Get Out of the Way

The bad part about not having parents anymore is that I have run out of people to blame. It no longer makes sense to say I can’t write because I’m taking care of my mother or my father thinks it’s a waste of time. This has been a distressing realization over the past year: the only person who’s telling me “no” these days is me.

It’s shocking to realize that you have become your own biggest obstacle to doing what you love. I’ve been an adult for 30 years and have never thought of myself as possessing any notable talent or the ability to succeed at something I care about. I was nearly 40 before I let anyone read my writing. I have always wanted to sing, but few people except my husband and children have heard me. I love to dance but do not. Instead I’ve tried to stay under the radar as much as possible so as not to attract criticism.

There isn’t much courage in living this way. I have plenty of excuses but they’re kind of weak, too. I’ve held onto a warped sense of loyalty to my family’s ideas about what constitutes “real” work and how much happiness humans do —  or don’t — deserve.

• Writing [or insert your favorite creative activity here] is not real work unless it produces income.
• Real work has nothing to do with your talents.
• It should not feed some deep need in your soul — unless, of course, it also produces income.
• Otherwise, it is frivolous nonsense and you should go clean the kitchen until the urge passes because if you are not earning money, you need to justify your existence by doing menial tasks at home.
• Better yet, you should go get a job with a reliable paycheck. Just make sure you don’t enjoy the work.

Maybe this isn’t exactly what they said, but it is exactly what I heard.

The reasons they believed these things made sense for their experience. All of my grandparents grew up poor. Three of them never went to high school because they went to work instead, and their lives were hard in ways I can’t even imagine. My parents were children during the Great Depression and struggled financially the entire time they were raising my brothers. When they finally did reach the middle class, their attitudes and expectations about life were already set. There wasn’t much opportunity to develop a creative life, what with all the preoccupation with survival. And then they died.

Wherever they are now, they’ve been set free from those limitations. I’d rather not wait till I’m dead — but in order to make the shift sooner, I need help.

My friend Dan frequently challenges my resistance. He and I have lunch every few weeks so we can talk about Stuff That Matters, and he has some unusual ideas about creativity. In fact, Dan’s attitude about doing the things we love is completely wacky. He thinks we owe it to the world to express our creativity. That’s right — he believes it’s our payment for the air we breathe, to take the gifts we’ve been given and use them boldly. Not later, when the kids grow up or after we retire. Now.

Creative energy is our birthright? We have an obligation to the world to do what we do well? I think my head is going to explode. What happened to Don’t be such a show-off and Finish your chores first ? But Dan is a crucial member of my cheering squad and he wouldn’t steer me wrong, so I try to listen.

Mike gives me a pep talk every few months, too. He insists that writing is the most important work I do, far more valuable than any domestic duties. He doesn’t care that writing does not yet support us financially. He points out that he was a grown man when we married so he’s unlikely to starve or die of neglect if I continue writing after he comes home from work. He sees that writing makes me feel whole, and he wants that wholeness for me even when I’m reluctant to let myself have it.

I have plenty of support now to do what I’m driven to do, so I’m fresh out of excuses except for abject terror. But when I think of the challenges my parents and grandparents faced throughout their lives, being afraid of putting words on a page seems a little ridiculous. Time for some courage. Time to get out of the way.

Happy Birthday

Today is my daughter’s 18th birthday. I’m a little baffled by this milestone, since I can remember so vividly the day Tessa was born, yet cannot tell you what I had for lunch yesterday. We’re making a big deal about her birthday because turning 18 doesn’t have that many perks. She can now buy cigarettes but doesn’t smoke. She can vote — okay, that one is a big deal. She doesn’t need parental permission for the tattoo she’s getting right this minute. (For those who have been following along, she finally did concede to get it in a rarely-visible location.) And there’s a family dinner and cake, but it all falls short somehow.

I feel this birthday of hers a little more intensely than the ones that have come before. I’m not wistful about her growing up because she’s been more grown up than most of us since the day she was born. Most of her life I’ve done little more than keep her fed and watered, like you would a philodendron. The rest she did by herself. Rather than wistful, I feel a completely undeserved pride in having witnessed her life over the past 18 years.

Since she was little, Tessa’s been the bravest girl I’ve ever met. If a situation is difficult, she doesn’t avoid it — she stares it down. Before she could swim, she was pushing me away in the deep water so she could do it herself. Tall slides didn’t scare her. Neither did big dogs or big brothers or being the only 13-year old in her community college classes. A few years ago, she travelled without us to see her Uncle Jeff, where she rode a Harley and learned to shoot a gun. Jeff said the only time she ever got pouty during that visit was when she ran out of ammo.

And if she decides to do a thing, it gets done. Tessa raised a Guide Dog puppy for a year when she was only 11 years old, taking responsibility for all the requirements for the dog’s socialization and training. When she went to college at such a young age, she kept track of what assignments needed to be done and when her tests were scheduled with no reminders from me. A few months ago, when I offered her an opportunity to try living in an apartment with her brother before she leaves for school next fall, she did the research, made the phone calls, and had a place picked out in three days.

She’s also incredibly level-headed for a person so young. We’ve given Tessa freedoms over the years that would horrify most parents — no curfew, for instance — and she’s generally set limits for herself that were more conservative than what we’d have given her. In her entire adolescence, we’ve told her “no” twice. Maybe. The rest of the time, we’ve trusted her judgment and she’s never disappointed us.

She’s articulate, funny and beautiful, open-minded, adventuresome, and one of my favorite travel companions. She’s affectionate and loves her friends and family intensely.

After Thanksgiving dinner last year, which was my mother’s last holiday with us, Tessa offered to drive Mom home. Before Tessa had returned from dropping her off, my phone rang. It was Mom.

“I want you to know you’ve got some girl there,” she said. “She insisted on walking me to my apartment even though I told her I could do it, and she held the umbrella for me so my hair didn’t get wet. I just wanted to let you know how wonderful she is before I forgot.”

Tessa rolled her eyes when I conveyed the compliment. She didn’t think it was a big deal. But those of us who love her know how lucky we are to have her. Mom knew too.

Happy birthday, sweetie.

Lest We Forget Those Who Served

In honor of my father, Milford Allen Yauger, who served in the United States Army with the 60th Engineer Combat Battalion, 35th Infantry Division, from 1942 – 1945.

There are approximately 2 million surviving WWII service men and women, but we’re losing them at a rate of nearly 1000 per day.

************************************************

Headquarters, 60th Engineer Combat Battalion

APO 35                            US Army

7 May 1945

To: The Officers and Men of the 60th Engineer Combat Battalion

We have travelled a long way since our landing on the Normandy beach head. Like a spoke in a great wheel, we have been a vital part of the “Santa Fe” Division. Our battles and our accomplishments have made history. Those of you who have been with the battalion since we landed on the continent will never forget Hill 122 at St. Lo; the motor park incident at Mortain; the breakthrough and the motor marches of eighty to one hundred miles which took us from Mortain to Le Mans and on east toward Chateaudum and Oleans; the three hundred foot, tremendously mined and booby-trapped abatis at Montargis; the assault of the Moselle and Meurthe Rivers; Nancy and Sarreguimines; our bitter fight eastward and the subsequent assault of the Sauze River.

From Petit-Tenquin in Lorraine to Habkirchen, Germany, we put the doughs [infantry] of the “Santa Fe” Division over three fiercely defended rivers in eights days and constructed vehicular bridges in the face of vicious enemy fire. In the Battle of the Bulge and the fight from the Roer to the Rhine, we supported the attack and assisted in the capture of numerous bridges on the attack routes.

Your constant display of aggressiveness was a manifestation of the spirit of this division which is expressed in its motto “ATTACK.” You have piloted the boats that carried assault troops of the 35th Division and built bridges across fifteen viciously defended water barriers from Normandy into Germany.

We heard the beginning of the death rattle of the German military machine in the Ruhr pocket and in our march to the banks of the Elbe — the last gateway to Berlin. But Berlin was destined to be a May Day gift for the Russians.

We have accomplished all our missions in a manner of which we may be justly proud.

But our accomplishments have not been made without losses. We have left behind us many comrades who fought for the hard-earned peace that has at last arrived. We shall continue their endeavors in order that THIS peace will be a lasting one and that “they may not have died in vain.”

Your noteworthy achievements are deserving of the highest praise. I am extremely proud of your magnificent performance. To those who remain and to those who have stepped up to carry on, I give my congratulations in the successful completion of a most difficult task.

A representative of the German High Command, at 0141 hours, 7 May 1945, signed a document surrendering to all three of the major powers effective 0001 hours, 9 May 1945. All offensive operations will cease at once. Troops will remain in place. Occupying forces will continue their present duties. As German troops may not be aware of this surrender, full defensive precautions will be taken. No press releases until announced by SHAEF.

/signed/

Philip Botchin

Lt. Colonel CE

Commanding

Marital Capital

I may have coined a new phrase this week, so if you see it sprouting up in the lexicon over the next few months, remember you saw it here first: marital capital. It arose in a Facebook exchange with my friend Judy when I told her that my husband had taken me to a concert on Saturday. She was impressed with his initiative.

“OK, when you say Mike took you, does that mean he asked you to go and he bought the tickets?” (Apparently this type of dating behavior is rarely demonstrated by men who have been married longer than five minutes.)

“Yes…he’ll be at work day and night again for a few days this week and is trying to build — what’s the phrase — marital capital.”

It seems an odd juxtaposition of words at first, and highly unromantic, but the more I explore the meanings of capital, the better I like it. Here are some other uses of the word.

There’s financial capital, which is “money available to build and grow a retail business. These liquid assets represent the amount of ownership and risk in a business.”

Political capital is “the opinion of another person, group of people, or nation about you, your organization, or your government.”

And we have social capital, a sociological term so fuzzy that it nearly defies definition. Here’s the best I could find: “connections between individuals and entities that can be…valuable. Social networks that include people who trust and assist each other can be a powerful asset.”

If you’re chafing against the analogy of marriage to a concept so grounded in economics, buck up for a minute because it’s about to get worse. Ratios.

Specifically the 5:1 rule, based on some research I heard about several years ago. According to a study by John Gottman, successful marriages aren’t dependent on the parties behaving nicely all the time. Even couples who argue frequently can still be content in their relationships if the number of pleasant events they experience together outweighs the unpleasant ones by a ratio of 5:1. So, difficult people can still have happy marriages — they just need to “bank” more good times to offset their bad moments.

This was excellent news since I am, in fact, one of those difficult people. I swear too much, hold impossibly high standards, and like to have my own way because my way is best. A lot of husbands complain that they never know what their wives are thinking, while mine probably wishes he didn’t know so much about every thought in my head. I require lots of attention, except when I need to be left alone. I often trip over the line between being helpful and being critical. Under severe stress, I default to my crankiest, most selfish behaviors  – all at once. My dear departed mother used to refer to my husband as “poor Mike.”

Unfortunately there’s only so much malleability left in a personality once one has reached her Middle Ages. I can make small changes in my behavior but really, most of these dents in my paint job are here to stay. So I modify what I can, and the rest of the time, I work like crazy to build marital capital by doing things that make him happy, which I keep in the bank for the inevitable moments when we will need it.

Like today, for instance. The first thing I said to my husband this morning was, “That shirt is terrible. The neck is all frayed. You cannot wear that to work.” Poor Mike. But apparently the stores of marital capital were high enough that he didn’t take offense, changed the shirt, and actually thanked me for my observations. I’m not sure which positive things worked to negate the criticism, but I’m glad they were there.

I do keep a mental list. He likes my cooking, especially the baking. He prefers that I fold his underwear, even though I don’t see the point. He thrives on lots of hugging, kissing and sex, not necessarily in that order. He likes being able to talk to me about whatever’s on his mind, and he’s grateful that I grit my teeth and support his ongoing relationships with certain members of his family whose company I don’t enjoy.

While I’m earning credit for doing these things, Mike’s busy racking up points he’ll need later, too. He has been overworked and distracted for most of the past three months, and this week at work will be especially hectic for him. So last weekend, he took me to a concert, ignoring my cheapskate objections to the cost of the tickets. We went for a bike ride the next day and had an impromptu picnic in the park. He leaves me a note nearly every morning before he leaves, and he tells me he loves me every time he calls. This week may be rough, but at least I’m starting with a full tank.

So why call it marital capital? Look at those definitions again. Marital capital is what we use to build and grow a marriage, and demonstrates our ownership of it. It’s created by generating goodwill between partners who trust and assist each other. And, as with other kinds of capital, it’s important to keep a certain level in reserve even as you’re spending some of it on a daily basis.

The Value of Doing Stuff

One of the gifts of having grandparents is that they provide us living examples of skills and values from another time. I nearly missed this experience since all my biological grandparents had died by the time I was 7 years old. But I was lucky. The grandmother I remember best was Ethel Connors, a woman not related to us who became family in all the ways that matter. She was born July 28, 1896, and our relationship was the strongest connection I had to women of her generation. They don’t make grandmas like her now, ones who know how to do stuff. Modern grandmas buy stuff.

Grandma Connors came of age in the early 1900s, an era when young women learned what now seems a mind-boggling array of domestic skills. She could sew by hand and machine. She crocheted and did tatting, a form of lace-making done with an impossibly small hook. She taught me how to knit, embroider and quilt by hand, always reminding me to make the stitches tiny and straight. When she was a young woman, Grandma Connors said, she’d have sewing contests with her friends to see whose stitches were the smallest. It was best if you couldn’t see them at all.

Table runner I embroidered for Mother's Day, ca. 1970

She could also re-cane chairs; fix a pork roast and gravy that are still unequalled; and every Christmas, she made these cookies using something like a branding iron dipped in batter that was then deep-fried. Grandma Connors was a woman possessing such varied skills, she even knew how to cook the squirrels her husband occasionally brought home — although she never could make them smell like something I’d want to put in my mouth.

My friend Karole’s parents, Bill and Elaine Edwards, also knew how to do stuff. The year after Karole bought her first house, her parents, then in their 70s, spent several days helping her lay two different types of flooring in the kitchen and living areas, installed a dishwasher and new countertops, tiled the bathroom floor, hung wallpaper and put up ceiling fans. (They also painted, but this was one area where they did not shine, eschewing the usual taping and tarping for “we’ll scrape up those drips later.”) Elaine could sew, quilt, and her mashed potatoes were legendary. She’s probably fixing them in heaven these days — really, what kind of heaven would it be if her mashed potatoes weren’t there?

I’m reminiscing about these people because with each passing generation, fewer and fewer of us know how to make things. Doing is not what we care about anymore. Culturally, we measure ourselves not by what we know how to do, but by how much we can buy.

In fact, knowing how to make or fix things has fallen so low, it’s almost an embarrassment to be caught at it. Those of us who sew or cook are throwbacks. When people see us doing these things, they make remarks like, “Well, aren’t you the domestic one?” in a tone that doesn’t sound so complimentary. Why fix what you could replace, or bake what you could purchase ready-made? Why would you turn the collar on a shirt when a new button-down is so cheap at WalMart? Who in the world knows how to darn a woolen sock anymore?

I do.

I can also knit a sweater, cut my husband’s hair, and do a passable job of refinishing a piece of furniture. I bake bread. I can make a rag rug and pull together a respectable vegetarian dinner from some rice, frozen spinach, seasonings, and a little yogurt. When a pair of pants is too “gappy” at the waist, or too long or wide in the legs, I can alter them. I bake my family’s birthday cakes every year, and the adults get one made from scratch, including the frosting.

This can’t be called bragging since none of these skills is held in high regard anymore. It’s like announcing that I know how to repair a wagon wheel or mend the stays in your corset. Quaint, but not much in demand. In order to fit into this century, I should probably get a full-time job so I can earn some money to pay someone else to make, do, or fix stuff for us. But I probably won’t.

One reason is, there is no heart in the sweater you buy at Macy’s. Sorry, but no matter how nice a person you are, the woman who runs the knitting machine in China does not think about you as she works. But if your sister knits a scarf that you later discover is perfect for cold days when you’re riding your Harley, it’s a bonus gift: functional, with a little love added. The same is true for the bread made by the bakery versus the loaf your friend made for your party because she knows how much you like it. One fills your stomach — the other gives you that, plus something extra.

Sometimes the extra comes in the form of a story about working on something together. My daughter knows how to paint like a pro because she has done every room in the house with me over the years. She has plenty of stories about it. If you ask her about the time we painted the TV room, then I hated the color so we re-painted it again the following year, you’ll really get an earful. Last year, daunted by the need to paint the entire house at one time, I had it done professionally. It looked great but left us with no Tahitian Tan in our hair and no tales to tell.

I find something deeply satisfying in being competent at these skills. It keeps me connected to the talented women who shared their knowledge about how to take care of a family and a home, even though they’re gone now. I never sew anything by hand without hearing Grandma Connors’ voice reminding me to make tiny stitches. Every time I bake brownies, I use my mother’s recipe and her wooden spoon and watch the sugar dissolve into the melted chocolate just the way it did when we made them together 40 years ago.

And as I do these things, I hope I’m making some memories for my family as well. Perhaps my daughter will save the doll’s quilt I made for her because she can still feel the love in it, even though she’s all grown up now. My son might sew a button on his shirt and think of how I taught him to do it. And maybe one of these days, my mashed potatoes will be legendary.