Forgiveness

I have a friend – a good friend – that I’ve had for some 17 years – if you don’t count the lost years – which I really don’t.  And when I first met this person, I was a very different Amy than I am now.  I was extremely insecure.  I felt compelled to find the one person who would love me the most.  I needed to be the most important person to someone.  And during the early years of my silly, obsessive quest, this friend found a letter that I had written and destroyed and pieced it back together.  

As the years have progressed, this event has for me become a very good story.  But it is without animosity or anger or hatred or any of the emotions that I experienced when it first occurred.  And truth be told, and I’m not sure my friend realizes this – though I suspect she does but perhaps she needs me to say it – I was jealous.  What was difficult for me, being liked and feeling important, came naturally to her – or so it seemed to me.  So I was in competition with my friend – for the affections of a gay boy – don’t ask me to expand on how totally pointless that was – but that’s the case.  

So, anyway, on my last post, Terri, my friend, wrote about this incident.  And a couple of weeks ago at my son’s birthday party, she told my friend Ashlee about it as well.  And it just got me to thinking… about forgiveness in general.  During my 36 years, I have much to ask forgiveness for – and asking for forgiveness is just as difficult for me as granting it.  In fact, in a church service about a year ago, the preacher talked about forgiveness – and how forgiveness didn’t have to go hand in hand in forgetting.  For which I was eternally relieved, because I’m not a big fan on forgetting.  I wouldn’t scrapbook or write here if I was of a mind to forget stuff.  But forgiveness was letting go of your anger and hurt.  It was about not allowing myself to stand in judgement of the one who wronged me and not wishing for really bad things to happen to that person.  Not wishing for bad things to happen to a person means that forgiveness comes after some time – as if I’m angry at a person, I really enjoy thinking of really bad things to do or to happen.  For example, Amanda at work who didn’t talk to me for an entire year is extremely germ conscious.  I mean if you breathe over her food, she won’t eat it – especially if she doesn’t care for you.  So during the year that she wasn’t talking to me, I tried to find creative ways to deposit my germs about her desk.  I would lick her favorite pen.  I would secretly take a drink out of her soda.  And as I sit here, I’m hoping that I didn’t tell her about this blog – I’m pretty sure I didn’t – but if I did, and Amanda if you’re reading this – you know I’m joking – why would I do something like that – and ummm… will you forgive me my petty revenge – which though sweet at the time, is really umm… troublesome now?  Anyway, forgiveness is a difficult thing for most – and me as well.  So, I ask Terri now to forgive me for making the reconstructed letter thing such an issue and hope that she realizes that I’m now glad that she did that – as it is a very funny story and that she knows now that there is nothing I wouldn’t have her know about me.  If there’s anyone else out there reading this that I in some way hurt or offended – chances are I’m totally unaware – but if I did hurt or offend you, then I ask you to forgive the action.  
I forgive my dad for not realizing that I didn’t care that he was waiting for me to say I wanted a father, I wanted him to be there – physically there – whether I was ready for him or not.  I forgive my mom for not always having her crap together and taking us on some strange emotional roller coasters.  I forgive my sister for not being the bellsouth telephone commercial sister – if she’ll forgive me the same.  I ask for forgiveness from everyone that I know for being judgemental, demanding, bossy, and unbending in so many ways (though if you must know, such traits really work well in many situations – but they do tend to piss people off – but you care less about pissed off people when you’re getting your way).  I ask for forgiveness from all those people that I only ½ listened to when they needed my full attention.  I ask for forgiveness from anyone who expects me to really really care about the trauma in their life when I tend to worry  more about my own --  I ask my husband for forgiveness for listening like a man (men are from mars, women are from venus) and offering suggestion after suggestion when all he wants to do is vent – and then getting angry at him when he doesn’t want my suggestion.   And I think I’ll stop right there as the longer I go – well the more I seem like a really bad person and we really can’t be having that.

Forgiveness

I have a friend – a good friend – that I’ve had for some 17 years – if you don’t count the lost years – which I really don’t.  And when I first met this person, I was a very different Amy than I am now.  I was extremely insecure.  I felt compelled to find the one person who would love me the most.  I needed to be the most important person to someone.  And during the early years of my silly, obsessive quest, this friend found a letter that I had written and destroyed and pieced it back together.  

As the years have progressed, this event has for me become a very good story.  But it is without animosity or anger or hatred or any of the emotions that I experienced when it first occurred.  And truth be told, and I’m not sure my friend realizes this – though I suspect she does but perhaps she needs me to say it – I was jealous.  What was difficult for me, being liked and feeling important, came naturally to her – or so it seemed to me.  So I was in competition with my friend – for the affections of a gay boy – don’t ask me to expand on how totally pointless that was – but that’s the case.  

So, anyway, on my last post, Terri, my friend, wrote about this incident.  And a couple of weeks ago at my son’s birthday party, she told my friend Ashlee about it as well.  And it just got me to thinking… about forgiveness in general.  During my 36 years, I have much to ask forgiveness for – and asking for forgiveness is just as difficult for me as granting it.  In fact, in a church service about a year ago, the preacher talked about forgiveness – and how forgiveness didn’t have to go hand in hand in forgetting.  For which I was eternally relieved, because I’m not a big fan on forgetting.  I wouldn’t scrapbook or write here if I was of a mind to forget stuff.  But forgiveness was letting go of your anger and hurt.  It was about not allowing myself to stand in judgement of the one who wronged me and not wishing for really bad things to happen to that person.  Not wishing for bad things to happen to a person means that forgiveness comes after some time – as if I’m angry at a person, I really enjoy thinking of really bad things to do or to happen.  For example, Amanda at work who didn’t talk to me for an entire year is extremely germ conscious.  I mean if you breathe over her food, she won’t eat it – especially if she doesn’t care for you.  So during the year that she wasn’t talking to me, I tried to find creative ways to deposit my germs about her desk.  I would lick her favorite pen.  I would secretly take a drink out of her soda.  And as I sit here, I’m hoping that I didn’t tell her about this blog – I’m pretty sure I didn’t – but if I did, and Amanda if you’re reading this – you know I’m joking – why would I do something like that – and ummm… will you forgive me my petty revenge – which though sweet at the time, is really umm… troublesome now?  Anyway, forgiveness is a difficult thing for most – and me as well.  So, I ask Terri now to forgive me for making the reconstructed letter thing such an issue and hope that she realizes that I’m now glad that she did that – as it is a very funny story and that she knows now that there is nothing I wouldn’t have her know about me.  If there’s anyone else out there reading this that I in some way hurt or offended – chances are I’m totally unaware – but if I did hurt or offend you, then I ask you to forgive the action.  
I forgive my dad for not realizing that I didn’t care that he was waiting for me to say I wanted a father, I wanted him to be there – physically there – whether I was ready for him or not.  I forgive my mom for not always having her crap together and taking us on some strange emotional roller coasters.  I forgive my sister for not being the bellsouth telephone commercial sister – if she’ll forgive me the same.  I ask for forgiveness from everyone that I know for being judgemental, demanding, bossy, and unbending in so many ways (though if you must know, such traits really work well in many situations – but they do tend to piss people off – but you care less about pissed off people when you’re getting your way).  I ask for forgiveness from all those people that I only ½ listened to when they needed my full attention.  I ask for forgiveness from anyone who expects me to really really care about the trauma in their life when I tend to worry  more about my own --  I ask my husband for forgiveness for listening like a man (men are from mars, women are from venus) and offering suggestion after suggestion when all he wants to do is vent – and then getting angry at him when he doesn’t want my suggestion.   And I think I’ll stop right there as the longer I go – well the more I seem like a really bad person and we really can’t be having that.

The Art of Making Memories

The Art of Memory Making

My friend Mary and I were carving pumpkins yesterday evening at her house.  And at the end of the exciting session, she told me that she had never carved pumpkins before.  I don’t remember much pumpkin carving myself – but then I lived so far out in the country that Halloween was largely a wasted holiday as there was no where to trick or treat.  It’s just never been my holiday.  Elijah has just begin trick or treating last year.  And this year, with the help of the pumpkin carving tools (and let me tell you they are worth the purchase) he carved his first pumpkin alone.  Though it did require peer pressure from Katie to get his hand inside the pumpkin to clear out all the seeds.

Anyway . . . before I ramble on too much, the comment that struck was about creating memories.  My friend Ashlee talks often about how she doesn’t really have any memories from her childhood that stand out – her parents lived life close to home, I guess.  But I get from her that it was something that she regrets – despite her lack of control over it.  

My own childhood experiences are vast and full.  In part, I think that is because my mom moved a lot.  Not every 3 months after first and last month rent plus deposit ran out kind of moving.  But she was on a quest to find herself and felt that she had to do that in different places.  And because we were her extra baggage, we got to go along on her quest.  So, if I look at my childhood and wish for some things, I could never, ever wish that we had done more things, or that I had seen more stuff.  Let me give you a run down on my childhood memories.

1. I remember seeing my brother drink, what I thought was pee out of a sprite bottle.  My mom often led us to believe untruths for her own amusement (I’m guilty of the same myself) so I don’t think it was pee – mostly because I’m pretty sure that Jason (who was younger than 2 at the time) would not have so greedily consumed the beverage.


2. I remember going to the Elephant Rocks in Missouri.  These huge, massive stones that are balanced on other huge rocks.  


3. I remember going to Springfield, Mo. On the weekend to see a movie.  We would go into Ventures (who’s store sign had black and white stripes) and they would give you a free cookie.  And in the mall we would get bread, cheese and pepperoni from some store and eat it.


4. I remember playing in the room set-ups they had at the department store and getting lost every time we went.


5. I remember going to New York to visit my Aunt Betty and climbing to the top of the World Trade Towers and Robin hanging over to get a shot of the road.  I remember climbing the statue of Liberty and how nice the breeze felt through her crown (as the torch was closed) on the hottest day in recorded history in New York (it was 120 degrees inside) and Jacqui passing up tissues to everyone who wanted to wipe their faces.  I remember seeing the dinosaur bones and shark jaw at the Museum of Natural History


6. I remember going to Carmel and Monterey and seeing the tidal pools and being afraid to touch the sea anemone because they would sting me to death


7. I remember getting horses ready to ride – and ponies being stubborn – and getting thrown of my horse onto a pine tree.


8. I remember being chased by goats, cows and geese on my mom’s dream farm.  I especially remember the white rooster who’s greatest joy was to stalk the front door in wait for the school bus so that he could chase and flog us all the way.  Ironically, every rooster I’ve encountered since then has treated me the same way – but I feel much less guilty about having him turned into soup.


9. I remember the wharf at San Fransisco and the crooked street in the world.  I remember riding the cable car from the wharf into the city amazed at how short the line was only to discover that the other end of the line had about an hour wait and my mom making us walk all the way back – I remember the hills in San Fransisco being really big.


10. I remember going to the creek and catching cray fish.


11. I remember swimming in the pond in the summer and skating on it in the winter.


12. I remember driving from Missouri to Kentucky to visit grandparents and stopping at the something Springs restaurant and that being the highlight of my trip.


13. I remember telling my grandmother that painting the fence looked like fun, and when the fun was over she made us finish (and redo) until it was right – so I never commented on such things again.


14. I remember being at my grandmother’s house when she moved the couch to clean behind it and found all the dr. pepper bottles that we had hidden there in order to get by the one soda a day rule at her house.


15. I remember stealing cigarettes from my Aunt Linda’s purse with Michelle and Angie (my cousins) and smoking them in the wash house – and getting caught by my dad as we walked in the house – he told us we would pee in our bed at night.

You get the general idea.  If she did nothing else, my mom created experiences for us.  Gave us the opportunity to explore.  And it is a tradition I really enjoy creating for my own children.  Now, don’t get me wrong,  we still call them a fucking family outing  (FFO)– and sometimes they are.  I know that getting everything packed, in the car and ready to go makes the possibility of a good time seem remote from the onset, but the new experience of it is amazing.  There is little that I enjoy more than seeing Elijah see something for the first time.  And I am sometimes disappointed when he looks at something with a bit of indifference and moves forward uncaring – it’s that look into the teenage years – which is actually when the FFO term emerged (I like to think that it was my phrase – but I’m pretty sure it was my mother’s slightly post-pubescent girlfriend’s – and being in her presence for any length of time was definitely a FF-something or another).  So, I look at those houses that are decorated to the nines for holidays and wish that I was interested in those sort of things – but I’m not.  But I will take my son to get a pumpkin and teach him how to carve it.  I will take him out around town to see and do stuff – and if it’s free then so much the better.  Shoot, we go see Santa like 5 times – just to visit and check on him and to chat.  Our next FFO is going to be to Gaitlinburg.  We’re going to that aquarium and dinosaur place they have there – it’s just a shame that money and intent don’t always go hand in hand.

So, here’s to creating your own family memories and traditions – and to retelling those stories and creating a way to make them become memories for all time – because that is your legacy – your immortality.  

Borrowing Trouble

Borrowing Trouble

A friend of mine has recently been struggling with anger issues.  In that she’s really pissed off at a coworker and she loves that feeling of hate and anger.  She loves it so much that she almost searches actively for new reasons to be angry at this person.  Now, I have to agree that the “victim” makes anger really easy.  She’s one of the most annoying humans that I’ve ever met.  Actually, she really should be an 80 year old grandma at a church outing.  She’s just got that sort of personality.  She likes to read over your shoulder when you are writing or reading email.  She likes to talk to you even if it looks like you are doing 5 other things.  She patiently waits to eavesdrop on your telephone conversation when you thought you were saved by the ring before continuing her conversation about something that you generally have no interest in.  I have personally spent a lot of time trying to figure out why her conversations are so wholly disinteresting.  I think about the types of things that I talk about – and know that they aren’t so very interesting – and usually end up with the belief that my delivery must be better – and I change the topic with some frequency.  She has this annoying way of raising her voice and talking in a sing-song baby talk sort of way when she things she’s being funny – it truly is annoying.  But my friend – you can see her begin to seethe and fume as the conversation continues.  I personally have found no small amount of joy in finding ways to force the two into conversational situations – for no other reason that I know that my friend finds it so  totally frustrating.

Anyway… back to the point.  I don’t really understand why people choose to hold on to these small annoying  things to get angry over.  I was listening to bob and sheri this morning and Bob was just going on and on about how he feels that the people with 20 items in the 15 item line should be shot – how dare they.  Or the people who wait until the lane closes before trying to get over into the single lane of traffic that is still open.  How dare they!  Who do they think they are?  And all I could think about was – is this really what you chose to get so angry about?  I mean seriously, what’s the point?  Maybe it’s the Celestine Prophecy part of me that just sees it as wasted energy – or giving another power over my life when they really don’t deserve it.  I’m not saying that those things aren’t annoying – if I’m in a hurry – or somehow something breaks down and the whole line / lane is moving at a crawl.  But my goodness – is it really so difficult to try to find a brighter side.  Of course I might be so happy about the whole thing because I have been the 20 in 15 person – and have  you seen how much faster the cars in the lane that’s about to close move – they end up through the line much much faster – But that time in line could also be used for mental reflection – a time to space out.  Shoot as a mommy, if I’m in line alone – whether at the grocery or in the car – I relish that quiet time alone to just let my mind wander – to listen to the radio – to pick my nose if I’m of a mind without having to tell Elijah that it’s bad manners –

I just don’t understand why people would lose their temper over that small situation.  The only conclusion that I can come to is that those people are unhappy in some way anyway.  That they are using these situations to dishonestly vent about their unhappiness in a way they feel is more acceptable.  But ultimately they aren’t facing the true cause of their unhappiness.  And I really like that answer better – because I feel that I’m a happy person.  I’m quite content with my life, my job, my friends and family.  I have enough money to be frivolous on occasion – though I wouldn’t cry if I had more money – though I know Jose would make me use it to pay off some bill or the other.  But I don’t really have the need to vent my anger and frustration in my life at strangers who aren’t doing what I want them to do.  However, I’m thankful I guess to those people, because without them, I wouldn’t be able to look at my life and be grateful, joyful, happy, content with my life.  They help me realize how lucky I am.

The Stranger in the Mirror

This is a short story that I wrote in one of my college classes. This seemed as good a place as any to put it.

"Jewell," the old man's voice calls from the kitchen.

A small plump scurries to the kitchen. Tightly curled, gray hair frames a brow furrowed in concern, as she walks to the aid of the man who has called out to her. She comes to stand next to the man that has shared her life for the past 68 years. Their eyes meet first in the mirror, before he turns to face her.

"Who is that man there?" he asks and turns to point to his own reflection.

My grandfather now walks past mirrors and sees strangers. The man who smelled of horses and motor oil, now looks at me with questions in his eyes, and wonders who I am. It is an uncanny experience to be forgotten by your grandfather. It is a denial of self to some degree.

I would like to say that I know my granddaddy really well. However, if I were to say that, it would be an out and out bald-faced lie. And I try never to lie (blatantly anyway). I have long since passed the age where there was no better place in the world to spend the day than my Grandma Walker's house. That is something that I have not yet learned to regret.

My grandparents lived on a farm. A real farm, with tractor's, and cows, and horses. Essentially I remember it as a place of "Don't goes..." and "You better come back here......" and "Why don't you....." and my favorite "Don't make me get a willow switch...." Jodi, Jason and I (or my cousins for that matter) never truly considered these
limitations. It simply meant we had to be more creative in getting away with our adventures.

My Grandma and Granddaddy were always up with the sun. They didn't even need an alarm clock I don't think. They just woke up. Granddaddy would get up and go out to take care of the morning chores on the farm, while Grandma was fixing breakfast. I would wake up to the smell of pancakes, bacon, coffee, eggs and to the sounds of the oven door closing, and dishes being washed, and the local country music station with Willy Wilson telling about the comings and goings of Cadiz. It would invariably be the news bulletin sound that woke me up, and got me to leave the feather bed and stumble into the kitchen. Grandma would have the coffee in the percolator. It was not a coffee pot. It was actually one of those percolators like on the Maxwell's House commercials. It was silver and had a clear glass bauble on the top. When it was ready the coffee splurched up into that ball. It plugged right into the wall, and of course it was hot so we were to be very careful.

Granddad would come to the table smelling like dew and the morning breeze, with the slightest hint of hay and grass. He would be dressed in engineer coveralls, those stiff, heavy denim striped blue and white. Over that he would have a green insulated jacket. He would pull off the jacket, hang it in the closet, then sit down and pour himself a cup of coffee.

He always tilted his coffee cup so that some would spill over into his saucer. He would drink out of his saucer first, then his cup. Of course, since Granddaddy was drinking coffee we all had to have some too. And after much begging, and my granddad saying "Aww, Jewel, it ain't gonna hurt 'em none," we would be allowed half a cup of coffee sweetened with half a quart of sweet- n-low.

We would eat our breakfast, kiss Granddaddy goodbye, and then we would go back to bed again until the sun decided to come up. Grandma would begin her morning cleaning ritual. She cleaned her house from top to bottom every single day... because "You never know when someone might stop by."

Granddad would leave carrying his old metal lunch box, with huge matching thermos. In the summer, the thermos was filled with ice, that would melt offering ice cold drinking water. In the winter, it carried the remains of the morning coffee. He would pile into his truck that was so old that it had lost any semblance of paint and was simply one huge piece of rust with four wheels and a seat. Grandma said that the truck was dangerous. Not because it was a speeding demon, with it's top speed of 35 miles per hour, but because it had numerous sharp edges, pit falls, holes and all of my Granddad's tools. It was simply to her way of thinking, no place for children. That of course means that we were all fascinated by it. It was in this speeding death trap, the he lovingly called a
truck, that my Granddad practiced his only vice. Only in this truck, would he allow himself the pleasure of smoking cigars. I, of course, do not believe that he had any such vice, but such is the rumor mill among cousins in a small town.

Granddad would usually come home for lunch if he was working close enough to the house. To this day, my Grandma still fixes a big lunch for any family or friends who want to stop by for a bite to eat. Whenever Granddaddy was expected home for lunch, we always got something better than just sandwiches.

After lunch, we wouldn't see Granddaddy again until twilight. That was our play time. He would shed his green jacket, and then we would crawl over him as if he were a human jungle gym. Our favorite game to play was BEAR. Granddaddy would get down on all fours and chase after us as we ran screaming through the house. When he caught us, he would lift up our shirts and rub his whiskers on our bellies, and blow raspberries against our sides.

The ultimate torture was if Granddaddy decided to attack our tickle spots. My Granddaddy created in each of his grandchildren a tickle spot. It is located on the inner thigh, just above the right knee. If one of us was sitting on the couch, and didn't get up to give him a kiss when he came home, or if we were too involved in the television to pay him any mind, he would calmly walk over, lean down and offer his cheek to be kissed. As you stretched toward him, he would attack your tickle spot and proceed to administer a short lecture on why "You should never be too busy to get up and give your old Granddad a kiss to say hello." Any argument we made as to the importance of what we were doing was happily met with "I don't care whatchu were a doin......you come
and kiss your granddaddy hello." There were needless to say very few instances when we didn't run up to meet him when he came home from work.

To this day, each and every one of us suffer from spasms when someone threatens our tickle spots. I am not as a rule subject to being tickled, but if someone offers to get my tickle spot, I immediately begin to plot my escape.

My Granddaddy was never a harsh man. He was never anything other than really happy and content, that I can remember. He could give one of the best, and longest, lectures on what he considered proper behavior (and it didn't matter to him if you were at home, in the store, or driving down the road, he would stop and you would listen). He was never a violent man, and used his words rather than his hand to discipline us. He was my grandfather, a kind and gentle man with a playful spirit and a well developed work ethic.

It is that part of him that remains today, the kindness and playfulness. It is the only part of him that I still recognize.

My Granddaddy began to succumb to Alzheimer's disease. The first indications were lost on me, and only with retrospect can I see that the man I knew was fading away within himself.

I will never forget the summer that we had all gathered at Grandma Walker's for dinner. I had loaded onto my plate some round fried object that I had assumed was zucchini. I was sitting next to my Granddad at the picnic table, and I took a bite of one of the UFO's (unknown fried objects) and promptly spit it back out.

Granddaddy looked at me and asked "What's wrong? Don't you like them?" I scrunched up my nose and shook my head. "Well then," he said, "just throw it on off into the garden."

My eyes got as round as saucers. My Granddaddy was telling me to break one of the cardinal rules (these being if it is on your plate then you have to eat it, and there is no reason why anyone needs more than one soda in a day). This man who once told me that if I did not finish my supper, then I would be having it again for breakfast was now telling me to throw away food. Well, you can bet that I tossed those tomatoes into the garden as fast as I could.

At the time, I thought that finally, my Granddaddy was viewing me as an adult. I was capable of making my own decisions, and much too old to be forced to eat something that I didn't like. "Hell," I thought to myself "I think I am going to get me another Dr. Pepper."

Now, I realize that my Granddaddy was losing himself.

I have never been one to visit my grandparents. After I went to college, and moved to Bowling Green, It was very rare for me to make the trip to Grandma Walker's. Because of that, I have not had to witness how my grandfather has changed.

I was not there the first time he got lost in the fields behind the house. I was not there when they sold his truck and his old car so that he wouldn't try to drive them off to work. I have not had to help my Grandma Walker get to the store for groceries, since she never got her driver's license, nor have I been required to help maintain the
farm, cutting the hay, feeding the horses and the cows. I was not there the day my Grandfather asked who the man in the mirror was.

I was there this Christmas. I stepped into the small house, and found him sleeping on the couch (he was sitting up with his legs crossed, but still fast asleep though you would think he was simply in deep thought). I woke him up when I sat next to him. He looked at me, grinned and then asked my Grandma who I was. I sat next to him for some time, trying to decipher the speech that several small strokes has made intelligible. Grandma would often offer some translation, but most of the time she could not. Several times he asked me who I was. I was at a loss. How do you tell someone, "I'm your granddaughter. I'm Amy. Why don't you remember me?" Grandma answered for me. "She's Wayne's daughter. She's Amy."

Before I left, my Granddaddy came up to me and said as clear as he ever spoke...
"I sure don't' know who you are, but I'm gonna give you a hug anyway."
It means something to me at least, that although this man doesn't remember my name, or who I am, he can remember somewhere inside of him that he loved me.

I look now at this man, who is the embodiment of so many of my childhood memories. This man who for some reason is lost within his own skin. I look at him and see him sitting in his chair, eating thawed strawberries over vanilla ice cream; or hiding in the bushes waiting for some unsuspecting child to fall prey to the BEAR; or walking through the fields behind the house followed by his herd of cows; or riding his horse in the Christmas parade.
He is a man that was always happy, always smiling. That essence of him, which is the truest part of who he is, remains unaffected. I can look at him, smiling, happy, and think I catch a glimpse of him trying to chase down some memory or another. I regret that I never knew this man as anything other than my Granddaddy. That I never put forth the effort to know him as a person. And I am left to wonder what wealth of information, knowledge, wisdom, humor and joy have I denied myself? Now it is too late, for I have a grandfather no longer, but there is a man who sleeps in his bed, and lives in his house. That man sees strangers when he walks by the mirror.

being grateful

During the week, Jose and I were talking and I had a bit of an epiphany. I have spent a lot of time comparing what I have – or didn’t have – to those around me. I started when I was in school. It was no picnic being in the classes with all the haves and being a have not. Creating and strictly adhering to my own social status. I spent a lot of time being ashamed and embarrassed that I didn’t have the nice things that everyone else could have. And as I grew older, I’d listen to kids in college complain about how when they graduated, their parents wouldn’t pay their car insurance or rent any longer. And at work, listening to peers talk about how their parents did this, or gave them that, or bought this, or provided a down payment for their home. And a big part of me was jealous. Not that my parents wouldn’t have done so – but no one in my family is sitting on a hidden million or so – so it was just a matter of not being able to provide those financial supports. In retrospect, I don’t regret growing up poor. It’s made me somewhat money savvy – not as much as Jose whose childhood redefined poor. My brother’s attitude is that it’s all just paper and metal. But in some aspects he is a great funnel for money – in that when he has it, he spends it – but isn’t much on setting any aside for a rainy day. Jose would prefer to save than spend any day of the week. And I would like to have enough money to pay all the bills with enough extra money so that I could buy what I wanted. Ideally, I wouldn’t mind being in a place where $50 isn’t a lot of money – and I’d probably pee all over myself if I was in a place where $1000 was the equivalent of my $100. So, I spend a lot of my time trying to figure out how much people make, how they can afford the luxuries they have.

I think another reason for this mindset is that I firmly believe that my mother grew up in a family I would consider the genteel poor. Not really having a lot of money, but needing to appear proper. Not the Rocking Horse Winner genteel poor where we were in debt in order to keep up appearances. But the save to buy the really good stuff and then keep it in good condition forever. My Aunt Betty has amassed a good sum of money in this fashion. Uncle Billy would allot a specific sum for weekly expenses. Aunt Betty would shop frugally and all the money she saved, she invested. That she saved the money and didn’t spend it is amazing to me – but you get the idea.

Anyway, back to the epiphany. If I look at where I am, financially, I have come a long way from where I started. I have a nice home. No, it’s not a new home, it’s not worth $250,000 – it doesn’t have that new paint smell or hard word floors (though hard wood floors would really be nice.) – I make enough money to pay all my bills, save a little for retirement, and occasionally take the bargain-hunters weekend excursion. And, I like my husband. We get along. We like each other – though don’t kid yourself, he can occasionally be annoying and a tad critical – but then I’m lazy about anything that has to do with the house and very bossy – it really all evens out. So, essentially, I am living the American dream – in that I am better off than my parents were – maybe not as they are now – but than they were at my age. And I am happy, content, fulfilled, and so on and so on. This doesn’t mean that I’ll ever be good at looking past the fancy trappings that some people have – or never covet my neighbors house, pool, barn, land (though never ever her husband – no offense patti). I have enough – and I need to recognize that I have enough – and let that be. Now, if I could also gain some patience when it comes to buying the expensive stuff that I want – I would also be debt free (thank god for interest free financing).