their chosen career. Others may have selflessly volunteered in their community or for a particular worthy cause. Others simply may be remembered for perhaps the greatest and most socially underrated accomplishment of all: being loving and nurturing parents. Most of us won't go down in history for monumental achievements like inventing the internet or bringing peace to the Middle East.

Yet each of us will be remembered by someone, for something.

Legacies are shaped, not just through our changing the world, but by our benefiting a few lives.

It's never too late for each of us to make our mark.

So, what do you hope will be your legacy?

Turn Around

A few weeks ago, I wrote that taking even baby steps might help get us on track to our goals. Like the Alcoholics Anonymous motto, perhaps we just need to take One Day at a Time.

"Well, taking baby steps forward is plenty good and all," one reader wrote. "But what about when you take several steps backward? Sometimes you need to acknowledge your goal is futile and just give up."

Hmm. Yes, that comment is something to consider.

Let's say, for example, you're a woman who always aspired to be five-foot-seven. If you're middle-aged and stand five-foot-two, in shoes (hypothetically speaking, of course), it's time to cash that dream in for a new one.

Yes, some goals probably are unrealistic. Certain circumstances in life are locked in. Some objectives, due to age, genetics, health or other factors, can't be achieved, no matter how hard we try.

So where is the line drawn? What's possible and what's fully implausible? If we start off with the odds stacked against us, or take several steps backward, when should we decide to just call it quits?

Do we give up on losing weight, because we've regained the ten pounds we previously lost? Do we toss the idea for a new career, because we failed a required college course? Do we say, screw the possibility of seeing our grandchildren grow up, because our cholesterol and blood pressure have already risen off the charts?

What we need to decide, when contemplating seemingly insurmountable goals, is whether they're truly impossible or simply difficult. And that differentiation is, well, difficult in itself.

My friend Cindy compared goals and missteps along the way to driving on the turnpike. "If you want to be headed east and find yourself going west, do you simply say, 'Well, I'm already going west, so even if it's the wrong direction, maybe I should just keep going this way?' Or do you turn around?"

I've found it's an analogy that works for most of my own life goals.

If it's possible to truly reach your destination by reversing direction, even if it means traveling many more miles, are you willing to do so? Or do you just keep heading in the wrong direction, because you can't fathom the effort of turning back?

Occasionally life is black or white. Can or can't.

Often though, life is one great gray area. Try or don't. And when we encounter a gray spot, perhaps we should view it as a green light, and gun the gas pedal.

Will you do so, even if it means you have to first turn around?

Taking Baby Steps

I'm told Alcoholics Anonymous has a motto of "One Day at a Time." (I've never attended a meeting; I'm still in the One Drink at a Time stage.) But as I grow older, I've come to believe that particular mantra carries wisdom worth applying to aspects of anyone's life.

A close friend, who has struggled with weight issues her whole life, recently returned to Weight Watchers after a long hiatus. The registration clerk asked her how much she hoped to lose.

My friend hesitated before softly answering, "Five pounds."

She said the woman didn't reply, yet looked up and then blinked as she filled out the form. Clearly, she believed my friend needed to shed much more than five pounds. Thirty, maybe forty. (Who's counting? Definitely not me, who could stand to lose about the same.) But this larger goal, at that moment, seemed insurmountable to my friend. Yes, she hoped to eventually achieve more. Now, however, she could only focus on losing five pounds at a time.

Another friend is going to school while he works full-time. At the reasonable rate of one or two classes a semester, it will take years to finally walk away with a college degree. He refuses to do the math which makes his goal unimaginable. He says he can only focus on completing one class at a time.

I'm writing yet another draft of a new novel. I've written, and finished, two other books. I comprehend the patience and perseverance that writing entails. It means months, even years, of writing and rewriting to achieve near-perfection in an 80,000-word manuscript. But when I sit down each night to write, 80,000 words is inconceivable. I can only focus on writing one chapter at a time.

Huge accomplishments--those that require days, months or even years of effort and strength--are fraught with uncertainty and self-doubt. As much as we admire those who openly commit to ambitious goals, we're often skeptical of their success. We're even more reluctant to fully acknowledge our own long-term objectives. The fear of failure hangs heavy.

Often, taking one tiny and tangible step is all we can muster.

Yet maybe those baby steps, taken one after the other, are enough to reach our final destination.

And if anyone blinks an eye at our progress, we need to remember we're getting there, one day at a time.