Colors of the Wind

I hadn't planned to have another tribute today, however, this memorial shout out can be classified under "history," as well. As much as I hate to bid farewell to anyone, I have a deep love for history and the stories from our past and this is a great one.

Yesterday, the spirits took Chester Nez from the earth. If the name doesn't ring a bell, that's OK. Chester was the last of the Navajo Code Talkers from World War II. There was a 2002 movie, "Windtalkers," which told the story of these brave warriors on the big screen. You have to suffer through two hours of Nicolas Cage doing his thing, but the story is perfect for Hollywood.

It was early 1942 and the war had been underway for close to a year and a half. A civil engineer for the city of Los Angeles, Philip Johnston, pitched a pretty wild idea to the United States Marine Corps - use a secret code in transmitting battlefield messages that will not be easily deciphered by the enemy. Now, this wasn't a new concept. But what Johnston was specifically proposing was -- use native Americans from the Navajo tribe to encrypt messages using their native language. And the Marines listened to and believed him because Mr. Johnston was two things:  a veteran and a former resident, fluent in Navajo himself, of a Navajo reservation.

The Marines thought it just might work and in May 1942, 29 Navajo recruits attended boot camp. Throughout the war, the Navajo were commended for their speed, skill, and accuracy. 











Following the war, those involved in this highly covert operation were forbidden to speak of their endeavors to anyone -- family, friends, and even fellow Marines. In 1968, the Marines declassified the operation, and in 1982, President Reagan presented the code talkers with a Certificate of Recognition for their service. In 2001, President Bush presented four living code talkers with Silver Medals.

Chester published a book recounting this era in American history in his memoir is Code Talker: The First and Only Memoir by One of the Original Navajo Code Talkers of WWII. He said he decided to tell his story because he wanted to share the contributions and sacrifices of the Navajo during World War II.

To Mr. Nez and all of these brave warriors, I say Ahéhee' (thank you).

Goodbye, Alice

It’s taken me a few days to get my thoughts collected and write this one. If you know me, you know I take celebrity deaths hard. My reaction is often wildly disproportionate, especially when they’ve lived to a ripe age and many folks thought they had already passed. We lost Ann B. Davis, a.k.a., The Brady Bunch’s Alice Nelson this past Sunday. She was 88.

Things we learned from Ann/Alice (and have forgotten or maybe didn’t know to begin with):

1.        Alice had an uncompromising work ethic.  No job was too big or too small. We never heard Alice utter “that’s not in my job description.”

2.       Alice taught us empathy. Remember one of the times when Jan was suffering from “Middle Child Malaise” and Alice sent her a locket from a secret admirer because, as we found out, she, too, was a middle child? She helped Jan feel special and get over this particular bump in the road.

      

3.       Alice was never without a smile on her face. Whether she was helping with a school assignment, cooking dinner, cleaning the one bathroom shared by six kids, or heading out to the Meatcutters’ Ball with Sam, she knew the one accessory that makes you and everyone around you happy.

4.       Although she wasn’t a Brady, there’s no doubt Alice was part of that family (and part of ours, too). She debunked the old line about “blood being thicker than water.” I don’t want to imagine the Bradys’ lives without Alice any more than I want to imagine my childhood without her.

5.       Ann was a Christian. Davis also became well-known off-screen for her dedicated Christian faith. In a 1992 interview with People, the actress spoke of her spiritual side, saying, "I'm convinced we all have a God-shaped space in us, and until we fill that space with God, we'll never know what it is to be whole."

6.       Alice showed the importance of flexibility. She had plenty 
of curve balls thrown her way (literally and figuratively), but 
took them all in stride, embracing a “Devil-may-care,” “bring 
it on” mentality. She knew if it didn’t kill her (or throw her 
back out), that it would make her stronger. And Alice was 
plenty strong.

      

7.       The most endearing quality of Alice, for me, was her self-deprecating humor. She realized life is short and that if you can’t laugh, especially at yourself, that it’s just not as fun. She was a great sport and taught me that you can laugh or cry, but laughing is a lot more fun.

Ann, I know you’re smiling down on us right now. Blessings, old friend.

Makes Sense

The other day, I was standing beside a friend, and she asked, “what does that guy’s shirt say?” I looked off in the direction in which she was looking. There was a gentleman, approximately 50 yards away, wearing a t-shirt, and it had the name of a school printed across the chest. I stated the name of the school and she replied, “yeah, but what does it say under that?” As I squinted and took another look, I did see what looked like a scroll/line under the larger block letters. She guessed what she thought it looked like and, as he came closer, we confirmed she was correct. I barely saw this man and he was 6’2” and 240 pounds. I didn’t stand a chance of reading this tiny text.

Anyone who’s spent any time with me knows that the saying “when one sense fails you, the others pick up” doesn’t ring true to me. I’m not clinically deaf (accordingly to countless hearing tests) and I don’t think I suffer from selective hearing, but I do struggle to hear in various situations. In a restaurant setting, I find it difficult to tune out the background noise of laughter, chatter, and dishes clattering, to hear my dining companions across the table from me. In a meeting at work, if more than one person is talking, I have to choose one to focus on and watch their lips, despite not actually being able to read lips. Conversely, I hear things that most people either do not or are able to ignore. Things like the hum of florescent lights, the clicking of appliances using electricity, and the din of distant motors running.

On the few occasions that someone asks “do you smell smoke,” I inevitably do not. But I am extremely cognizant of and sensitive to someone wearing too much perfume/cologne, cigarette smoke, and burned popcorn.

I believe my taste is spot on. I would not describe my palate as refined, but I feel confident I could (and have!) successfully pass the Pepsi/Coke Challenge.

And, finally, I think I have the touch sense down. I’m generally aware when I feel something and when something touches me. Just ask the last piece of seaweed that brushed against my leg in the ocean.

These are a few of my favorite things. . .

…to see:  clouds, my family, TV, words on a page, moving water

…to hear:  laughter (especially that of my loved ones), thunderstorms, music

…to smell:  puppy tummies, gasoline, freshly mown grass, the air right before a rain

…to taste:  chocolate, cheese, fruit tea, butter

…to feel:  good sheets, puppy tummies, beard stubble, Lamb’s Ear Plant

Where's the Beef?

“Where do you want to go tonight?” Seven little words that will stop me in my tracks, bumfuzzle me, and, ultimately, induce panic and stress. It should be easy. How I long to be able to answer that question with “our place.” “Oh, I don’t know…our place is fine.” 

We don’t have an “our place.” I’m not sure it even exists. We have a whole lot of “uggh, no, I don’t want to go there” places. And then we have another group of places that are terrible, we ban them just long enough to forget how bad they were. We return and then remember why it’s been so long since we went there, and they’re right back on the list. 

In fifth grade, I had a school assignment to write about my favorite home-cooked meal. Now I am third generation, kitchen-challenged. I don’t know how to cook many dishes, and I don’t particularly want to learn. Just like my sweet mama before me and my MeMa before her. Thank goodness my husband was attracted to my stunning outward beauty, my wicked sense of humor, and my mind, as he certainly didn’t scan my culinary heritage and think “winner, winner, chicken dinner.” No, my family ate out. A lot. We dined at Shoney’s, back when it was decent and thriving, several times per week. So my essay was about my favorite dish – both in life and at Shoney’s – spaghetti. 

I wrote in detail (for a fifth grader) about the oval-shaped plate, the little slice of bread that came on the side, how I liked copious amounts of grated parmesan sprinkled on top, and how, on really great days, we ended the experience with a hot fudge cake. 

When the teacher called me up to her desk, I was sure it was to commend me on my comprehensive expose on Shoney’s and this meal. “She must want to ask if she can go with us next time,” I waxed to myself, “since I painted such a fantastic picture with words.” 

“Did you understand the assignment?” 

“Yes,” I answered, although my comprehension of sarcasm was slightly less formed. 

“Then what is this?” she asked, pointing to my paper on her desk. 

“It’s my report on my favorite meal.” 

“The assignment was to write about your favorite meal from home.” 

It was then that it hit me. All those TV shows I watched and loved that showed families sitting around a kitchen table, eating a meal lovingly prepared by the show’s matriarch…that actually happens out in the real world. 

I explained that my Mom, despite all of her other wonderful qualities, was not June Cleaver, and that, to me, Shoney’s was the closest thing to a home-cooked meal I was going to have. Probably with mixed pity and aggravation, she waved me away with a dismissing hand. I don’t remember the grade I received on the assignment. And I don’t remember ever harboring any resentment towards my Mom for not being that Mom. Instead, now, I’m that Mom. 

I cook occasionally. I enjoy it less than occasionally. So, we eat out. A lot. But it’s becoming more and more challenging to think of a place we actually enjoy. One that has healthier food options, that has something everyone will enjoy, that’s not too far of a drive, that is reasonably priced, and has good service. Now, is that so hard? Yes, the answer is a resounding yes. 

Too often, in our society, restaurants just slide by the seat of their chef’s pants. They phone it in. They marinade in mediocrity. We give them our hard-earned money and, in return, we get indifferent, inattentive service, food that’s made with less-than-fresh ingredients, that’s missing the key ingredient – love, and is just slopped on the plate, trough style. They might as well yell “soo-wee” at some of the places we’ve gone. We’re quick to leave a restaurant and say “never again,” but quickly, we start running out of choices. It’s a sad state when having a really great experience is the anomaly and not the norm. 

Some will tell us (and have) that our standards are too high. We’re too picky. We’re food snobs. This may be, to some extent, but I tell you, I don’t think wanting basic, decent food and service is aiming too high. 

My Restaurant Desires: 

• Pleasing atmosphere (can be dive-y if that’s the theme, but “nursing home” is never OK) 
• Diverse, robust choices (again, within a theme) without being too diversified. Have you ever seen the Cheesecake Factory menu? It will bring you to tears in 90 seconds and not in a good way. 
• Reasonably-priced. 
• Good food. It doesn’t have to be a three-Michelin-starred meal. I just want it to be the best it can be – whatever it is. If it’s a burger and fries, I want the fries crispy and the burger to be prepared the way I requested and with flavor. If it’s pasta, I want the pasta drained well before the sauce is added. These are not lofty dreams. 
• Friendly, attentive staff. I want to be greeted warmly upon my arrival. I chose to walk in there. I know how perilous the restaurant business is. Act like you’re happy to see me. Or, at the very least, don’t seem bothered. 

- I don’t want to wait for a table when I see a sea of open choices. 
- I don’t want anyone within striking distance of my food to be sniffling, hacking, or complaining about currently having the stomach bug (true story). 
- I promise to order clearly if you promise to bring me what I ordered. Let’s call that common courtesy. 
- Check back on me after the food has come out and fairly quickly. If I order pancakes and they don’t come out with butter, you checking on me in five minutes and then bringing me some ice-cold butter nine minutes later isn’t going to help me at all. 
- Watch my glass. If it’s half-full or less, go ahead and top me off or bring me another. 
- Don’t leave the check on the table along with my food. When you say, “I’ll check back on you but I’m just gonna leave this here,” that tells me “don’t let the door hit you” and “I’m heading out back to have a smoke and fight with my old man on the phone and you may or may not see me again.” 
- Lastly, and this one is hard to write and I almost didn’t, thus, why it’s here at the end. Be happy or at least pretend to be. I know you’re making minimum wage or close to it. I empathize that you have a whole lot going on that I don’t know about. This may be your second (or third!) job. You may be trying to get out of a bad situation. You may be a single mom with six kids. You may be trying desperately to put yourself through school so you can have a better life. But for now, this is your job. I’ve had jobs I didn’t like before, but I like to think that those whom I served had no idea of my true feelings. What happened to “if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right?” I’m afraid this is another social etiquette that has slipped the grasp of our next, much more entitled, generation. “What’s in it for me?” they ask sullenly. 

So the search continues for “our place.” I’m not giving up hope. I like to think it will be worth the wait and something we’ll look back at on and laugh. “Ha…remember when we used to eat slop before we found this place?”

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.

                                                                              -- Colossians 3:23-24

The Known Unknown

I’m going to do something I didn’t plan on doing – today or really ever. I’m going to defend Gwyneth Paltrow. I know, right? 

Now, look, I don’t hate anyone. Period. I just don’t. There is a small handful of folks whom I love deeply…within an inch of their life. Outside of that group, there’s another, slightly larger, parcel of folks whom I enjoy for one reason or another and would, proverbially, of course, pee on them if they were proverbially on fire. Then there’s the rest of the world’s population…roughly seven billion people, give or take 200.

So, Gwyn made the news again yesterday for another snotty, entitled comment, this time likening her celebrity lifestyle to that of a soldier. I’m paraphrasing. Here’s what she was actually overheard to say:

“You come across [online comments] about yourself and about your friends, and it’s a very dehumanizing thing. It’s almost like how, in war, you go through this bloody, dehumanizing thing, and then something is defined out of it,” Paltrow said at the conference. “My hope is, as we get out of it, we’ll reach the next level of conscience.”

Without having met her or knowing her, I will say my opinion of her is not great. I think she’s out of touch with reality, and she lives in a different world. The things she does and says, at times, make her appear to be indifferent, spoiled, and pretentious. She may be all of those things and more, but it’s not fair for me, or anyone, to judge her without knowing the whole story.

I try to be empathetic in my daily walk around this blue marble. The waitress who didn’t get my order right may have an abusive husband. The person driving the car in front of me who just sat through the entire green arrow may have just lost their job. 

This isn’t to say I am Ghandi or the Dalai Lama or some other highly enlightened person. I get irritated and run short of both temper and patience, and I demand excellence from everyone around me. Ask my husband.

So, to be fair to Gwyn, I’ll say this. She does live in a different world. And that’s not good or bad. It’s just, well, different. Her normal is not your normal and it’s not mine and mine’s not hers. Isn’t that what makes this blue marble great in the first place?

Quit While You're Ahead

I looked down and my belt was twisted. Yesterday, I wore a dress with a belt and I noticed it was twisted. I tried a couple of times running along the belt, all the way around, trying to work it out, and finally came to the realization that I was going to have to undo it, untwist it, and try again. The whole process took 20 seconds, but it made me recognize that sometimes, with wardrobes and in life, you have to stop, hit the reset button, and try again.

We’re told over and over to be persistent. That “winners never quit and quitters never win.” To “finish what you start.” But sometimes, all you need to do is fall back, regroup, and try it again. Have you ever reached out to your company’s IT department for technical support? What’s their first suggestion? “Have you restarted?” Maybe they’re onto something.

“Blessed is the man who perseveres under trial, because when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love him.”

                                                                                                      --James 1:2

On my way to work today in rush hour traffic, I came to a spot that requires six lanes to merge into four. It’s your classic bottleneck situation. Every morning at this particular spot, I search for - and often fight for - an opening. I’ll mutter things such as “go!” and “just get over!” and “idiot.” (Yes, I talk to my mother-in-law with this mouth.) I become frustrated with drivers on the phone, out-of-towners, and the less-experienced mergers. 

This morning, however, I couldn’t get in. I would move up towards a non-existent space, then fall back again. I kept plowing ahead, quickly running out of lane, and with nowhere to go. Then I did something completely foreign and deviant and unconventional. I slowed down. I fell back. And, lo, there was an opening and it had been there all along. I was trying so hard to work my way into a non-existent space when a perfectly good one had been waiting just for me mere inches away.

“…Sometimes you’re ahead. Sometimes you’re behind. The race is long and, in the end, it’s only with yourself.”

                                                                     --Baz Luhrmann, from
                                                “Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen)”

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

                                                                                                   --Galatians 6:9

The Way the Animal Cracker Crumbles

I have three true food vices. That means when I splurge/binge, it's usually on one of these three things. And, I make it a point not to bring these in the house as I have zero control and will eat the whole thing in no time flat, so it's a special treat.

 #1 is a bag of wavy lays and a tub of french onion dip. Even though I don't like sour cream (the main component in the dip) nor potato chips.

#2 is a package of regular Oreos (not double stuff or the ones with colored cream or those weird vanilla flavored ones) and ice cold, whole, vitamin D milk.

And the 3rd is frosted animal crackers (also good with vitamin D milk but not required as with #2.)

I went to Target one day last week at lunch (although it was more like 2 pm) to grab a few items in between meetings. I had been in endless meetings all morning, hadn't had lunch, and was starving. Target took forever. I remembered a couple extra items I needed to get and they're understaffed at the checkouts during the day. I was zipping through the grocery section when I saw these on an end cap:

The serving size is three cookies. Ha. This was going to be my lunch and my "mother-of-the-year" award for Army crawling into the last week of school. I threw them in the cart and my mouth began watering. 

Checked out. The woman was forever slow. Slow and trying to small talk about my stuff and I'm thinking, "Look lady, I've gotta get back for a meeting and the faster I have to drive, the fewer of these I'm gonna be able to shove in." 

Got to the car. Had to park a mile away as I didn't have the luxury of driving around and looking for a good space. Got out in main drive and was just about to pull out onto the main road when I unscrewed the lid and saw the paper/security top had been peeled back and partially removed. :( They'd been opened (and possibly eaten). 

I stared for a half second wondering if the five second rule applied. Wasn't I going to do the same thing? Did this perpetrator actually save me time? Uggh, no. It was some dirty kid or some high employee looking to steal a snack back in the stock room or some demented terrorist trying to take down the American public, one frosted animal cookie lover at a time.

So I ​turned around and drove back up there completely deflated. I parked in the fire lane and ignored the ugly stares from fellow shoppers. I ran in to customer service with my jug o' cookies and my receipt. In my mind, I pictured them being so apologetic that they would offer me a lifetime supply of frosted animal cookies or, at least, to go back and get another tub so I didn't have to go myself. 

Instead, when the man finally moseyed up to the desk, he seemed completed unaffected by the whole story, scanned my receipt, scanned the cookies, some paper shot out of the register, and he handed it to me, mumbling, "it went back on your card. Sorry about that." What? You just gave me a refund? No. I want the cookies! I can't eat this receipt! 

I looked across the store and at the far corner where the grocery is (and my cookies) and knew I didn't have the time or will to walk back, get another box, and stand in line again. I walked out to my illegally parked car, feeling wronged by Target and the universe. Instead of my cookies, I had a piece of gum on the way back to work. I swear I heard the faint giggle of the saved calories.