Happy Father's Day

The earliest memory I have of my dad and me was when I was about 4 years old. He had a collection of Lionel trains that he used to to display at Christmas. The display was enormous, set up on a table about the size of a ping pong table in our living room. The collection of trains included an entire village of houses, a church, shops, and street lamps with actual lights. I remember the afternoon he took me to the woods near my grandparents farm, where we went in search of very small evergreen trees we could use in the train village display. Our family Christmas tree was the centerpiece of the village, sitting atop the table. We needed miniature trees to make the village more life-like. Roy Reffuge never does anything half way, hence his trip to the woods with a 4 year old to collect miniature trees. Dad's trains are something of a legend in our family, at least to me. For years and years I remember begging him "please set up the trains." A year or so ago he mentioned he was going to take his trains to an auction house, as he's too old to fool with them anymore.  I have the trains now and plan to display them during the 2013 holiday season.

Another early memory is Dad taking me to get a new bike. A white banana seat bike. Before that I had my cousin's hand-me-down two wheeler which looked something like the bike the old lady rode in the Wizard of Oz when she stole Toto. I'll  never forget that Saturday afternoon trip to the bike shop.

I'll always associate the TV show Mr. Rogers and Lima beans with my dad. Dad was a DuPonter, and when I was a child he got home from work around 4:00 (it never occurred to me when I was a kid how early he must have began work to have been home so early) so we would have dinner early. He could  get me to finish my dinner and clear my plate because the favorite part of my day - as he well knew - was watching Mr. Rogers at 5:00. Until the time my mom served Lima beans. This is my first memory of discipline.  I did not want to eat those Lima beans; my dad said I had to finish the beans. And so it went. First he said if I didn't finish the beans, no Mr. Rogers.  5:00 came and went. For my stubbornness he said I had to eat the entire bowl of beans on the table. The clock ticked, the beans grew cold. Next, he said whatever I didn't finish I would have to eat for breakfast the next morning. I don't remember whatever happened to the Lima beans but I have never had another Lima bean my entire life.

When I was 6 years old I was ill and in the hospital for about 4 weeks. My parents would come visit me every night. One night a week only one of them would visit, so the other could have a free night to bowl in their league. On the night my dad would visit alone he always brought me a black and white milkshake. That hospital stay was miserable for a 6 year old. It was not a children's hospital like we have today; it was metal bed in a dreary, depressing ward. And I was not allowed out of bed for anything for the entire 4 weeks. That milkshake was the highlight of my week.  Today whenever I drink a milkshake I don't think of that hospital; I have a good memory of my dad, of how happy he made me when he brought me those milkshakes.

My parents divorced when I was 13.  In my mind's eye I can see my Dad standing at the door to the bedroom my sister and I shared, trying to explain what was happening to our lives. I don't think he understood it himself. In the mid-70's divorce was still a fairly new concept in our middle class world. I can't remember his words that night, but I shall always remember the trembling in his voice and the tears in his eyes. It was then I truly learned and understood the meaning of a parent's love for his children, and appreciated the pain of an adult.

During my teen years I wasn't exceptionally close to my dad. I saw him regularly, but sharing intimate thoughts, fears, dreams....well, I just didn't. I wasn't sharing things with my mom either.  I'm not quite sure why it was this way. Because of me, because of them?  I don't know, and don't spend any time analyzing this.

Today I appreciate every conversation and visit I have with dad, although unfortunately, there are never enough of either. I love to hear stories about his childhood, about his parents and grandparents. About what South Jersey used to look like. How he landed his job at DuPont. About the bar he and my stepmother used to go to for after work happy hour. The farm work he did as a young boy. The trips he would make to the Philadelphia farmers market with the Jersey tomatoes.  

Dad is PopPop to 6.  He did a fair amount of babysitting when a couple were young, and is a regular spectator at sports games. He could always quiet a crying baby. The kids know they can count on PopPop to love and listen unconditionally.

Memories of my dad run through my mind like the slides of a View Master. I see him sitting in "his chair" with his pipe (the chair that I sat in once with a comb sticking out of my back pocket and ripped the leather). I remember him playing the game "Think-a-Color" with me and my sister Kathy.  And "who can be quiet the longest." (Yes, I usually lost!) Or the time he let me drive the riding lawn mower - one and done! When after relentless begging, we kids convinced him to buy the neighbor's pool and move it to our backyard. The summer he grew popcorn in his garden. How he would paint the garage floor with a shiny shellac which was perfect for our neighborhood jacks tournaments (he still paints his garage floor this way.)  I see him pitching horseshoes by the Swedesboro lake, in his backyard with his neighbor, and in Kathy's backyard with his grown grandsons. Him trying to tell me a joke as he was about to walk me down the aisle the first time, and I just cried and cried. How happy we both were we were able to do it again years later, and got it right the second time (in more ways than one for me!)  The annual Reffuge picnics in his backyard, which he always hosted when I came home for my annual summer visit. Or him sitting quietly content in his "heater room" playing solitaire.  A beautiful slide show in my mind.

I love you Dad.  Happy Father's Day.

Mama Got a New Pair of Shoes

Gary took me to the Running Room after work yesterday and bought me a new pair of running shoes, or rather, walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes.  He called me at work in the afternoon and offered to take me shoe shopping and out to dinner.  His timing - as usual - was perfect.

I am in the 50th year of my life.  Ooohhhhh, that's a little hard to say.  I haven't hit the big birthday yet, but the next one is it.  The past few years have brought about many changes in my life and I've been contemplating where I am in and where I'm headed, and I've spent some time in front of the mirror.  Not the proverbial mirror; the actual mirror.  All I've been able to see are extra pounds.  Pounds I have been struggling to rid myself of.   In my 30's I gained and lost weight more than once with no problem -- well, obviously gaining is usually pretty easy.  But losing was pretty easy for me too.  Not only are my 30's in my rear view mirror, the ease of losing weight is far behind me too.   

Sugar Busters, Atkins, Weight Watchers, Medifast, Lose It App, food journaling, Dr. Oz's recommended Fast Metabolism...you name it, I've researched it, tried it, and basically failed at it.   I've cut out carbs, cut out my beloved pretzels, drink an ocean's worth of water each day, given up my homemade sweetened ice tea (which is legendary to my son Kyle), and don't eat sweets.  It's Special K for breakfast, salad for lunch, protein and salad for dinner......all to no avail.  It's unlikely I will meet my 10, 20, 30, 40 or 50 by 50 goal.

Recently I read an article about fashion designer Betsey Johnson.  She built up a fabulously successful business, had designer stores all over the country, then in 2012 lost everything to bankruptcy and had to sell her brand to Steve Madden.  Along with the article was her picture.  She's 70 years old, and boy, she looks good for 70.  She's slender and physically fit and was fashionably dressed.    But here's what struck me.  She "bragged" in the article about her "great" life: she eats dinner at the same Italian restaurant every night and has the same champagne and flirts with young, attractive waiters.  Really?  That's a great life?  There was no mention of her enjoying time with a spouse or significant other, or children or grandchildren, or friends.  Each day all she looks forward to is champagne and an attractive waiter?

Which brings me to Gary's perfect timing yesterday.  After we got my new walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes, we went out to dinner.  Because of our career demands and work travel, we haven't had a chance to talk much this past week.  I needed to visit the GP confessional.  So last night I confessed that my latest diet attempt had failed and that after a great deal of self reflection, soul searching and some prayer, I had come to a decision -- NO MORE FOCUSING ON MY WEIGHT!  I am DONE DONE DONE!!  The only diet I want to be on is a D.I.E.T = Did I Eat Today?   I want to make healthy food choices, and most of the time I will, but sometimes I won't because it's fun and normal to eat a pretzel and enjoy a glass of sweet tea!  And to my surprise and relief, Gary was happy about this!  He told me he was tired of me suffering through diets!   He said all the things I know in my head, but hearing them from the other half of my heart meant so much.....I have a husband who loves me, we have beautiful children who are building happy lives of their own; we have successful careers; we have a large, loving extended family; we have friends all over the country; and most important of all, he loves me and he loves how I look. 

I will take care of my physical body so I can be around when I'm 70, not to drink champagne in the same Italian restaurant every night and flirt with attractive waiters, but to enjoy my husband and our children and hopefully grandchildren.  

So I have new goal by the time I'm 50.  To wear out my new walking-and-I-run-a-little-bit shoes so I'll need a new pair for my birthday!!

Just sayin'.

Laurie

Social Networking

By definition, social networking is the act of expanding the number of people you know by meeting your friends’ friends, and their friends, and so on.

Social networking used to be going out for happy hour or going to a cocktail party.

Today, social networking is so much more than, well, social networking. Social networking gives us the ability to stay in touch with our friends, reconnect with friends from our past, communicate with our families, expand our business contacts, look for a job, find a date (or a spouse), make a restaurant reservation, do our banking, hire a lawyer, “talk” to a doctor, send a party invitation, read the daily headline news, plan a wedding, mail a package, share our photographs, order our groceries, or learn how to do the Harlem Shake, all from the comfort of our couch.

My earliest memories of social networking are from the 7^th grade, when my friends and I would pass notes between class periods so we could “talk” our weekend visits, dollar movie nights, cheerleading tryouts (they would always encourage me that I could do the cartwheel – which I never could!), and generally lament about the woes of middle school.

 One of my favorite pastimes of middle school!

In high school, for Valentine’s Day, carnations were sold.  Send a red carnation to another student, that meant love; a white meant friendship; and pink was flirtatious.  Today on Facebook there are all sorts of ways to send virtual “gifts” of affection.  I don’t think any those gifts are as meaningful to the recipient as a real, live flower.  Of course, today’s high school students probably have no basis for comparison.

It was sometime in the early 1990’s that I got my first email account.  I loved email and spent far too many hours of my workday sending and receiving messages with my sister, brother and friends.  No longer did I get family news and gossip weeks later, or not at all.   I didn’t even mind paying that monthly AOL account charge (remember that?!)  Today email is an “old fashion” social networking tool, at least outside of the business world; we don’t rely it on like we used to; we have too many other ways to communicate that are faster than email.   I still love email though; I’ll always have a soft spot for this technology.

According to Wikipedia, there are over 199 social networking sites, and that doesn’t include dating and matchmaking sites.    Some of the most popular sites:  Facebook; You Tube; Classmates.com; iTunes;  OpenTable;  MySpace; EVite; LinkedIn; Skype; Instagram; Twitter; Pinterest; Words with Friends; SnapChat;  CaringBridge;  FourSquare; and Tumblr.  Then there’s texting, blogging, instant messaging, voice mail and the aforementioned email.  And who doesn’t Google, Bing, Ask, and/or Yahoo?  Also in the mix are about 300,000 apps for business, education, entertainment, finance, health, fitness, sports, travel, and food.    Further Internet research (which may or may not be reliable) reveals that 87% of all American adults use a cell phone, and 55% of those use their phone to access the Internet.  31% of adult Americans have a tablet computer, and 26% have an e-reader.  We are wired.

I am as socially networked as most of my peers.  I have a FB account, I tweet from time to time, my Linked In account is up to date, I regularly Skype and text, I love Pinterest, obviously I blog, I use various apps to keep organized and connected in this busy world, and I still email with my sister, brother and a few friends.  But for a while now I’ve felt as though I’ve been spending a lot of time “networking” yet not feeling socially connected in ways that matter to me.   And then I had a disappointing electronic social network “conversation”.  Many others have surely experienced the same type of thing.   A downside to “talking” electronically is the absence of tone of voice and the visual of body language.  One can try to be accurate with the written word, and can backspace and delete, but without tone, facial expression, gestures, etc., it’s easy for another to misinterpret , or “hear” words in a way they weren’t intended to be “spoken”.  The online exchange I had like this gave me real pause, and has had me thinking about the place and purpose of social networking in my life.  So I’ve tried to make a few changes, hopefully without imposing my needs on my socially networked friends.

I started by making a phone call to a relative who lives far away from me.  We had a real conversation, caught up on what was happening in our lives, and shared a few things that we probably wouldn’t have posted on Facebook.  It just felt nice.  A few weeks later I wrote a letter – on stationary with a pen! -  to a high school friend I haven’t spoken to in 23 years.  We exchange Christmas cards every year, with short update notes, but that’s been the extent of our staying in touch.  She replied via email (email is ok with me –I love this old fashion tool!) and shared much about her life.   It feels good to be connected with her again.   And recently when I needed to pass on information to a neighbor, I called her and we ended up having a nice chat.  I could have sent her a text, but she’s a great friend and is worthy of more than a few hastily typed words.

Next I decided I would no longer check my Facebook account during the workday.  Admittedly, that’s been a little harder to do – or not to do!   But I no longer open FB on my work computer, only on my phone, and usually only around the lunch hour. 

Finally, my ipad is on the nightstand next to my bed.  It used to be the last thing I looked at before I turned off the light to go to sleep.  No more ipad in the bed!  And no more looking at my cell phone as  soon as I wake up in the morning ( I wait until at least 7:30 am!).

The bottom line is I want to have more personal connections so I’m trying to make small changes so I’ll be less networked and more social.

And now Gary and I are off to a social event  where we will try to network - Minneapolis Food and Wine Experience.  Like.

Just  Sayin.’

Laurie

What Makes Me Beautiful - By Emily Heiser

This post is from a "guest blogger," my very beautiful daughter, Emily.

 

 

What Makes Me Beautiful

By Emily Heiser

At 24 years old, I’ve been exposed to many different ideas of what beauty is, what it means, and why it’s important.  In my quest for beauty, I’ve tried lots of diets, every type of fashion, and have been every shade of blonde and brunette a person can be.  I continue to be dissatisfied with my hips, my thighs are slightly thicker than I’d like them to be, and no matter how many sit-ups I do my stomach still has a little “pouch” that just won’t disappear.  However, I had one part of me that I loved; my eyes.  I always received compliments on them and they were always the one thing I felt comfortable “flaunting.”  In 2008, I was in a car accident that could have left me blind.  Instead, it left me with a scar on my right eye and eyelid. The scars are the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I look at before I go to bed at night.  I’ve struggled the past several years knowing that the one part of me that I believed was perfect is damaged, forever.  I try to be an advocate for positive body image and yet, I have never quite reconciled my own positive body image with what I see in the mirror. During my most recent confrontation with what I saw in the mirror, it occurred to me that I spend a considerable amount of time focusing on all the parts of me that are ugly but very little on what is beautiful about me. So, I got to thinking. What makes me beautiful?

 

I decided to begin my journey to self-acceptance by thinking about the times that I did feel beautiful.  It didn’t include a pair of heels, my favorite jeans, or even a form fitting dress.  None of those really make me feel beautiful as my insecurities inevitably surface the minute I step out the door.  I went horseback riding yesterday, as I do every Wednesday, as I’ve done since I was 9 years old, and as I was showering afterwards it struck me almost like lightening.  I feel most beautiful when I’m horseback riding.  It doesn’t really make sense does it?  I don’t have makeup on, I’ve got helmet hair that is wet from sweat, chances are I have horse saliva on my shirt because Samson was convinced I was withholding delicious carrots from him, and there is mud and horse poop stuck to the bottom of my shoes. Not your typical beauty standards.  But when I’m riding I feel beautiful, even perfect.  I feel beautiful because I feel happy.  A horse, whether it’s the very first horse I ever rode, a small paint named M&M at L&G stables in New Orleans, or my horse in high school named Bella, or a horse at John Shaw Equestrian Center in Urmston, Manchester.  Not one of those horses has ever cared what I look like.  M&M didn’t care that I had braces and an awkward haircut; Bella didn’t care if my hands weren’t freshly manicured; and Samson is not bothered that I ate that extra slice of pizza.  Similarly, I didn’t care that M&M was barely 14 hands high; he had the heart of a racehorse.  Bella was a bit clumsy over jumps, but she was a best friend who loved me unconditionally during trying times my high school years; and Samson is not always the gentleman he has a reputation for being, but he makes it his duty to make sure I have a safe ride.  These imperfections are what make these horses absolutely beautiful.

It’s funny what animals can teach you about yourself.  These horses have shown me that it is not about what I don’t have but what I do have; my so-called “imperfections” are actually what make me beautiful.  My hips that I think are too big are just the right size for carrying a saddle.  Even though my thighs are thick, they are perfect for jumping horses over fences.  My nails aren’t always freshly manicured, but are on hands perfect for feeding a fresh apple to a horse after a long ride.

 
My journey is to self-acceptance is just beginning; I have a long way to go and it won’t always be easy.  But, I am finally realizing my so-called flaws are what make me who I am; my flaws are my story, my unique and beautiful story.

Just sayin'.

Laurie 

Angels We Have Heard on High

Emily attends graduate school in England and arrived home for a holiday visit this weekend.  She hasn’t lived at home for 5 years so I am used to not seeing her on a regular basis.  And the past 3 months went by pretty quickly; time has a way of doing that.  Usually when she flies home I just pick her up at the curb by baggage claim.  But this time, Gary and I both went to the airport, parked and waited inside.   At first we sat in the row of chairs by the baggage carousel where her luggage was scheduled to arrive.  Then we found ourselves standing at the bottom of the escalator area where she would emerge from the arrivals terminal.    She didn’t really understand my overwhelming tears when I saw her. 

 At the beginning of the holiday season I made a vow to myself and to Gary that I would not let “must do” holiday chores overwhelm or stress me.  I promised that I would enjoy the true meaning of the Christmas season, and would only honor the traditions that were meaningful to us and our immediate family.  The past few years I’ve decorated Christmas trees and every other corner of our house before the kids have come home for Christmas, with the notion that they would walk into a “winter wonderland” after a long school semester.  This year we have just one Christmas tree – ordinary and traditional – and I saved the tree trimming until yesterday, so Emily and I could do it together, something we haven’t done for years.  She hung only her favorite ornaments – we didn’t have to put every single one on the tree – perched the angel on top and declared it finished.  I believe it is the most beautiful tree we’ve ever had.  I’m so glad I waited until she was home so we could decorate the tree together.  I will forever cherish the memory of us doing so.

I have never touched a gun (literally, never touched a gun).  I don’t know what the gun laws are in Minnesota or Connecticut or Delaware or Louisiana or anywhere else.   What I do know is that there are far too many mass shootings and deaths by gun violence.  I’ve heard it said “Guns don’t kill; people do.”  I think that’s a cop-out statement.  It’s about time we the people hold our elected officials accountable to the people.  The government regulates all sorts of things.  You can’t open a checking account without providing significant documentation; there are laws against texting and driving (as there should be); some states require helmets for motorcycle riders; the government now even regulates excessively loud television commercials (Commercial Advertisement Loudness Mitigation Act).  How is it that just about anyone can have access to a military style assault weapon?    And I know what the second amendment says.  Our founding fathers are rolling over in their graves.  The dialogue must begin, action must happen

 My tears of joy at the airport Saturday night that my daughter made it home were mixed with tears of sorrow for the parents whose children did not come home from school last Friday.  My 2012 Christmas tree trimming memory is in honor of all of the Sandy Hook victims who won’t be able to help their families decorate the tree this year.   My faith tends to be quiet and personal, but it is strong.  I will pray that God’s grace, mercy, and healing love be with the families of the Sandy Hook victims, the survivors, and the residents of Newtown.

 One enduring Christmas tradition in our home is Emily playing Christmas carols on the piano. As I was baking some cookies yesterday she was playing and asked me my favorite Christmas song.  I just love “Angels We Have Heard on High.”  The song’s most memorable feature is its chorus:   Glo-o-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-O-o-o-o-o-O-ri-a in Ex-cel-sis De-o (Latin for Glory to God in the highest).  The vowel sound "o" of "Gloria" is sung fluidly and sustained through a lengthy rising and falling melodic sequence.  This beautiful Christmas song commemorates the story of the birth of Jesus Christ found in the Gospel of Luke, in which shepherds outside Bethlehem encounter a multitude of angels singing and praising the newborn child.  I keep thinking about those angels.  This Christmas carol will forever be a more meaningful Christmas tradition for me.

 Just sayin’.

 Laurie

Back to School

Kids all over the country are preparing to go back to school.  Many of my co-workers are on vacation this week, spending the last week of summer with their kids.  The parking lot at the elementary school in my neighborhood has been filled all week.  I suspect the teachers are already back to school preparing for the student’s return.  And last night I saw lots of parents and little ones in and out of the building, it looked like it might have been an orientation night for the first graders.

My son Kyle is back at Tulane, a sophomore, although he only had one day of classes before Isaac hit New Orleans.  He’s now on “hurrication” until Tuesday of next week. 

Our neighbors took their daughter to college in Wisconsin today.  Their oldest son has graduated from college and is out of the house, but Mom is still a little nervous.  This is their daughter, and the last child to leave the house.  Daughter of course could hardly wait to leave!

I remember when I was a little girl; the anticipation of a new school year was so exciting!  Seeing friends again after being apart during the summer; new school clothes; would I like my teacher?

When I was in elementary school we lived in a small town.  The elementary school was a three story brick building (where my parents had attended high school) and each grade had two teachers.  At the end of the summer the local newspaper would publish the student classroom assignments.  My mom would take me to the local dime store as soon as the paper was available to learn who my teacher would be the coming school year.  Every year all I wanted was to be in the same class as my best friend Lori.  And except for our kindergarten year, I was disappointed every year.  Our grandmothers were best friends, and our mothers were – and still are - best friends.  It never occurred to me back then that maybe in this small town somebody knew the strong connections between our families and intentionally made sure that Laurie and Lori who spent so much time together outside of the classroom probably shouldn’t have the same teacher!

Shopping for new school clothes was an annual tradition.  New pants, new shirts, new school shoes, new sneakers for gym class, new shoes for Sunday School, a new winter coat for play and a new dress winter coat were standard.  Thinking back on it, my parents must have budgeted carefully for this, as my mother didn’t work when my sister, brother and I were young.   I also got a new dress for Christmas each year, and one for Easter, and those were usually sewn by my grandmother, but I have no other memory of shopping for new clothes except at the beginning of the school year.  There were no malls back then, no Target, Wal-Mart, Abercrombie, Hollister, American Eagle or Aeropostale.  It was JCPenney or Sears, in Woodbury, New Jersey, and later at Prices Corner, in Wilmington, Delaware.

I didn’t carry a back pack when I was in school, but my lunch box was very important.  In kindergarten, when Lori and I were in the same classroom, our moms went shopping for our first lunchboxes together.  Lori’s mom, my dear Aunt Anita, selected a black vinyl box for Lori, with Barbie motif.  It was beautiful.   For me, my mom chose a colorful tin box with Charlie Brown and Snoopy and friends.  I liked my first lunch box, but oh, how I coveted Lori’s lunch box!  By first grade, my Mom redeemed herself - I was rockin’ a Brady Bunch lunchbox!

Even today I can remember what would be packed in that lunch box.  My ham and cheese with mayo on white bread would be wrapped in tin foil.  Herr’s potato chips in a baggie tied with a twisty (no ziplock tops back then) and either chocolate frosted or peanut butter Tastycakes.  The thermos, which was held in place by a metal arm, was meant to keep its liquid contents cold but the milk never stayed quite cold enough.  Sometimes, though, the thermos would have Hi-C grape juice, my all-time favorite drink.

Beginning in kindergarten and throughout elementary school I walked to school.  Moms didn’t load up the kids and drive them to school back then – most of us were a one car family, and dad took the car to work.  We walked when it was very hot in the beginning and the end of the school year, when it rained, and when it was cold and snowy.  My mom’s other dear friend, my Aunt Connie (I have lots of Aunts!) lived “down the hill by the lake” and had her own car.  Once in a while she would drive kids to school when the weather was bad, and I remember catching a ride with her.  More often than not, though, my friends and I laced up our boots, zipped up our hoods, lifted our umbrellas, and away we went.

School shopping for Emily when she was little was different.  She attended Catholic school so there was no shopping for clothes, just a trip to the uniform store.  She never carried a lunch box, but selecting a back pack was a big deal.   When she started school she favored the Disney princesses, and around the 2^nd or 3^rd grade graduated to the LL Bean canvas back pack monogrammed with her initials.  I drove her to school every morning, inching my way through the car pool drop off line.  Fortunately, she did have the experience of walking home from school throughout her elementary school years, and she walked to and from school throughout middle school.  In high school, riding a school bus was so uncool that she convinced me to drive her to school every morning, and she would find a ride home, or walk.  If you’ve had a teenage daughter you know how moody and temperamental they can be.  One smart comment too many and she lost her morning ride to school and had to begin taking the bus!  Best punishment I ever came up with!  It wasn’t long after that she got her driver’s license, and then her own car, and she was able to drive herself to and from school,

One week from today Emily is moving to Manchester, England, for graduate studies.  So last night we did some school shopping.  Here’s what we bought:  2 bags of Snyder’s pretzels; 3 cans of Delmonte green beans; 2 jars of Hidden Valley Ranch salad dressing; 3 boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese; 1 box of instant mashed potatoes (I forget the brand); 1 box of Kellogg’s cereal bars; 1 box each of Zatarain’s jambalaya mix, red beans and rice mix, and black beans and rice mix.  From her study abroad experience, these are food items that she knows she can’t buy in England, and that she must have.  She felt  this would be enough to get her started, and wants me to send her care packages of food every month or so to keep her kitchen stocked.  Those of you who know me know I will do this.

School shopping with my mom to Catholic school girl uniforms; Brady Bunch tin lunch boxes to Disney princess backpacks; walking to school to car pool lines; ham and cheese sandwiches to mailing care packages abroad.

What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock, just a little bit, even for a little while.

Just sayin.’

Laurie

Four Letter Words

What Congressman AKIN said about RAPE was JUNK.  He’s a DOPE.

RAPE and sexual assault are not about sex, pregnancy, or abortion.  They are violent crimes of power and control.  We must acknowledge the reality of sexual violence: rapist choose to rape and under no circumstances do victims choose to be victimized.

Here are some the statistics, according to RAINN, the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network, the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization:

·         44% of sexual violence victims are under the age of 18; 80% are under the age of 30.

·         Every 2 minutes someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.  Each year there about 207,754 victims of sexual abuse.

·         54% of sexual assaults are not reported to police, and 97% of rapists never spend a day in jail.

·         Approximately 2/3 of sexual assaults are committed by someone known to the victim; and 38% of rapists are a friend or acquaintance.

What I remember most is bathing her, something I hadn’t done in 20 years, since she was a little girl.   Her hair was stringy and matted from sweat, and covered much of her face because her head was nodded forward.  Her arms hung loosely at her sides, her hands in the bath water.  Her legs were straight in front of her, her pedicured toes peeking out from the top of the water.   Her whole body was limp with exhaustion.  And those pretty blue eyes – that just a day ago had been sparkling with excitement about what lie ahead – they were dark and empty now.   Even the tears had dried. 

She had just completed her study abroad experience.  Many of us were concerned that she wouldn’t do well far away from the familiar surroundings of home and family.  She proved us all wrong.  She made new friends and traveled throughout Europe.  She came home more self-confident than ever before, excited about her final semester of college and the bright future ahead.   She had only been back in town for one day when she met friends for dinner at a popular Mexican restaurant.  She remembers a friendly waiter; and ordering a margarita and a quesadilla. (The restaurant receipt confirms this is all she had at the restaurant).  She was told she had a glass of wine after dinner, but her memories are vague.

Our dearest friends took her to the hospital.  After spending several hours stabilizing her at one hospital, she had to go to another hospital for the rape kit.  In many cities not all hospitals accept rape victims because they do not have rape kits.  I do not understand this.  At the second hospital a rape kit was administered.  There was no victim’s advocate available, just an overworked nurse who told her to administer portions of the rape kit herself.  She felt humiliated.

As I kneeled beside the tub I knew I needed to be strong for her.  And then I saw the black and blue marks on her chest and thigh.  My throat swelled and I couldn’t catch my breath.  The pain I felt for my daughter literally seared every inch of my body.  The rage I felt for her rapist was like an inferno in my gut.   I lifted her out of the tub, carefully dried her, and dressed her in pajamas.  This brought about a sense of calmness for both of us.  Even thought it had been decades since I had done these things for her, it felt familiar.  She lay on the bed and curled up.  And she stayed there for two days.

TALK doesn’t come easy for some victims.  Well-meaning friends and family ask questions:  How are you doing?  Will you be ok?  Did you go to the police?  Can you put it behind you and move on?  Victims feel shame and they self-blame.  She was overwhelmed by the questions and shut down.

She told me later she kept wishing she had not gone out to dinner, and she was angry at herself for mixing one margarita and one glass of wine.  She kept asking herself if her shorts were too short or her shirt too low cut.  She kept replaying in her mind as much of the night as she could, questioning what she should have done differently.  She talked to the police, but didn’t press charges because she couldn’t remember much about what happened.  Rape is too often a crime where victims have to prove their innocence.

VOTE and JAIL are four letter words we must all remember.  VOTE for candidates who are intelligent, informed, and represent the interest of all people.  JAIL is where rapists belong, period.    

HEAL.  This is an important four letter word.   There is no particular time table for a victim to heal; it’s a process, sometimes a long one, although other victims have said healing does happen.  She took a big step towards healing this summer, participating in a walk to raise awareness about sexual violence.  We walked with her, to show our support for her and other victims.  Em, we’ll continue to walk with you.  Every step of the way.

 Just sayin'.

Laurie