St. Louis Star

 

When I was a kid, I became a bit obsessed with the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  I read all of them, some multiple times.  I even had a songbook and cookbook, I think.  My dad used to tell stories of our illustrious ancestors who came across the country in covered wagons, or were disemboweled and had their intestines wrapped around a tree.  You know, feel-good stories that made you proud to be a member of the family.  

We moved often because of my dad's career in the military, and I really thought about what it would have been like for those who left their families behind and never, ever saw them again.  When the Ingalls family left Wisconsin to head west, their extended family was just as close as mine was.  But once they were gone, that was pretty much the end of that.

Back when I was in high school, my sister made a log cabin quilt.  I thought that was pretty much the coolest thing ever, so I made one called the "Virginia Reel."  I took that quilt with me to college, but over time it fell apart and died a sad death, mostly because I didn't sew it well in the first place.  

 

When my dad was really sick, I was able to fly home a few times a year to see him.  This was a really nice opportunity, and one which I recognize isn't possible for many people.  Because Dad's meds made him sleepy a lot, and because no woman in our family ever has idle hands, I brought back a quilt that I wanted to make.  I bought this new quilt as "Block of the Month" sets from JoAnn Fabrics, so everything was pre-cut.  I thought that was cheating a bit, but it was on sale and I liked the colors.  Each trip back, whether by plane or car, I packed that quilt along with me.  Mom pinned and I sewed, and eventually we had twelve big pieced blocks.  Then we worked on the sashing and borders.  I bought some coordinating fabric to make the outermost border just to make it a bit bigger.  

Dad died nearly three years ago, so all the finishing work I did here at home.  I finally finished stitching the binding down today.  It's real name is "Pathway to the Stars," but I will always think of it as the "St. Louis Star."

I'm going to put it on my bed tonight, and try not to freak out when the dog jumps up on it.  I have about five more quilts (much smaller) that I'm working on, so hopefully I'll have more projects to add.

Sweet, Oh So Sweet

I've been volunteering nearly continuously in Scouting programs for our church since 1990.  I've been in Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, and for the most part it has been a lot of fun.  Until recently.

The ecclesiastical leader over the Scouting program was changed about a year ago.  The new guy is a pompous ass who I used to work with over at the school.  He loves to hear himself talk, and is devoted to the Scouting law and manuals like no other.  He knows every little bit of those manuals, but hasn't an ounce of Scouting spirit in him.  I hated working with him, getting emails from him, even seeing him. 

One of his first acts as Reichs President was to put his wife in as my assistant (I'm the committee chair), specifically over advancement.  She's the type of person who says horrible things about the boys, and then turns around and says what "neat young men" they are.  They have really mean children, and Tinkerbell is right in between two of them age-wise.  Her children are constantly teasing and putting her down, both in public and in private.  Frau Ass is very dedicated to her advancement duties, no doubt about that, but doesn't want any input or help from me.  Fine, have at it.

Last week we had the weirdest Court of Honor I've ever seen in my life.  Herr Ass had everyone saluting and repeating the Scout Law like a bunch of Hitler Youth.  He goes on and on and on and on for seemingly forever.  He said some outrageous things.  For instance, the reason Lord Baden Powell created Scouting was to bring boys to God through the gospel of Jesus Christ.  Um, no.  He did believe religion was important, but was also a socialist who loved Mein Kampf and supported Mussolini.  Details, details.  He wanted the boys to invite their scout leaders to their temple weddings in the future, and said that the Scout Law should be considered the "Oath and Covenant of the Aaronic Priesthood."  Now if you're not LDS, I'm not going to explain all that, but suffice it to say that that's a pretty sacrilegious thing to say.

I got up and walked out.  Just couldn't take it anymore.

Flash forward to the following Sunday, and lo and behold they thank me for my service in Scouting and send me on my way.  I'm now going to be in the library handing out chalk and erasers where I can do no harm.  So I thought it would be the nice, magnanimous thing to get all the files in order for the next person.  I asked Frau Ass for the files back so I could go through them and clean them up.  Oh no, my email this morning contained a letter from Herr Ass saying I should turn everything over to her, and he would train my replacement, even though neither of them knows how to keep records.

Well, fine.  But I won't ever talk to him again, or give him the records.  I'll give them to the bishop and let him deal with it.  I deleted the troop email account, the Facebook page, and the blog.  I won't organize one blessed thing, or tell them how low the account is at the Scout store, so when Frau Ass goes to buy awards, she'll have to pay out of her own pocket.  Ha ha ha.  That's what I had to do when I first started, all from scratch.  They don't want my help?  Fine, you're on your own.

Normally I wouldn't publish this.  I have loads of posts I wrote in a tiff and keep as drafts.  But this one goes online.

Bite me.

One Small Step...

I made a comment in church today.

That's it.  I haven't made a comment in church in years and years because I was afraid I'd say something too controversial.  But I don't particularly care anymore if someone else is offended or not. 

So I said something.  And the world didn't end, and people still talked to me. 

This will only encourage me, people.

The Company We Keep

It's considered a desirable quality on a person if they are a good friend.  Accepting, generous, trusting, always there for the other person.  I never quite mastered that.

Each one of us has strengths and weaknesses, some traits that come more easily than others and some that, frankly, are always a bit out of reach.  For me, being a "good friend" is one which I have just accepted is not something I naturally gravitate towards.  I have good friends, thankfully, who are very thoughtful, loving, generous, funny, and wonderful people.  I'm nearly a complete parasite in those relationships, though in my pathetic little way I honestly do try to reciprocate.  A phone call or text, maybe some cookies.  I have a great deal of uncertainty about what is too little and what is too intrusive. 

Talking to other people is a bit of a mystery to me, as well.  I'm sometimes too candid in my revelations, yet less forthcoming in things that really matter.  I have no problem listening to and sympathizing with the daily frustrations of my friends, yet can never find the right words when it gets a bit too personal.   The real "party pleasing" stories I can tell are the easiest for me, even when it involves sex offenders in prison, disfiguring accidents, and terrorism.  The daily things that say much more about who I really am are extremely difficult for me to disclose.  I like to maintain a good arms length (and maybe an extra arm) between me and other people.

I haven't always been as cautious.  We moved every year or so while I was growing up, and one side-effect of that for me was to make friendships very quickly but not always prudently.  Since I had a limited amount of time to assess the pool of potential friends in front of me, I usually went for the more accepting ones in the bunch.  That nearly eliminated the "good" kids who were really churchy and pious, and opened the door to those that could fly under the radar a bit more.  I did have some friends who were very good children, but not as many as I probably should have.  From out of those questionable friendships, I remember very candid phone calls talking about boys, fights with my parents, parties I had snuck out to.  Lots of whispered secrets, listening vigilantly for a suspicious parent to pick up the other phone and listen in.  Those are the conversations I wish I could undo, the ones where someone knows too much about me, might remember things I've long forgotten.  I've found some of those confidantes on Facebook, cringed at their aging faces, and blocked them in my privacy settings.  The thought that some of me could linger in their consciousness disgusts me, and frightens me a bit, too.  They wield power over me with their memories, and I resent that. 

But for those that I have connected with in recent years, I have the opposite feeling towards.  I'm surprised and gratified that they remember me (unless I dated them--that's a whole different thing).  I worry sometimes that I'll be forgotten completely since so many friendships I had with truly nice people were so fleeting.  To talk with someone from college and to realize what about myself they remember is eye-opening.  Are they talking about the "real" me, or someone I used to be?  Who was the most authentic version of myself?  The high school girl who was a social butterfly in one country, and a shadow-dweller in another, an overly confident college student who had a pretty good secret life going on, the ambitious Yuppy living in Chicago who left the corporate life to explore more socialist leanings with the masses, or the wife and mother in a religiously and politically conservative place who worries about being more open about her opinions because it could hurt her husband's career?  Well, I think we can get rid of the last option right off the top.  There is nothing authentic or "real" about living like that, and yet that's what I've done for half my life.  The rest of it is still very much a part of me, even over the last 25 years, just in a more surreptitious way. 

I'm still here, all those parts of me, but the less forthcoming part of me is dying a slow but steady death.

Some Goals for the Final Fifty

Now that I know I only have about 50 years left to me, I need to get a move on.  Here are some of my goals, which are vastly different than goals I would have made even a year ago.

1.  Learn German again, but this time really well.  I've heard German spoken since the day I was born, probably (since I was born in Germany), and yet I still don't speak it more than a few phrases here and there. 

2.  Give French a good try.  The accent completely kills me, but it's such a beautiful language and I'd love to (see #3)

3.  Live in Paris!  It would be so fun for Sweetie and I to do a study abroad or sabbatical there.  "Midnight in Paris" is a favorite film of mine, and though I've been there once before I can't even say that I got close to scratching the surface.  I'd be really happy living in Italy or Germany, too.  I'm not too terribly picky, as long as I get back to Europe.

4.  Make a quilt for all four kids.  Anything beyond that is a bonus, and yay for me.  But at a minimum, I'd like to make one for each of them.

5.  Be a grandmother.  No pressure kids, but someday it would be nice.  Preferably in the next 10 years, but I'll be happy whenever it happens.

6.  Build up my piano chops.  Once upon a time, I was a fairly decent pianist.  Now I'm more of a trained monkey who can spit out church hymns on command.  I never really studied theory (my fault, not my teacher's, who tried bless her heart), which I should probably do, and I'd love to get back some of my strength and skill.

That's a good start.  I always used to put things on my list like "lose weight" and "clean the house."  Boring, boring, boring, and I'm not going to waste a moment of my Final Fifty on those.  Those are things that need to happen, certainly, but they're no longer goals of mine.  More like daily routines I need to develop habits for. 

Now, I'm off to practice the piano. 

I'm 50!

Last week I turned 50.  I've been looking forward to this all year (I'm serious!), and here it is.  Years ago, my mother-in-law told me her 40s were her favorite decade.  I entered them with great anticipation, fully expecting to savour each and every year.  Of course there were lots of great moments during the last 10 years, and it was definitely a decade of self awareness and discovery for me, but I wouldn't say they were my favorite.

No, I think my 50s will be my new favorite.  I think I have a pretty good handle on who I am now, who I was, and the type of person I want to grow into.  I'm at peace with the first 50, and am ready to rack up a whole new half-century of things to occupy my mind with. 

So many changes in the past year.  I quit my job last December because Elvira was in need of some extra attention, as was pretty much everyone and everything else in my life.  I kind of forgot to put enough of that attention on myself though, and that's what I'm working on now.  The kids are back in school, Sweetie is back at work, and here I am blogging again.  I'm rusty, inarticulate, not particularly witty at the moment, but here.  I've missed writing.

Two weeks ago I had knee surgery to repair a torn meniscus.  I can't do this just yet, but soon!