Tag: autobiography

Sometimes Things Change

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I see some ducks diving deep, popping up half a pond away, while others are skimming their feet on the surface as they fly across the water. Bullfrogs are croaking and leopard frogs are clucking along the shores. It seems as if all remains the same for them, and still, sometimes things change.

They change for the students in the prime of their life. With their remaining school years on hold or completely shut down, proms, plays, trips, and graduations have been taken away. As a result, many students, especially seniors, are alternating between angst and anger, disconnect and depression. All the life experiences and high school highlights that they have been promised have been stolen from them. We want to reassure them that all will be well, but we understand their pain. No, it is NOT fair, but, sadly, sometimes things change.

Meanwhile, trees are changing to chartreuse with burgeoning buds. Flowers are waking from their winter sleep, poking their colorful heads out of the formerly frozen earth. As it has done for thousands of years, spring is springing, and still, sometimes things change.

It has changed for the young athletes from college to preschool who cannot gather together and have fun. Junior and senior high school students, vying for the chance to be noticed by college coaches and maybe earn athletic scholarships, cannot compete: no RBIs, no shut-outs, no distances thrown or jumped, no heights cleared, and no FATS recorded. These students are worried about their futures. Will their dreams to compete collegiately be dashed because there are no times for their 400m dash? We try to reassure them that all will work out in the end, but the words sound hollow, even to us. In the end, all we have is, sometimes things change.

Outside, warm winds are wafting. The grass is growing greener, and birds are busy building their nests. Even though everything remains the same for nature, we humans know that sometimes things change.

Great hardships befall humanity as a whole or people as individuals: Lives are uprooted, schedules are shifted, social connections are limited, and people are suffering. And when it all seems as if it is too much to bear, just breathe and remember, sometimes things change.

Matriarchal Me

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I am one of 28 first cousins on my paternal side. (Yes, I said 28.) Of these two dozen-plus people, I am the oldest.

My father is one of ten siblings. He had five children—I am the first-born.

On my mother’s side, from four siblings, there are six surviving first cousins. And you know what? I am the eldest.

Also on my maternal line, I am the senior second cousin.  (So you see what I am getting at here?)

My siblings (bless their little hearts) revel in reminding me of my age. (Yep, I got it: I am the old one. Nuff said…)

Lately, this insatiable need to acknowledge my ancientness seems to be afflicting my extended family, as well. At a recent family event, one of my much younger cousins informed me that I am the matriarch of our generation. Matriarch? (Where are my orthopedic shoes and support hose?)

At first, I was taken aback to be dubbed a matriarch. (Really, I’m not THAT old, am I?) But then, I really started to think about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I will admit that my younger cousin might, just might, be onto something.

It is true: I am the eldest of our generation. It is also correct that I am the current keeper of the family’s history.

Considering that a matriarch is defined as: “A mother, an older woman who is respected or venerated within a family, the female leader in the family”, being a matriarch doesn’t sound too bad. In fact, it sounds sort of like a compliment. (Although, I still don’t like the “older” part…not at all.)

So, for now, I think I’ll just be a matriarch-in-training. How does that sound? Many, many moons from now, I promise that I will embrace my matriarchal persona. (Bring on the gray hair and laugh lines…. well, maybe NOT!) Until then, I will just keep calm, and matriarch on.

Originally published on 13 February 2016, Matriarchal Me

Singsongs in Summer Swelter

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Sunny summer days of my yesteryears lumbered and lulled. Hours hung heavy in the humid air.

To occupy those drawn-out dog days, I dangled my tiny toes in trickling streams, carved crooked creatures in cracking mud, climbed creaking limbs of ancient oaks, and imagined dragons cavorting in cotton ball clouds.

Puff, the magic dragon lived by the sea
And frolicked in the autumn mist in a land called Honahlee.

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Middle-Aged Morning

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I woke up old this morning. OLD! But I swear, when I went to sleep last night, I was still slightly youthful.

However, at the break of dawn, as I stretched myself from slumber, my body creaked and cracked like tree limbs in winter.

Rising from my bed, every joint and muscle ached—the pain hunching me over like a hag.

As I slowly shuffled to the bathroom, my reflection in the mirror was backlit by the rising sun. Spotlighted in all my early morning glory were fine lines on my face that resembled furrows in a field and snow-white hairs poking out of my head. After that horror show, I averted my eyes. (I wonder if this is the real reason older Abnegation faction members limit mirror time…Hmmm…)

Trudging back to my room, I attempted to get dressed: first up, undergarments. However, when I leaned over, my back froze mid-bend. After much effort and a couple of colorful words, I eventually stood upright again.

The next piece of clothing to don was a shirt. I reached up to slide the t-shirt over my torso. Suddenly, I heard a loud pop like a gunshot. Isn’t hunting season over? I went to the window to see who was trespassing in my woods. Turns out, that sound was no gunshot; it was just my shoulder.

Then came the jeans. Pulling on my pants, I felt a bit like the Tinman after he rusted in the rain. Anybody got some oil for these stiff joints?

Next up was hair and makeup, but recalling what a hot mess I was, I opted for breakfast first.

I needed caffeine, loads of caffeine! Make me a double espresso, STAT! As my coffee was brewing, my stomach growled. “Feed me, NOW!” it roared. I grabbed an apple and took a big bite. I figured that at the rate I am aging, I’d better munch on as many apples as I can before my teeth fall out!

With breakfast complete, it was time to face the music in the mirror. Ugh! Reluctantly, I went back to the bathroom to survey the damage. First, I applied moisturizer…lots and lots and lots of moisturizer. Oy! Oil of Olay is sure making a fortune off of me!

Now that my skin was thoroughly hydrated, I reviewed my options. After careful consideration, I determined that there was no way I was using a sponge and foundation. Perhaps a trough and spackling paste instead? And powder? Well, that too was a no-go. Why would I call attention to those not-so-funny laugh lines?

In the end, I settled on some neutral eyeshadow, a line of brown eyeliner, and a smidge of lip gloss. Staring back at me was a younger me…no beauty queen, mind you, but at least I no longer looked like one of Macbeth’s crones.

Now what to do with this hair? Oh, where oh where is Miss Clairol or L’Oreal when you need them? Since I was not going to wash that gray right outta my hair, I decided to hide the worse of it, pulling my hair up on the sides. And because the sun was not shining as brightly as it had been, I could almost fool myself into believing that those white hairs were merely highlights in my dark blonde locks.

Hey, maybe that’s the answer to combatting middle age: Deceive yourself. Deliberate delusion…yeah, that’s the ticket. Or, perhaps I should just ditch the glasses. In this case, blurry eyesight would be a good thing. Of course, with my luck, I would probably miss a step or trip over something and break my hip… So, the specs stay.

Yeah, yeah, I know…there is nothing I can do about it: I have to accept that I am getting older. No amount of denial will change the fact that time is marching on…all over my body and face. Fine…from now on, I will embrace my soon-to-be elder self. But I don’t have to like it.

Originally published on 24 December 2018, Middle-Aged Morning

Popularity Pity Party

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Growing up, I was too dang poor to play the popularity game. Because wearing designer jeans and Izod sweaters was a “must” to be a part of the “in” group, I was obviously “out.” But that didn’t bother me… well, maybe not too much…

So why is it, that decades later, when it comes to social media, am I so desperate to be liked or pinned or shared or followed? Especially that being “shared” or “followed” bit…you know, there’s something a little wrong with that.


Seriously, why would any self-respecting, middle-aged woman even care about the number of Instagram likes, Pinterest shares, YouTube subscribers, LinkedIn connections, Facebook likes/friends, Twitter likes/retweets, or WordPress likes/followers she has? And yet, everytime those numbers tick up, I channel my inner Sally Field:

What. Is. Wrong. With. Me? When did I regress into an insecure pubescent desperate for affirmation? When did I become Jan Brady, who wa always stuck in the shadow of Marcia, Marcia, Marcia:

And why, if I need to go back in time, can’t I at least get my teenage body and energy level back too?  IT’S JUST NOT FAIR!


Ah crap, now I am starting to sound like a teen too! Seriously, somebody smack me… This is just plain pitiful. I really need to get a like.. I mean a LIFE…

I am a writer.

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I am a writer… that’s “writer” with a lowercase “w.” I do not have the time, energy, or that special something to be a Writer with a capital letter.

I am too busy wiping snotty noses and dirty faces, scrubbing sticky floors and stinky toilets, and washing crusty dishes and smelly clothes.

My brain is too drained from constantly reminding kids to close the front door, pick up your shoes, do your homework, eat your food, hang up your clothes, turn off the television, brush your teeth, get in the shower, get out of the shower, go to sleep, get out of that damn bed, and put on some @#$! pants!

Maybe someday I might become an uppercase Writer. But until then, I am just a plain-old, worn-out writer. Please pass me the pen… and the Pinesol.

Half-Past Life

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I am standing at the top of the hill, ready to start my descent. Before I begin the second half of my life, however, I would like to take the time to tell the story of my life so far.

I was born in the hippy generation to two non-hippies. At the time of my birth, my father was 17 years old, and my mother had just turned 18 a couple of weeks before.

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