Sunday, May 10, 2020

A Happy Mother's Day




It’s not even mid afternoon and already I’ve had an amazingly wonderful Mother’s Day—one of the best I can remember.

It began with a Zoom gathering with my two sons and two daughters, ages 55 through 60. I could not be more proud of them. They have produced six granddaughters and six grandsons, 11 of them between 21 and 31 and a “caboose,” who will be 15 this summer.

In our Zoom this morning, my kids each shared the good things that have grown out of the lifestyle they have been living for the last couple of months. Most of their children have returned home and are working or studying remotely. The families have been having a blast!. They play cards, piece together enormous puzzles, cook, garden, do crafty things, and run, bike, golf, and hike together.

Fortunately, none of them have lost their jobs though there has been a pay cut, and there are changes afoot. One had to furlough 200 people. Painful. Another is investing in a farm produce-food truck business. And two are looking at new opportunities—in a law firm and in an online teaching position.

They report sleeping a little later, learning to “go slow,” spending less time in their cars, and gaining new insights into work activities, sorting out those that are the most important and letting other things go.

To one degree or another, all of them are extroverts who thrive on their relationships with others. But for now, they are thriving on being at home and enjoying their offspring.

It will be interesting to see how this episode will change, and perhaps enrich, their lives.


Here they are 50 years ago!


Thursday, April 16, 2020

Time for some limericks

 April 16 and it’s snowing like a banshee!  After a lame attempt at shovelling the heavy wet stuff, I returned to my new occupation—making masks.  My trusty Bernina sewing machine gave up the ghost and spent a few days in the sewing machine hospital before returning as good as new.  I have been given so many scraps of material that I will never be able to use them all. The donors seemed so happy to be rid of their scraps that I may have to find some new uses for these leftovers.
I have permission from my grandkids, now hanging out with their parents in Fort Collins, to share a bit of their at home recent creativity.

Abby is 26 and will attend graduate school at Columbia University to study Latin American language and culture this fall.

There once was a girl very fine
Who said, the future – it’s mine!
She applied to grad school
And felt quite the fool
It seems it will all be online!

Henry is 24 and coming down the home stretch majoring in oceanography and GIS at the University of Colorado in Boulder. He’s a food lover and made us a great dinner the other night.

There once was a man from the West
Who put his body to the test
He ate a whole pot of chili
Then felt rather silly
And decided he’d best get some rest. 

Mason is 22 and a junior at Middlebury College in Vermont majoring in Spanish and economics. He spent a semester in Chile and had planned to be in Cuba for spring but….

There was once was a young Matey-Moo
Who thought, one year abroad, I’ll make it through! 
In Chile he found 
He was mostly house-bound
And that is his current fate too. 


 There was an old lady who thought
 This virus may have been brought
To offer a lesson or two
About the best thing to do
When all of the world's so distraught.

Well I can't complete with these kids!

Here they are -photos from quite a while ago. Top to bottom: Mason, Abby , Henry


Friday, April 3, 2020

Waiting

11 a.m.,  Friday, April 3.

I feel the urge to write something—a blog?—but about what???

I’m weary of COVID-19 chatter, doomsday talk, and advice about how to stay sane while isolted.

I have watched some inspiring TED talks, especially J.K. Rowling’s Harvard commencement speech from 2011 touting the importance of failure and imagination, but enough is enough. I can only sit for so long.

I have hauled out my ancient sewing machine and stitched up 4 masks, none of them wholly successful, but all of them probably better than nothing.

I hate the idea, and feel, of wearing a mask. I hope that doesn’t mean I will find myself disobeying orders one of these days.

I have regrouted the tile in my shower. A nasty job. It looks better, but who cares?

I have nibbled at the edges of a writing project in hopes that one day I will figure out what I’m trying to say.

There’s a bit of snow on the ground, but the sun just came out and I’m outa here to move my body for an hour or so.

I’’ll be back. Maybe with a new insight.  Stay tuned.

12:10 p.m.

27 degrees, bright sun. It’s quiet out there in the world. A few walkers on the sidewalks. A few cars on the road. A few skiffs of snow in the process of melting.

The world seems to be in waiting for spring. Coming soon. We know that.

We’re waiting, too, for a new day to dawn. We’re just not quite sure when.





Thursday, March 26, 2020

The IMPORTANT factor



Every human on the planet has a need to know that they are significant, that they have value, that they are important.  Peoples’ need, it seems to me, can be calculated in degrees. Some have it big, very big.

No one likes it when they feel that what they do doesn’t matter, that it no longer has value. These feelings pop up when someone loses a job, is furloughed, and is sentenced to staying at home with no job to do.

A high-level business consultant, lounging in pajamas on a Thursday morning, might wonder if there will be a place for a business consultant among companies simply trying to survive. “Whoa,” this person may think. “There won’t be a market for my services. The world isn’t going to notice if I never go back to my job.”

A Disney executive may wake up to the realization that his or her job is no longer important. A world struggling to recover from a long-term virus scare probably won’t be seeking out a high-priced opportunity for the family to hobnob with Mickey Mouse. The executive’s importance meter may take a dive.

On the other hand, those who clean, deliver, transport, harvest, cook and serve other basic human needs may feel more important than ever. They see a world waking up to the fact that they are needed, something they’ve always known but that has not often been acknowledged. They see a world at risk of collapsing without the services they provide. Their importance meter goes up.

We all know people whose need to feel important is wildly out of control. We wonder about how they manage to surround themselves with people dedicated to boosting that person’s outsized importance factor, often disregarding facts.

 Is it possible that COVID-19 may have arisen for a reason?

Saturday, March 21, 2020

Remembering Hope

After a long debilitating illness, my dear friend, Hope Cassiday, died this third week in March 2020. There will be no service for a while because of a pandemic sweeping across the country. But when there is a service, it will be huge because Hope more than lived up to her name. She touched so many lives, serving brain-injured people in her own community, and raising funds to meet urgent health and education needs  through a Simple Supper fundraiser she founded. Simple Supper survives to this day.

As I think about Hope, I am suddenly reminded of another March day, in 2006. A fierce wind, bare trees, dust swirls and scruffy pale grass greeted Marcia Benfica and her five-year-old son, Ruy when they arrived in Colorado, invited by Hope to speak at the Simple Supper fundraiser in Greeley.

I came to know Marcia when I was in Mozambique. I was a failure when she tried to teach me Portuguese, but we became good friends, translating African folk tales into English. She took me to a Mozambican wedding where I was the only white person. We laughed when one of her friends asked her why, since I was American and no doubt wealthy, wasn’t I better dressed?

Marcia is African, but firmly planted in three worlds: rural Mozambique where she grew up, Maputo, the capital of her country where she attended university and earned a degree in languages, and in Lansing, Michigan where she cleaned motel rooms, became proficient in English, and gave birth to her son while her husband earned a graduate degree in 2000. In 2005 they returned to Michigan so that her husband could complete his PhD.

Meanwhile, Hope had committed the Simple Supper funds raised in 2006 to help in completing a kindergarten in Mozambique. I realized that Marcia would be the perfect spokesperson to add authenticity to the project. 

“Of course, I’ll come,” she said. “But what is this fundraising—what does it mean?”

I was thrilled and told her that if she would speak about the importance of education to Mozambicans and the extreme shortage of kindergartens in her country, that would be enough.

She spoke so eloquently that no one at the Simple Supper could have questioned the need or her sincerity. Nearly $7,000 was raised in a single night and the dollars continued to trickle in later, making the goal of $8,000 a reality.

Despite fickle March weather, Marcia and Ruy had a week to remember in Colorado. They visited Rocky Mountain National Park, the capitol in Denver, took a tour of Cheyenne, saw a puppet show, and went to a pizza birthday party.

“Oh no, its too cold,” Marcia pleaded when I suggested a late night dip in my hot tub. 

“Just try it,” I insisted.”

Little Ruy slipped in clutching his inflatable crocodile and Marcia followed, gingerly at first. 

“Soft water,” Ruy said, swishing his hands across the bubbling surface. Sinking into the deliciously warm water became a nightly ritual for the rest of the week.

Marcia went back to Michigan with a collection of recipes, measuring cups and spoons, and Ruy went home with a couple of books, a few marbles and a collection of dinosaurs given to him by new friends who learned that he loved them.

When they departed, there were only tiny buds on the trees, no leaves but small sprouts of green were emerging from the winter-brown grass. A cold wind blew but Spring was around the corner.

Back in Mozambique, fall, the dry season was on its way. By winter, a new school would be complete and would soon be filled with small children taking their first steps into a wider world.

When Marcia goes back home, she will visit the school and tell them about Hope and a windblown week she spent in Colorado.




Saturday, March 7, 2020

The Last Laugh

The Last Laugh

My grandson, Mason Arndt, is a junior at Middlebury College in Vermont. This semester he is enrolled in a political science class in which the professor is quite formal and known for asking hard questions of his students.

My daughter, Jeni Arndt, Mason’s mother, lives in Colorado and serves as state representative for her hometown, Fort Collins.

During a recent session in Mason’s political science class, the professor called on “Mr. Arndt.” Mason perked up.

“Mr. Arndt, can you name the governor of your state?”

“Yessir. That would be Jared Polis.”

“And your senators?”

“Corey Gardner and Michael Bennett.”

“Very good. Now, answer this one. I’ve never had a student get it right. Who is your state representative?”

“That would be Jeni Arndt.”

“Impressive. How is it that you know that?”

“She’s my mom.”

In retrospect, Mason wishes, instead of answering "Jeni Arndt" to the professor’s question, he should have just said “mom.” He did say that his professor has become a bit less formal and now chats with him frequently.

I got such a charge out of this little incident that I had to share it.

 

Tuesday, February 25, 2020

Keeping a journal

I have been keeping a journal in one form or another since 1949 when I was 13 and in the eighth grade in Seattle, Washington. My first penciled writings were in a little red “Five Year Diary” that came with a lock and key.  Words in the front of the diary read:

Memory is elusive –capture it. The mind is a wonderful machine. It need but be just refreshed and incidents can again be revived in their former clarity. A line each day, whether it be of the weather or of more important substances, will, in time to come, bring back those vague memories, worth remembering, to almost actual reality.

On Jan. 1 my first entry reads: 

Dear Diary,
Last night Doris stayed overnight here and we went on Bill Foster’s paper route at 2 a.m. Was it cold! We got in heck! The roads were so icy we didn’t get to Sunday School. We played in the snow on the toboggan and sled l took John (my three-year-old brother) to Doris’s on the sled and pulled him all the way. When we finally had eaten, Daddy washed my hair and put it up. Was I tired.
#
Jan. 2 Today we stayed in the snow all day even eating lunch outside. We cooked soup and beans over a fire we made in the snow. Outside were Kay and Barbie, Dorothy and Betty, Bill, David and me, Marilyn, Karen and others. Dorothy’s dog got hurt by a car. He was not killed. I saw Don Lewis he has a paper route down by our house, he was sure nice. I like him maybe. Newton St. is slick we have it all pressed down. Today I had more fun than I’ve ever had in the snow – temperature 26.
Selected items from Jan. 3. Today I wore my Brassiere for the first time. Pat did not! Our class gives Miss McDowell a time we are terrible.
And so it goes on…
I have often wondered if I would ever go back and read my journals from the last 70 years. A few weeks ago, I decided to give it a try and it is a daunting task.  Yet those words I quoted above from my red diary are true. I’ve been blown away by things I had forgotten for so long: names of people I no longer remember, and thoughts and feelings that I do, brought to life by a few scribbled words on a page. 
Maybe by spring, I’ll emerge with a whole new look at my life. Whatever the outcome, I know I have hours and hours of bedtime reading scheduled.