"The world is so great and rich, and life so full of variety, that you can never lack occasions for poems." ~ J.W. Goethe As you cross the threshold into 2012, write a poem that captures all that you hope for in the year to come.

Well, is a limerick considered a poem? I was never good at capturing the abstract quality of poems. I much prefer the in-your-face playfulness of limericks. So here's mine for 2012:

Thoughts on 2012

Twenty twelve's a new year,
I start with a clean slate.
But I've got lots of plans
That will fill up my plate.

More creativity,
Less mundane chores.
Seize opportunities,
Open closed doors.

Dote on the baby,
Be a better friend.
See all my projects
Through till the end.

Read lots of books,
Write in my daily blog.
Record the emotions
That memories jog.

Strengthen my body,
Pedal miles on my bike.
Continue dance lessons,
And go take a hike.

Declutter, simplify,
Recycle, reuse.
Weed out the people
Who shorten my fuse!

Volunteer, donate,
Give to charity.
Add several more branches
To my family tree.

Eat less processed sugars,
More veggies and fruits.
Cover the gray
That appears at my roots.

Stifle the critic
That lives in my head.
Express gratitude
For my blessings instead.

Plan to retire,
Leave working behind.
It's fun to daydream
As I keep up the grind.

Who am I kidding?
This list causes strife.
My New Year's resolution?
To enjoy my good life!

#12) Take care of your body. How do you take care of your body?

I usually do pretty well at this. Although right now I have a massive cold that I sure didn't see coming! In hindsight, I need to add some more Vitamin C to the diet!

I wasn't always as mindful of my health as I am now, but I don't smoke, I don't drink excessively, and I don't do drugs. I wear a seatbelt in the car and I know how to lift safely, with my legs rather than my back. I spend a lot of time at the gym, usually going four to five days at week on my lunch hour. I take 45 minute classes ranging from body sculpting to Zumba to aerobics workouts. One of my instructors recommended a surging routine which I've done several times over Christmas break. It involves doing 3 sets of 10 on a weight machine, then spending a minute doing an aerobics activity at full speed (jump roping, stationery bike, running the track), then 3 sets of 10 on a different weight machine, and another minute of aerobics activity. I like this sort of routine because you can fit a lot into a short amount of time and it doesn't get monotonous. I'm also fairly active when I'm at home; I do a lot of yard work and when the weather is nice I cycle. I've written before about my week-long cycling vacations.

My diet could use some help, however. I'm well aware that I can't exercise away a bad diet. I'm mindful of the foods I'm putting in my body, how much fat or calories certain foods have, and portion controls. But that doesn't mean that I always stop when I should-- especially over the holidays. Part of the problem is that I'm not very well educated on healthy foods that are easy to prepare. One of my exercise instructors is a body builder who really watches what she eats, but she's also the mother of three children so she cooks for a family. I'd love to see her menus for a few weeks as well as getting cooking instructions on how to prepare the foods she eats. I've decided to ask her if she'll share some ideas. This is an aspect of my health that I still really need to work on.

Overall I think I'm in better-than-average shape for a 58-year-old woman. And if I can get a good diet under control, I'll be doing great!

#11) Practice spirituality. Do you have a spiritual practice? And, if so, what form does it take?

You're looking at it. Writing is becoming my form of meditation. One thing I miss dearly in my life is having a family home to return to. A place where I can go to seek comfort, lick my wounds, and re-energize before I enter the real world again. I'm so envious of people who have a physical space like this in their life. But as I sit here and think about it, writing has allowed me to experience those feelings again--it provides a place where I can continually come home.

I've always been uncomfortable in open group meditations--even in yoga classes. I can't stand the group quiet... I'm always afraid I'll cough, sneeze or worse, fart and disrupt the entire proceeding. :)  I feel self-conscious, as though every eye is upon me, even though I know that's ridiculous. Maybe these feelings are part of my aversion to organized religion as well. I'm just not at ease in group practices of spirituality, yet I'm almost always at ease when I write.

Writing helps me to be grounded in the moment. It forces me to pay attention and be thorough; to go beyond the obvious surface observations and to become aware and sharply mindful of the details. In this way, it's like an invaluable teacher or mentor to me. Writing is also my therapist. It allows me to examine my pain and to honor the existence of intense feelings. At its best, it helps me to find clarity. Writing forces me to re-examine what I thought was the truth, and perhaps discover that I was wrong by uncovering a different truth.

When I begin to write, I feel as if I'm starting off on an adventure. I start with an empty page and set out for the unknown, exploring and expressing something new. I read somewhere that your mind needs to be naked to be truly creative, and that's the hard part--emptying my mind of expectations, preformed ideas and preoccupations. Getting out of my own way. Turning off the critic in my head and going with the uncensored flow of my thoughts.

I'm still working on getting better at it. It isn't easy and it takes a lot of practice... and time. But I'm finding that the end result is definitely worth it.

#10) Commit to your goals. What goal are you wholeheartedly dedicated to accomplishing?

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I'm repeating something I've said before--I'm wholeheartedly committed to paying off our debt. I'm talking about the credit card debt, not the house and the cars, which I look at as ongoing, long-term debt. I was doing pretty well in this endeavor until Christmas came along. Then I took the extra money I was throwing at the credit card companies every month and began putting it toward Christmas. I started making minumum payments again, which get us nowhere fast.

But it's time to get back on track now. I'll keep chipping away at that mountain, which has actually developed over the years into a mountain range. The mountains that resulted from a couple years of unemployment, and from 10+ years of being underpaid and getting lost somewhere in the 99%. The mountains that became a little higher after two open heart surgeries and large pharmacy bills with inadequate insurance. Those mountain peaks that developed when, I admit it, we sometimes allowed ourselves to live slightly beyond our means even though that certainly did not mean extravagance by any stretch of the imagination. We permitted ourselves indulgences and treats along the way, something I certainly will never regret.

The carrot that dangles before me is just imagining how freeing it will feel to be clear of that debt! To have that large sum of money spent on bills every month to use at our discretion. Not to worry about where the money is coming from when a major appliance breaks, a car needs repair, or an emergency comes up. To make those long-planned-for home improvements and to take those dreamed-about trips. It all seems a long way off right now, but with our noses to the grindstone I have faith that our perseverance will pay off in the long run.

#9) Savor life's joys. Take one magical moment... describe it fully, in specific detail.

It was easy to pick this moment because it happened recently and was without a doubt the most amazing miracle I've ever had the privilege of witnessing. I was present at the birth of my granddaughter, Aubree.  Michelle designated that Craig, me, and her mother-in-law Sherry could be in the labor room for Aubree's birth. I arrived mid-morning when the labor pains were mild and watched the monitor as they slowly increased in severity over the course of the morning and into the early afternoon. Michelle was incredible; as the pains got more and more difficult, she held onto her cool. Never did she scream or even cry out. Craig was amazing as well; he could hardly contain his excitement or his curiosity during the whole process. The labor nurse, Tracy, remarked how refreshing it was to have an excited father in the room. She said that so many times they have either single mothers with no father in sight, or fathers who stay out in the waiting room and act as though they don't want to be there. You couldn't have pried Craig out of there with a crowbar!

When the pushing started in earnest, it seemed to go on forever. Each time, Tracy would count to ten while Michelle pushed with all her might, then she was allowed to lie back and take a breather until the next labor pain began. This probably went on for close to an hour. Michelle pushed at least a dozen times, perhaps more, and it required an amazing amount of strength and stamina. Tracy remarked that as a first-time mom, Michelle seemed to instinctively know how to push. She said that in so many first-time births, she spends a long time teaching the mother how to push correctly. Michelle made us all laugh when she replied that she had learned how to push during all those bouts of constipation while she was pregnant!

As the labor pains cycled and the pushing went on, emotions got more intense. There were a couple of times when tears crept down Michelle's cheeks and twice she said, "I can't do this anymore." We all encouraged her to hang in there and told her what an amazing job she was doing. I spent a lot of time observing and quietly talking to Michelle. I kissed her so many times that once, mid-push, she impatiently asked me to stop; then immediately apologized for her impatience. A true mother-daughter moment. <smile>  Sherry stayed off to the side, sitting on a couch in the room. A very religious person, she was obviously praying to herself during the entire labor process. Her hands were clasped and her lips were moving, but there was no sound. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, and as Tracy counted to ten over and over again, I noticed that Sherry kicked her leg with each count. The rhythmic movement was somehow comforting to me.

Craig was watching in utter amazement as the baby's head made its first appearance, and Tracy asked Michelle if she'd like a mirror to see it herself. Without missing a beat, Michelle answered, "No!"  The nurse chuckled and remarked that the mother usually has a strong opinion about that one way or the other. She asked Michelle if she minded if I watched the birth with Craig, and Michelle said she didn't. The hide-and-seek game that the baby played surprised me. First you'd see the top of her head, then you wouldn't. For some reason, I was under the mistaken impression that once the baby's head appeared, it stayed there and emerged a little more with each push.

Finally, with one last mighty push, the baby's entire head emerged, followed quickly by her slippery body. For one split second, I remember being in awe at the way her skull bones appeared skewed as they came out of the birth canal and then they quickly readjusted themselves into their normal position. It was 3:29 pm on December 6, 2011. As they placed Aubree on Michelle's stomach for a few moments so that mother and daughter could meet, Michelle glanced up at me. It wasn't until that moment that I realized tears were streaming down my face.

Craig asked to cut the cord and then the nurses took the baby over to another corner of the room to clean her up and apply her ankle bands. When Aubree was cleaned and bundled, I was the first person to pick her up. I still have no words to describe how it felt to hold my granddaughter for the first time. The feeling of love I had was almost breath-taking and indescribably over-the-top for both Aubree and Michelle. It literally hurt my heart. Aubree's birth was an incredible moment I'll remember forever.

#8) Increase flow experiences. Describe a time when you were completely engaged in the activity you were doing.

This would have to be when Darlene and I were collaborating on our family history book, The Edward Riley Family, in 1998. And, by the way, if we ever get around to doing a second edition like we've planned, it will be retitled The Edward and Elizabeth (Whitaker) Riley Family. I don't know what we were thinking when we eliminated the matriarch's name from the title!

Back in February 1996, Darlene and I were separately pursuing our own individual Riley lines, with limited success. Darlene posted a query on the web stating simply that she was looking for other researchers with Riley ancestors in TX, NM and OK. When I responded, we began to compare notes, and in short order we discovered our connection. Darlene is the direct descendant of a "one-armed Riley" in Jack County, Texas (her great-great-grandfather, William M. Riley). My great-grandmother, Josephine Riley, had lived in Jack County at the same time, and later entertained her grandsons with the tale of her one-armed Riley relative. As her story went, he was so agile, he could hang on to the horse with his legs, duck down and shoot from under the horse's neck with his one arm. Bingo! Darlene and I discovered we were "fourth cousins once removed" and we were off and running into the world of Rileys. Little did we know that in the course of 2-1/2 years, we would be condensing reams of Riley data down to a 350+ page book which lists 2,600+ documented descendants of Edward Riley.

After doing lots of intense research and meeting face to face at family reunions a couple of times, Darlene and I decided we were ready to compile our family history book. We had found many, many relatives via the internet and had amassed lots of photos and family stories. Rather than just a listing of names, dates, and places, we attempted to make our text come alive with short biographies and snippets of insight into our ancestors' personalities whenever possible. We asked many people to contribute stories about their family members. My dad wrote a touching tribute to his brother Max and my Aunt Leora wrote a beautiful story about her Grandmother Josephine, telling about how as a little girl she would go with her grandmother in a horse and hack to peddle fresh vegetables and milk, homemade butter and cream to the town housewives. One relative wrote his memoirs as he sat for hours and hours hooked up to a kidney dialysis machine.

We heard lots of comical family stories about Darlene's great-grandather (son of the one-armed man), who was a unique character in his time. He was rumored to be a cattle rustler and once when he was outrunning a posse, he hid underneath a bridge as they rode over it. When they were safely out of range, he came out from under the bridge and stumbled. When he did, he accidentally shot himself through the foot but still got away. Another time he was in his house surrounded by a posse, and he asked if they would at least let his wife leave without difficulty and he would then surrender. The lawmen agreed, so he dressed up in his wife Lula Belle's clothes and walked away scot free!

We found excerpts in history books about the Rileys, including a first-hand account about how the one-armed Riley had lost his arm in an Indian attack and another vivid account of an Indian attack on two Riley brother and their families; in which one of the brothers died and the other was disabled for the rest of his life. The State of Texas has erected an historical marker commemorating the Riley massacre. We located newpaper ads for a pioneer blacksmith shop run by one of our ancestors, and ads taken out by our relatives running for political office.

We interviewed a 100-year-old lady by telephone who was the sole survivor of a family of six that was killed when the New Mexico dugout where they were living caved in on them one night. We became good friends with a man whose grandfather was left to die as a 10-month-old baby when his parents were murdered in an Indian attack. The baby was found two days later by his grandfather, who happened to visit the family when he made the 20-mile trek by foot. Family legend says the grandfather was horrified to find the baby crawling over his mother's war lance pierced body, his tiny clothes drenched in her blood. The baby had apparently kept himself alive by nourishing himself at least once from his dead mother's breast.

Writing and compling our book was quite a time-intensive project and I remember staying up many nights until the wee hours of the morning. My husband wasn't a happy camper for much of this time as I would spend many hours at the computer in my office, immersed in my own little world and buried under stacks of paper and photographs. But the whole experience was so invaluable and I wouldn't give it up for anything. The collaboration with Darlene was rewarding; the education about our ancestors was priceless. We charged only what the books cost us to print, and we sold every copy of the finished product in three separate printings. We finally decided not to reprint it anymore, as we had discovered so much new material in the meantime that we planned on eventually writing a second edition. That hasn't happened yet, but it's definitely on my "bucket list."

#7) Learn to forgive. Write a letter to someone whose forgiveness you seek... or to someone whom you've forgiven.

This is a letter I wrote and sent to my friend Teri, who grew up two houses down the street from me in Michigan. I first knew her when she was six years old, and I walked home from school with her every day through high school. Both of Teri's natural parents had died (her father died when I was in 5th grade) and she lived with her demanding, perfectionist stepmother and later, a stepfather. Rarely could Teri play or hang out after school; she always had a list of chores to attend to and I knew she paid hell if they weren't done. I was seldom invited to her house and I, like the rest of the neighbors, couldn't stand her stepmother and was actually afraid and intimidated by her as a child. Lou was the ultimate wicked stepmother.

Now I know that I was usually the last person Teri talked to before she entered her house of horrors, and until the past two years I didn't have a clue exactly what she was going through. I was never aware that she and her sister Lisa were not only emotionally abused, but also physically abused children. It was a secret they guarded well and they're still paying a dear price for it to this day. Lisa can't speak of her childhood without tears welling up in her eyes, and after years of counseling, Teri has a great deal of trouble establishing and maintaining close relationships, even with her husband, who she's now separated from, and her two grown daughters.

This has affected me deeply and I've questioned myself repeatedly to figure out how I could have been so completely oblivious to something so horrible that was happening right under my nose. When Teri answered my letter, she thanked me profusely and told me that my words meant a lot to her. She said she became a master at hiding her abuse, and she never once even considered that I or anyone else "should have sensed something." The one time Teri confided her abuse to our counselor in high school, she was told that those things didn't happen in nice neighborhoods like ours to children who got all A's like Teri did, and she must be making it up. That's truly what people thought in those days. Child abuse happened in lower class neighborhoods only and manifested itself in obvious ways to the surrounding adults.

Our little neighborhood in the 1960s, like a lot of middle-class neighborhoods, had a "Leave it to Beaver" sensibility to it; a climate where all adults were expected to be responsible and loving parents, and all kids were expected to be obedient and respectful children who never questioned the adults in their life. It was the perfect cover for something like this to happen. In examining the situation and talking with Teri, I've finally come to forgive myself for my blinding innocence.

March 28, 2011

Dear Teri,

I must confess that I’ve been an occasional “lurker” on your blog for awhile now. Until reading it, I didn’t realize some of the things you went through as a child with your stepmother. I’ve been questioning myself about how I could have been so naïve not to have picked up on the abuse that you suffered. Of course, I knew that Lou could be verbally abusive, not to mention a virtual “slave driver,” and I definitely remember a few occasions when she scared me half to death. I think most of the kids in the neighborhood were intimidated by her to some extent.

But never did I suspect that she was also physically abusive. How did I miss that? I walked home from school with you every day. How did I not know about your foot issues and your teeth issues? I guess it was just so out of my realm of thinking and experience. In my limited view of the world at that time, the adults in our lives were there to ultimately protect us, not to do us harm. And even moreso, it was drummed into our heads as children never to question adults about their actions. I think it’s totally amazing that Lou found a man who would go along with her behavior without speaking up, which makes him 100% guilty of complicity in my eyes. Or maybe it’s not all that unusual; perhaps I have way too much faith in humankind.

And what about the adults in the neighborhood, the teachers at school, did none of them ever realize what was going on? I’ve had conversations with my mother, and she truly didn’t have a clue about what was happening. She’s as stunned and angry as I am to find out the truth. I find myself wondering what the consequences would have been if you HAD told someone, or if someone had realized and contacted the authorities. What were the repercussions of child abuse back in the 60s? Were children taken away from their families and sent to foster homes? Were adults jailed? Or, worst of all, did NOTHING happen?

All I can say is that I’m so sorry for having blinders on for all those years. I can’t say how it would have been different had I realized, but I do feel a sense of regret, as your friend, for being so oblivious to what you were going through. I think you’re an amazing person for working through what happened in your past, for doing your best to understand the behaviors involved, and after all is said and done, for being able to have some sort of relationship with both of them yet, no matter how limited it may be. I think the ability to forgive is so essential for moving forward with your life. I’m not at all sure that I could do the same in your place and I admire you for it.

Love,
Sharon

#6) Develop strategies for coping. Describe a challenging situation and your strategies for coping with it.

I was in for a happy surprise when I recently checked our bank account online and discovered quite a tidy sum of money inexplicably deposited into our checking account by our insurance company for no apparent reason. Wow--it was like hitting the lottery without buying a ticket! I quickly surmised that it had been a mistake and called to inquire; come to find out, we've been overbilled on our insurance since 2007. Not only had this deposit been made, but our insurance has been paid for until next year when it's up for renewal again.

What a nice little windfall, right at Christmas time! Now the challenge comes in. My husband and I frequently disagree about how to spend money; and a situation such as this one can really pose problems. He likes to buy things for his hot rod or motorcycle, or buy himself yet another jacket (he has a huge collection of them), or a myriad of other items. So his ideal solution would be to divide the money between us and each spend our own share however we'd like. On the other hand, I'm always wishing we had the money to fix or update various big-ticket items around the house. Our home is about 25 years old and many items are in need of a facelift. Specifically, I was thinking about the floor in our kitchen/laundry room and the ugly big crack that has developed in the doorway between the two rooms.

I debated not telling my husband about the unexpected money but knew that I couldn't get away with suddenly making a fair size home improvement without an explanation of where I got the funds! I gave it a lot of thought, and finally asked him, "If you could make one improvement to our house without worrying about the money, what would be your first priority?" He considered my question for a minute and answered, "A new kitchen floor."

Bingo! As I told him about the money and we laughed about sharing the same top priority, I was silently congratulating myself for figuring out a successful way to handle my dilemma. I had subtly and unobtrusively guided him into thinking about home improvements before he even knew about the existence of the funds, and in the process we had avoided yet another argument over money. Yep, I admit, I'm still feeling a little smug over the way I handled this. Now I'd better hurry and get that floor in before he thinks about it too much and changes his mind!

#5) Nurture social relationships. In what way do you feel connected and a part of something more meaningful?

This is where I fall short in recent years. There's nothing like a team effort toward a meaningful goal; the feeling of camaraderie and connection is so rewarding. I've been in situations like that in the past. I've written about my work in the Bunco for Breast Cancer event, and about my collaboration on writing a family history book. I've joined walks to raise funds for the March of Dimes, the American Heart Association, and Susan G. Komen. Back in my days of working for Wells Fargo, I participated in a bowling league and joined company softball teams. I enjoyed each of those situations and the social relationships they helped nurture.

Back when my daughter Julie was in grade school, there was a time when she was in both gymnastics and softball. We were frantically juggling tons of gymnastics practices, meets, softball practices and games until it got way out of control. We asked Julie to pick the activity she liked best. Being very good at both of them, it wasn't an easy decision for her to make. I found it interesting that she ultimately chose softball, and the more I thought about it, it's the activity I would have chosen also. She decided that she enjoyed the dynamics of working together as a team member in softball, as opposed to performing on her own in gymnastics.

I'd love to feel connected and be part of a team again. My work environment just doesn't foster those types of feelings. As I gathered warm clothing donations for the Fishes and Loaves Ministry downtown this Christmas, I was thanked via email by several people at Mercer who volunteer for that organization. I found myself wondering what it would be like to volunteer for a similar organization myself. Or perhaps I could start working with Darlene on compiling the second edition of our family history book. What holds me back is the feeling that I can't possibly cram one more thing into my already jam-packed days. But one day something will give, and I'll have more time to enjoy a rewarding collaborative experience once again.

#4) Practice acts of kindness. When did you recently selflessly help someone?

Gosh, my mom recently spent 9 days in the hospital and I was there for her every day but one. The day I missed was when my new granddaughter was born and I was in the labor room with my daughter. I almost feel like ALL I have been doing lately is helping others! And as I had mentioned before, I'm not always totally selfless about it. It wears me down after awhile and I come to appreciate little unexpected respites... for example, yesterday after our Christmas party at work, we were "dismissed" early for the day and I had two hours of time absolutely ALONE at home. I can't begin to express how nice that was!

Other recent acts of kindness: I bought an overpriced Christmas decoration from a lady at work because it was something her daughter had made, and the daughter is really down on her luck and trying to make ends meet so that she can buy some Christmas presents for her small children.

After my husband cleaned out his closet, I took a load of warm clothing including jackets, hats, gloves and ski bibs to the Loaves and Fishes Ministry downtown for distribution to homeless men in Macon.

I bought our Christmas dinner, a Boston Butt, from a local Boy Scout troop fundraiser.

I'm considering starting a tradition with my new granddaughter Aubree in which each December we will selected a needy child's name from a Salvation Army Christmas tree at the mall and fulfill that child's Christmas wishes. I can't wait until my granddaughter is old enough to do this with me every year!

My husband and I dropped by a co-worker's apartment after work one night to help her assemble a new vaccuum cleaner she had bought but couldn't put together. She's newly divorced, having problems with her teenage son, and this is her first Christmas as a single parent. She understandably gets frustrated when she can't figure out something like the vaccuum cleaner, and she was really grateful for the assistance.

I try to do small things to help where I can. By doing so, it makes me feel good and helps MY Christmas season merry!

#3) Avoid over-thinking and social comparison. If you compare yourself to something, compare yourself to an earlier version of yourself. What has changed?

I like this idea of measuring my personal progress against myself. I've definitely been guilty of comparing myself to others for years and years--and its usually a slippery slope that leads to resentment and self-criticism. There will always be someone smarter, prettier, or richer than I am. I'm doomed to failure if I constantly compare myself to others, but I have the capability of success if instead I compare myself to a younger me.

So how is personal growth measured?  I think most personal growth is rooted in getting to know yourself and becoming comfortable in your own skin. I also think everyone's measuring stick is probably different, based on their own fears and strengths. What seems like a monumental obstacle to one person may seem like a bump in the road or even a piece of cake to another. So the question becomes, how do I measure my own personal growth?

First off, I think I've come a long way in ceasing to be a chameleon. When I was younger, I used to take on the opinions of others without exploring my own feelings. I'd mirror the views of whoever I was with, afraid to take a stance on any issue for myself. I guess I was fearful that my viewpoint would be "wrong." I had a higher opinion of everyone else's beliefs than I had of my own. In some cases, I was afraid of offending others by speaking my mind. As I've aged, I've found my own voice and learned that my individual perspective not only counts, but it's valuable.

Another way I've grown is by not taking life so seriously. I'm able to laugh more, especially at myself. When I make a mistake, I can usually find the humor in the situation rather than punishing myself. I feel that my smiles are more genuine, and my laughs originate from a deeper place under the surface. I had someone tell me that when I laugh, it sounds like it comes from my toes. I took that as a good thing!

I measure my growth by the number of times I go out on a limb and try something new, rather than staying in the safe confines of what I already know. And even if I slip backwards or the limb breaks off from under me and I land in a heap, I refuse to stay put and I eventually try once again. I realize that if I don't take some risks and venture into the unknown, I'll never find out all that I'm capable of accomplishing.

One Monday morning I arrived at work after spending a three-day weekend at the Georgia Bike Fest with a friend. I had posted pictures from my fun weekend on Facebook. I overheard a co-worker and "Facebook friend" laughingly say, "When I grow up, I want to be Sharon." She explained herself further by saying, "She sets goals and has a lot of fun reaching them." That brief statement had a huge impact on me. It's nice when people point out the strengths they see in us, especially when we haven't really noticed them in ourselves.

Of course, if I were to graph my growth progress, it certainly wouldn't appear as a steady uphill climb. Instead, there would be lots of dips and leveling out along the way, even the occasional downhill slide. Sometimes there'd be a sharp ascent, but more often the small rises would be in halting, baby steps. But there would definitely be overall progress. I'm still working on the best version of me.

#2) Cultivate optimism. Write about a trying situation and find a way to put an optimistic spin on it.

Dealing with my mother, now 89 years old, has become a very trying situation. For awhile now she's been exhibiting signs of underlying dementia; her recent stay in the hospital has brought those symptoms more to the forefront than ever. It seems that a change in her environment and circumstances really knocks her for a loop, and for two weeks she was in the hospital and then in an assisted care situation before she could return to her familiar apartment.

Conversations with my mother are very tedious and frustrating, as she will repeat the same things three or more times. Her brain seems to work a lot more slowly than it used to, so she has trouble keeping up with the flow of a conversation and asks people to backtrack and reiterate quite frequently. She will forget who we are talking about halfway through the conversation. She's also forgotten what a lot of common words and phrases mean. The other day she asked me what a "sweet roll" is and she also asked Julie about the meaning of a "museum."  I'm sure that being both blind and hard of hearing contributes to a lot of these problems as well.

My mother also attaches a sense of urgency to every request she makes; i.e., she would prefer that I drop whatever I'm doing and do simple tasks for her NOW rather than later. This morning when I stopped by her apartment to dole out her medicine, she practically insisted that I go right at that moment to the office to check the lost and found for a black sweater that's turned up missing. I explained to her that I absolutely had to get to work and would call the office later. I could tell she wasn't happy with my answer. I've slowly learned the art of telling her "no" which is frequently very hard to do.

I often try to apply a sense of humor to the situation to keep myself positive. Sometimes I'm more successful at accomplishing this than other times! But here's a conversation that I had with my mother yesterday, and I managed to get a kick and a smile out of it:

Mom:  Have you heard from Edward Erwin recently?

(Now let me say here that a) I have no idea who Edward Erwin is; and b) I've been talking to a lady at work whose mother has Alzheimer's and she always tells me it's important not to correct them on anything or to go into any detail, to just let things ride.)

So keeping that in mind, I say:  No. I haven't, Mom.

Mom:  When's the last time you heard from him?

Me:  (Busted!)  Well, actually I've never heard from Edward Erwin, mom. I wouldn't know him if I passed him on the street.

Mom:  (looks astonished)  Really? You don't know Edward Erwin?

Me:  Nope.

Mom:  Are you sure about that?

Me:  Yep.

Mom:  Well, I'm positive you must know him. You just don't remember.

Me:  (smile)

Never a dull moment!

12 Things Happy People Do Differently #1) Express gratitude. Describe all the goodness that is already evident in your life.

When I really examine what I'm most grateful for, my appreciation centers around the people in my life.

I'm grateful for the opportunity to participate in the miracle of my granddaughter's birth. And I'm grateful for the chance to watch her grow and see the kind of person she will become.

I'm grateful for a husband who openly loves and admires me, is unafraid to show his emotions, and works hard to give us a good life.

I'm grateful for three daughters who grew up to be loving, caring, thoughtful people and often express their appreciation to me.

I'm grateful for parents who loved me unconditionally, gave me a happy childhood, always protected me from harm, and contributed heavily toward the person I am today. From my mom I got the qualities of being motivated, organized, and goal-driven. From my dad I got the qualities of compassion, a love of the outdoors, and the importance of having humor and fun in my life.

I'm so grateful for my wonderful friends and cousins who support me and are there for me through thick and thin. I've often lamented not having a sister, but I truly have friends and cousins who are close enough to be my sisters. My daughters will always refer to my best friend as "Aunt Sue" and both my cousins Janet and Marilyn call me their "little sister." I'm extremely lucky to have them in my life.

Like Charlie Brown and Snoopy below, I"m just grateful for everything!

"Never continue in a job you don't enjoy. If you're happy in what you're doing, you'll like yourself, you'll have inner peace. And if you have that, along with physical health, you will have had more success than you could possibly have imagined." ~ Johnny Carson In what way (or not) does your work reflect who you are?

I know I’ve written several times about my job. Actually, disregarding the inadequate pay, the job itself suits my talents and reflects my personality. If someone had told me several years ago that I would end up working in a university library, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash. If I could pick up my individual job and move it to a different locale, I could see myself being quite content with it.

I love the atmosphere of working on a university campus, and I enjoy reading, writing and researching, so being in a library environment is comfortable for me. My job gives me the opportunity to write on occasion and to edit—both things I like to do that satisfy a creative outlet. I’m also given the challenge of  figuring out the best way to organize materials and make them accessible either physically or via the internet to patrons.  I have the opportunity to sometimes deal with rare and valuable papers of high interest—I once organized and set up a finding aid for the papers of Judge Griffin Bell, who was the Attorney General when President Carter was in office. Among other things, there were letters from John F. Kennedy and Bobby Kennedy in the collection. There’s enough variety in what I do so that if I get tired of one thing, I can move on to another for awhile.

My main objection about my job is that I feel I don’t have the freedom to be myself personality-wise. It’s a hard thing to put my finger on, but lots of times I feel I’m too irreverent, upsetting the Southern Baptist sensibilities of many of the people around me and most certainly the management. I get the feeling that people are often looking at me like I have three heads or something, as if I’m an alien from another planet. I can think of several examples over the years.

Early on when I first started, I was working alongside the secretary to the dean on a project and I had absentmindedly misplaced a paper.  I offhandedly remarked that “I must be hallucinating, I could swear I just had that paper in my hand.”  She gave me a startled look and quickly “shushed” me, telling me I shouldn’t be making drug references around the students.  I should have informed her that it’s entirely possible to hallucinate without the help of drugs! But I was so flabbergasted, I just let it go.

Another time, I was wearing my leopard print shoes to work and my boss remarked, “You must have thought a long time before you bought those shoes.”  This was her not-so-subtle way of letting me know she disapproved of my shoes! I told her that no, I actually liked them right away! She’s the same person who almost fell through the floor when I told her we danced at my daughter’s wedding.  With an incredulous look on her face, she said, “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a wedding where there was dancing!”

At this year’s Christmas party, we were all sitting in a group eating as Christmas music played. The song “Walking in a Winter Wonderland” by Annie Lennox came on, and I remarked how much I liked the song. The dean said, “You know, I just wish the radio stations would play the traditional Christmas carols. I get so tired of hearing this secular Christmas music.”  Shot down! Apparently, only Christmas music with a religious message has any value to her.

I could go on and on, but I’m sure I’ve made my point. I’d be so much happier and at ease in an environment where I felt I could be myself without scrutiny and judgment.

"Nothing happens unless first a dream." ~ Carl Sandburg What do you see when you daydream about the future?

Well, I see an RV and lots of freedom to travel on open roads. I see no time limits anywhere and the chance to set up camp near whichever friends I feel like visiting--staying as long as I want without encroaching on their space. I see the chance to dig even further into my roots by visiting specific locations and searching for the clues and records of my elusive ancestors. I see the chance to meet up with friends for bike rides, hikes, and beach vacations without worrying if I have enough "days off."

I see the chance to explore all kinds of cool places right here in the U.S. where I've never been. I'd visit Maine for the first time and see the fall colors in New England. I'd do more hiking in my dad's old stomping grounds around Hyde Park and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in Santa Fe, NM. I'd section hike the Appalachian Trail. I'd visit my friend Jane and her husband Keith and see their home on the Puget Sound in Washington, which has been described to me as a "magical place." I'd bike through horse country in Kentucky and the hill country in Texas.

I'm open to exploring in other countries also. I'd like to visit Vancouver Island and salmon fish there with my cousin Tom and his wife Liz. I'd love to hike the Camino de Santiago in Spain with Teresa, following the footsteps of the pilgrims. I'd like to visit Giverny, France and tour the house and gardens of Claude Monet (in the spring of course). I'd like to bike in Australia and New Zealand and visit Iceland, one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen in photographs. This list is only the tip of the iceberg; the places I'd like to visit are practically endless.

In between trips, I'd come home to rejuvenate and snuggle with my grandchildren. There's my idea of the perfect retirement!

"We seem to be going through a period of nostalgia, and everyone seems to think yesterday was better than today. I don't think it was, and I would advise you not to wait ten years before admitting today was great. If you're hung up on nostalgia, pretend today is yesterday and just go out and have one hell of a time." ~ Art Buchwald What are you feeling nostalgic about?

It's Christmas time and true to form, a wave of nostalgia typically washes over me for Christmases past. As I was wrapping presents over the weekend, I vividly recalled one Christmas in particular when I was about 14 years old. I received several gifts that I had really wished for, including a skirt and sweater set that I had my eye on, a purse that I wanted (my first purse with a shoulder strap), and the Meet the Monkees record album. Life was sweet and I was totally happy. There's a picture of me sitting in front of the Christmas tree holding these items, wearing my dark-rimmed, cat-eye glasses with my hair in a perfect flip. Geek city! But it still makes me smile. :-)

One memorable Christmas was spent at my parents' home in Arizona with my brother's family, when all our kids were little. Due to the number of people in the house, we were sleeping all over the place. Rich's bed was a pull-out, single-size couch in the den, where he had a clear view of the living room with the stockings hung on the fireplace and the present-laden tree. He was awakened before daybreak on Christmas morning by the sounds of whispering childrens' voices and opened his eyes to find them all about to delve into their stockings. In his typically booming voice, he called out, "What are you doing? You need to wait until everybody's up before you look in your stockings!" He scared them half to death and they all scampered back to the bedrooms. Later, Mike and Sally told him that they traditionally let the kids check out their stockings before the adults were up yet at their house. Chuckles! Whitney and Rex both still remember Uncle Rich scaring them that Christmas morning!

As I wrapped my Christmas present for my friend Lynn this year, I became nostalgic about Lake Elsinore days when we lived next door to Lynn and Clark. Lynn and I and the kids used to spend quite a bit of time together when our husbands were both working at night. I began thinking about the brief period one Christmas time when Clark's band decided to play country music instead of rock. Lynn and I got a video to teach us how to line dance and were practicing after we put the kids to bed. Of course, being us, we began to act as though we had a pretend bullwhip. When Rich pulled up in the driveway after work, he could see our shadows moving behind the blinds in the front window and wondered what the heck we were doing! Good times! I sure miss those days.

As I addressed Christmas cards to my friends Sue and Joy, I had memories of Christmases past with them as well. When Joy and I were kids and next door neighbors in Michigan, we "helped" my mom make cut-out Christmas cookies one year. My mom remembers that it took hours and hours--way longer than it would have taken if we hadn't been "helping." But we were having such a good time giggling as we frosted and decorated those cookies that she said she wouldn't have hurried along the process for anything. Much later when Joy and I were roommates in California with a third friend named Laura, we all spent another Christmas together. Laura had recently been home to visit her dad, stepmom and their children. Her parents had divorced years before, her dad had a brand new family, and she felt like the odd woman out. She was thrilled when a package arrived at our house from her dad. She said that it was the first Christmas present she had received from him in years, and she proudly placed it under the tree. On Christmas morning, she was so disappointed to find that he was merely mailing back something she had forgotten at his house when she was visiting. I remember how sad I felt for her.

I spent many Christmases with my friend Sue over the years, but one in particular stands out in my memory.She and I had just moved to California a few months prior, we'd been living in her parents' condo in Rancho Palos Verdes, and it was my first warm, sunny Christmas--i.e., it just didn't feel at all like the holidays I had come to know and love. Sue's family were all gathered 'round on Christmas Day, and I was feeling somewhat homesick. I was so touched and surprised when all of them, including her sister Carol and her cousin John, had a Christmas present for me. Later in the evening after a big meal, we drank wine and played Charades. It was a lot of kooky, quirky fun and I ended up having a great and festive time, thanks to her welcoming family.

"When one door closes another door opens, but we so often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us." ~ Alexander Graham Bell What door is opening for you?

I've put off answering this question for a long time and I still don't know what to write about. I guess I kind of disagree with the basic premise that doors open for us, or that opportunity knocks. Those beliefs presume that good things just fall in our laps. That happens on rare occasions, but more often than not we need to create our opportunities. We need to knock a doorway out of a wall rather than simply watch a door swing ajar like magic. I was just looking at quotes about opportunity and found one by Thomas Edison which sums up what I think about doors opening for us and opportunity knocking:  "Opportunity is missed by most people because it's dressed in overalls and looks like work."

So then the question becomes, what doors am I opening for myself?  And that's where I'm stumped.

I suppose I'm doing some prep work so that I can open some doors in the future. For example, I'm working on paying off bills to be ready for retirement. I'm working on making plans and creating lists about all the things I want to do when I retire. Things I want to learn, hikes I want to take, places I want to visit, sights I want to see. Thinking about where I want to live.

The problem is that right now I feel caught in limbo, frustrated by the waiting game. Tired of the prep work and wanting to get started on the actual doing. Am I so completely enveloped in the anticipation of things to come that I'm missing doors I could be opening and opportunities I could be taking advantage of in the meantime???

Now that's a really good question to ponder.

How are you affected by the changing of the seasons?

The changing of the seasons is vital to my psyche and I'm greatly affected by them, mostly in a good way. I find it amazing how the flip of a calendar page can alter my mood. I truly missed the changing seasons when I lived in California for 20+ years.

I feel full of promise and excitement with the arrival of spring. It's a time for starting new projects. I'm exhilirated when I wheel my bike out of the garage and dust off the cobwebs for that first spring ride. Spring in Macon, Georgia is absolutely breath-taking when the camellias, wisteria and flowering fruit trees burst into a plethora of color. The frothy white  cherry blossoms remind me of fluffy clouds and the pink cherry blossoms look like mouth-watering cotton candy. Spring in the South is a sight to behold.

Those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer.... summer is a season full of frolic and self-indulgence. Digging my toes into the warm sand of the beach and taking naps in the sun. Sipping on lemonade and biting into a juicy watermelon. Picnics and barbecues. Meeting friends for carefree, week-long bike rides, aka adult summer camp. Summer involves traveling, socializing and outdoor fun, all activities I love.

Fall is my favorite season and it makes me feel nostalgic and sentimental. Fall used to mean shopping for new school clothes. It reminds me of my home state of Michigan and the glorious, blazing colors of fall foliage. It reminds me of my grandparents' apple orchard, cider mills, and hot apple cider.  Fall is a time for reminiscing. My daughter's wedding was in October and I found myself sitting there thinking of her as a little girl and wondering where the time had gone.

Winter is a mixed bag for me. On the one hand, it's the magical excitement of Christmas. It's a warm, comforting and cozy time of fires in the fireplace and hot chocolate. It's the beauty of lacy, white frost on the windowpanes. My granddaughter was born in December and it's a time of snuggling with a sleeping baby. On the other hand, winter is full of long, gray days that can be depressing and fatiguing. I've been known to sink into the winter blues, and I think a lot of it has to do with the lack of light. I'm definitely a person who enjoys the sunlight; it lifts my moods. I'm sure that one of the reasons I've had such a hard time adjusting to our life here in the South has to do with the darkness of our house, and the fact that my job is in a windowless office. Light is equivalent to joy for me. It's always nice when the long winter gives way to the promise of a new spring.

Have you ever been a part of a trial or legal proceedings? What role or position did you play?

It's hard to believe, but I've never been a juror or part of any legal trial in my life. I was summoned for jury duty only one time, but it came at a really inopportune time as far as my job went and my boss wrote an excuse for me. I'd actually welcome the experience, though. I'd love to see how the judicial system works firsthand. I wouldn't even mind serving as a juror in a big trial; I think the challenge of arriving at a unanimous and well-thought-out verdict would be a valuable education in itself. I tend to be critical of our judicial system at times (i.e., the O.J. Simpson trial and the Casey Anthony trial), but I have a feeling that if I had firsthand experience, I might regain a healthy respect for how the system works.

The power of words... What is the role that language plays in your physical, mental, and spiritual health?

The last time I had my eyes tested, my opthamologist asked how my mother was doing, remarking that blindness is probably the most devastating disability. In thinking about that statement, I realize that even without the senses of sight or hearing, we can still have families and friends, get an education, and hold a job. But what if we were unable to learn a language? We'd have no social existence at all, which would be far more isolating and lonely.

Words are the building blocks for communities, businesses, and all social networks. There's no question that words have the power to persuade and to convey emotion. Positive words are therapeutic and can inspire, comfort, encourage, and bolster self-confidence. On the other hand, negative words are powerful weapons used to bully, cut down, heighten anxiety, and abuse. All of these types of words profoundly affect the mental and spiritual health of both the person doing the communicating and the recipient. I'm convinced that language can even affect our physical beings. I've learned over the years that lying causes a lot of stress and can definitely have negative health effects; whereas humor causes laughter and the release of endorphins-- a health benefit. I can't count the number of times that a genuine belly laugh has physically made me feel so much better!

Verbal or written communication and body language also greatly impact the way the communicator is perceived. Just ask any human resources director interviewing prospective employees. One of the highest compliments I was ever paid came from my daughters' high school principal, who told me during a conference that I came across as a very sincere person. In the long run, she didn't adopt the policy I was promoting, but at least she took the time to really listen to me. She knew that I was truly looking for the best solution and was behind my suggestion 100% of the way.

Last but certainly not least, language can be a highly creative and cathartic tool, allowing me to explore and express myself, as I'm doing in this blog. I can imagine a life without sight; I witness that every day. But I can't imagine a life without language.

What or who have you forgotten?

A social studies teacher who both my daughters had in high school died recently of cancer, and they were upset to hear about it because he had been one of their favorite teachers. It made me realize how many teachers I have forgotten about over the years. Except for the few that were either exceptionally good or horribly bad, I have no memory of most of my teachers. In my mind, most of them fall into a pile of nondescript faces and forgotten names.

I remember all the names of my elementary school teachers and I have a general idea of how I felt about each of them, but only two really stand out. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Joy, had such a convoluted way of teaching subtraction that she had me totally confused. She also sat me way at the back of the classroom, and at the time none of us realized that I needed glasses yet. I had always done well in school but that third-grade year was pretty much a disaster. The only good thing I remember about Mrs. Joy was that she introduced me to the Boxcar Children books!  I went on to having Mrs. Hoyt in 4th grade, who was my most beloved grade school teacher. That was the year I spent a month in the hospital when I knelt down on a sewing needle and had to have it surgically removed from my knee. Mrs. Hoyt was sweet and encouraging, allowing me to take my time making up my school work, and she finally told me to forget about having to make it all up because I was already miles ahead of most of the other kids. I remember that I wrote a poem about her and gave it to her, I liked her so much.

Sadly, I only remember the bad teachers in junior high school. Mrs. Gingerich, the Latin teacher, was tough and intimidating for the most part. She had little unflattering nicknames for most of us and refused to call us by our real names. Leslie Edgar and I were both "the black haired girls."  Hmmm. Mr. Shoebridge, the English teacher, was the one who handed out our report cards. He would read our grades out loud to the whole class and comment on them before handing over the card. I wonder how that would fly in today's classrooms? The worst at humiliation, however, was Mr. Wilcox, the science teacher. After each test he would have us all line up along the walls of the classroom. He'd call out the name of the person who had the lowest grade on the test, and they had to sit in the front row by the classroom door. On he'd go until the person who had the highest grade was sitting in the last row in the seat by the windows. Each and every time, the same girl, Kitty, would get the lowest grade. She was a quiet girl who would study hard, but she just didn't have what it took. Her face would turn bright red as she sat down in that first seat in utter embarrassment and shame. Even at the time, it made me angry and resentful to witness it. Now I can't believe that such a thing was allowed to happen over and over again.

In high school, the geometry teacher Mrs. Russell was a definite bright spot. It was the one math class I actually liked and did well in because of her attitude and the exceptional way she taught. I heard later that she died of cancer soon after I left high school; she would have been only middle-aged when she died. Such a sad waste of a great teacher. The rest of my high school teachers kind of fade into the woodwork except for the Spanish teacher, Mrs. Petrini. She had so little control over the classroom that I remember one day when some kids were dancing on top of the desks. She'd literally break down in tears in front of the classroom. Several times the principal came in and sat in the room, and of course everyone was quiet when he was there. I felt sorry for her but at the same time I wondered why she continued on when it was clear that she wasn't cut out to be a high school teacher!

Sadly, I don't remember one single college professor! I have vague recollections of one of my psychology professors who I asked to write a letter of recommendation for me when I was thinking of going to grad school. He was a young and enthusiastic professor and he wrote a very nice letter. But I can't even remember his name now!

How unfortunate it is that I have so few teachers in my life who made good and lasting impressions on me. I can only hope that my daughters were luckier in this area. I'll have to ask them!

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best." ~ Marilyn Monroe Embrace your worst self today. 10 minutes. Write.

I had put off answering this question for awhile, but today seems to be the perfect day for it. I'm ready to let it all hang out here. I just came off an 11-day Christmas break and it's the first day back at work. Coming down from the weekends is tough enough for me--I seem to have a hard time sleeping on Sunday nights anticipating the work week ahead. But the recovery from long vacations and holidays is even rougher. I love my long Christmas breaks, but I sure do get used to spending the days how I want to spend them and not having to account to anyone else.

So, yeah, I'm at my worst today. I'm cranky, irritable, resentful, and bitter. Rather than being grateful for the time off, I'm just wishing I could retire. Hasn't 35 years been long enough to work? Long enough to have given the majority of my time and practically my soul to an employer? I'm 58 years old now, why is it that I'm still answering to someone else and having to show up at 8:00 am to a job that I really don't care about? To sit for 8 hours in windowless offices where I don't know whether it's a beautiful sunny day or if there's a monsoon raging outside? Working for a miniscule salary that a teenager might make in another part of the country--the same salary that I made in 1979 in California? Earning wages that don't reflect the fact that I have a degree and have been employed for 35 years? Come on!

Luckily, I can put on a friendly face to my fellow employees and converse with them about our Christmas vacations like all is right in my world. I mean, it's not their fault. Most of them are in their 30s and 40s so their working lives aren't nearly as long as mine is right now and they aren't quite as burned out yet. And most of them have never worked anywhere else other than middle Georgia and they don't know that they're paid pauper's wages.

Before I left the house this morning I asked my husband (who's home sick with a cold) how much longer we have to wait until we retire. After he finished chuckling, he said that at best it will be another two years. *sigh*  I'm ready now. I'm tired. I've paid my dues and deserve my freedom at long last!

OK, I've let out the ugly stuff now and I do feel better!

What do you know about mental illness?

I watched someone deteriorate from mental illness up close and personal one time. Our neighbors in Lake Elsinore, Barb and Randy, were a young couple in their 30s trying to have their first child. Barb had a number of miscarriages and understandably, they threw her into debilitating depressions, but she'd snap out of it eventually and try again. Finally, they became pregnant with Amanda and bedrest was ordered throughout most of the pregnancy to prevent another miscarriage. Barb successfully brought Amanda to full term and they were supremely happy for a brief period after their baby girl was born.

However, it wasn't long before my next door neighbor Lynn and I began noticing some disturbing changes in Barb. She would hole up in her house for days at a time, leaving the shades drawn and not even coming to the door when the mailman rang the doorbell. Randy would come home from work and would hang outside for awhile talking to us but Barb rarely joined him. He confided to Lynn and I that he thought Barb was going through severe postpartum depression. He said that he'd often enter the house after work and Amanda would be crying in her crib in a wet diaper while Barb was lying in bed. Every once in awhile, though, Barb would surprise us and emerge from the house bright and happy with Amanda in her arms, chattering non-stop. I remember having a garage sale and Barb came over, bought a lot of my stuff and stayed for a couple of hours, talking incessantly. We all began seriously wondering if she was becoming manic-depressive.

One scary night things went haywire at their house across the street. Barb was screaming and literally chasing Randy down the sidewalk with a rake. There was a huge commotion and nobody could seem to get her calmed down, including her mother Sharon who was visiting. The police were called, and Barb claimed that Randy had shoved her down and hurt her. Somehow, she got her mother to confirm her false claim (I think Sharon was afraid of Barb at that point). Randy was handcuffed and taken to jail. After he was released and came back home the next day, things quickly began falling apart. Barb would disappear for days at a time, leaving Sharon to take care of Amanda while Randy was working. Nobody knew where she was or what she was doing while she was gone. When she'd show up back at home, Sharon begged her to go to a doctor and get diagnosed, and perhaps get some medication to help her. She refused.

One day she came careening up the street in her car, brakes squealing as she screeched to a halt in their driveway. Wild-eyed, she told us that one of Randy's friends had been tailing her and had tried to kill her. Another night she went over to Lynn's house and asked Lynn's husband Clark to check out the phones in their house. She was just sure that Randy was bugging their phones.

Barb began occasionally showing up at the house during the day while Randy was gone with a boyfriend in tow. One night I happened to be outside when she and the boyfriend snuck up to the house, opened the garage door with a crow bar, and began hot-wiring Randy's car. Randy heard noises in the garage, opened the door and began yelling, and they ran away. Later when court proceedings began for Randy to get full custody of Amanda, a lawyer came to my house to get a statement from me about what I had witnessed that night.

One day I saw Barb pull up in front of the house in their RV, which Randy had already agreed she could take. She entered the house and began to frantically ransack it, loading whatever possessions she could carry into the RV. All sort of things were coming out of that house, including Amanda's toys and even the curtains from Amanda's bedroom. Half empty paint cans were carted out of the garage into the RV. There was no "rhyme or reason" to the things she was taking. I didn't want Randy to come home with Amanda that night not knowing what had happened and facing a half-empty house. I didn't have Randy's phone number at work, so I called another neighbor who knew how to reach him. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to get in touch with Randy until after Barb had finished what she was doing and had driven away.

She later parked the RV on the street in front of the house for several days. She didn't do any damage or threaten anyone, but we were all sure worried! We could hear her inside, bizarrely strumming a guitar and singing. It was during this time that she stabbed herself in the forearm with a pair of scissors and claimed that Randy had done it. This time the police didn't believe her. She was descending into pure madness at a fast pace, and it seemed that nobody could do anything about it.

A few weeks later, on New Year's Eve night when Randy and Amanda were gone, Barb and her new boyfriend drove by the house and threw rocks through all the front windows of the home, hollering as they did it. Later, I heard that she pulled up in front of the office building where Randy worked and threw a brick through the plate glass window of the building.

Randy eventually gained full custody of Amanda and the judge ruled that Barb could only see her daughter if the visits were supervised and she passed drug tests beforehand. Most of the time, she refused to comply with these conditions, so she rarely saw her baby. Eventually, Barb simply faded away and disappeared. Her mother stayed close to Amanda, often babysitting for Randy. Neither of them knew what happened to Barb or where she was living, and Amanda, who is now in her early 20s, grew up never seeing her mother again. The last I heard, none of them knew if Barb was dead or alive.

I think that's really my only contact with mental illness, and quite a scary and sad story it is.

What do you know about betrayal?

I remember feeling very betrayed by a friend of mine in junior high and high school named Denise. We had been good friends, spent time at each other's houses, had sleepovers, and all the typical things that teenage girls do. However, in the 11th grade Denise acquired a boyfriend who belonged to a group of guys known as the "greasers." She began dressing differently, wearing lots of eye makeup, and hanging out with a different crowd. Suddenly, our group of friends didn't seem to matter to her anymore. Specifically, I remember walking into a girls' bathroom one day between classes, and she was standing in front of the mirror brushing her hair. She didn't even acknowledge my presence and walked right past me without saying a word, as though she didn't know me. I suddenly felt "not good enough" anymore. It sounds silly and petty now, but I vividly remember how much it hurt at the time.

Denise and her boyfriend eventually broke up, and we were friends again. I let her off the hook by never discussing what happened or expressing my feelings. Looking back, that was awfully generous of me! As an adult, I realize that behavior like that is common among teenagers who are trying to figure themselves out and "find their way." Denise and I are still in touch even now. But every time I think of her, I recall that incident and how it made me feel. I wonder if she remembers?

Fight or Flight? Describe a situation when you opted to leave or flee.

I've chosen to flee many times. More times than I'd care to admit, actually. Yep, I'm a fona fide, natural born chicken! The most recent time I fled was from a job application. My friend over at the university's medical school had told me about an upcoming job and encouraged me to apply. I filled out and submitted the online job application, but weeks went by and I heard nothing. I knew that due to budget cuts, job openings were being scrutinized carefully and not all of them were being filled.

I began talking myself out of the job, and in doing so came up with lots of excuses. I figure I have about two years left before I retire; is it really worth it to learn a new job at this point? My mom's health is precarious; how can I take on a new job with the very real possibility of immediately needing to take time off? (This excuse would have come true; my mom is currently hospitalized and I've needed to take a number of days off.) And now for the real crux of the matter:  I've already unsuccessfully interviewed for two other campus jobs and I honestly question my ability to both relate and appeal to the prevalent Southern Baptist culture on campus--i.e., maybe I was lucky to get the job I have. Could my morale and confidence really take the beating of a third rejection?

You guessed right--I withdrew my application. A week later, I heard from my disappointed friend that I had truly been "in the running" for the job and on the interview list. Two weeks later someone else had the job. I'm still not sold on it being the right thing for me to pursue in this time and space, but the fact remains that I fled.

Fight or Flight? Describe a situation where you opted to stay and fight.

When we first moved to Georga in 1999, I quickly became horrified at some things I found out about the Bibb County school system. They still practice corporal punishment here and send home a form at the beginning of each new school year asking for parents' permission to paddle the children for infractions--even in high school. Needless to say, I didn't give my permission. It wasn't long before I also discovered that the dropout rate hovers right around a whopping 50%. I could hardly believe that, but I took note of the size of both my daughters' high school classes when they entered 9th grade as opposed to when they graduated as seniors, and sure enough their classes had shrunk by about half in a mere four years.

I had to fight many battles on behalf of both my daughters and even some of their friends during their high school days. I won't go into all of them here. The most ridiculous one was when  my daughter Julie was cited for breaking the rule about wearing "outerwear" in the classroom and was sent home for wearing a cardigan sweater! When I complained, the principal, Ms. Perkins, told me her teacher had "gone overboard with the rule." I'd say so! The most heart-breaking battle was when my daughter Michelle's friend was prohibited from walking with the rest of her class at graduation, because she had failed the comprehensive science test given at the end of their senior year. The last science class she had taken was in 9th grade and she really disliked the subject, but she was committed to studying and was slated to take the next comprehensive test the following month, which she then passed. In refusing to let her graduate with the rest of her class, the administration took away every ounce of pride she had instead of treating her with the respect she deserved as one of the 50% who had actually stayed in school! I ended up writing a letter to the editor of the local paper about the situation. My letter was published, but still the administration didn't budge. A year later, the policy was changed. I doubt I was the only person who spoke out!

The time that I got the most involved with the "rules" of the high school was regarding their late policy. When the kids were late to school in the morning, they had to report to the gym, miss their entire first period class and get zeros for that class. First off, that's no punishment for kids who don't want to be in school anyway and will soon be part of the 50% dropout rate. Secondly, it's an over-the-top punishment for the devoted students who actually want to be in school and may have a legitimate excuse for being late. One morning it was pouring down rain as I took Julie to school and we waited outside in a big traffic jam. On the way, we passed by another poor girl who was sitting on the shoulder of the road with a flat tire.

As the minutes ticked away, we both knew Julie would be late and would not only miss the test she had in her first period history class, but receive a 0 for it. I let Julie off at the front of the school and then parked my car, ready to go in and do battle. Entering the office, I asked to speak to a vice principal, and told him I wanted my daughter out of the gym and in her first period class getting her education, where she belonged. He agreed to do so "this one time" but stated that if I had a problem with the policy, I needed to talk to the principal.  I assured him I would be doing just that. I watched as Julie was escorted out of the gym and into her class. In the meantime, the girl with the flat tire arrived in the office, dripping wet. She explained what had happened but was told she had to report to the gym unless she "had a witness." I vouched for her, so they permitted her to go to class. She turned to me and mouthed "thank you" as she left the office. I truly wondered what kind of a school it was to assume that the students are lying to the administrators 100% of the time!

I had been talking to my friend in California who also had high school age kids, and she was really happy with the school they attended. In their school, those students with unexcused tardies had to miss their lunchroom time with their friends and instead sat in a supervised classroom and ate their lunch in silence. My friend told me it was a very effective deterrent and had cut way down on tardiness at the school, because high school age kids hate to miss their lunch "social hour" with their friends. I explained this policy to Ms. Perkins and she agreed to speak on the phone with the California principal. They had a lengthy conversation and Ms. Perkins later sent me an email and thanked me for "taking an interest" but added that "their policy wouldn't work in our school system."  No further explanation. End of subject.

I guess you can't win all your battles, no matter how hard you try!

#5) I wish that I had let myself be happier.

There's definitely a period of time when I would have benefitted greatly if only I had found a way to be happier, and my happiness would have immensely helped my family as well. When we first moved to Georgia from California, I fell into a huge depression. I thought I had prepared myself mentally for the move. It was a decision that was my idea to start with. Since my husband and I had both lost our jobs in California, I felt it was the perfect time to make a clean break. My husband had been offered a job here, and I was hoping that the move would expose my daughters, 11 and 8 years old at the time, to a new culture and a different way of life. I wanted them to grow up experiencing a variety of lifestyles and this would be a great opportunity to do just that.

What I wasn't prepared for was the close-mindedness of a small Southern town, and the difficulty of breaking into a social life in a place where the inhabitants basically distrust people from "the outside." I know I've already written about our attempt to have a party the first Christmas we lived here, and only three people showed up. There were very real, almost palpable vibes given off by the native Maconites that we just didn't belong here. I've had long discussions about it with other "newbies" to the area since then, and they've picked up on the same feelings.

I vividly recall one of the first school outings that I attended with my daughters at the local roller rink. I sat observing as my oldest daughter, Michelle, who was always the more shy and reserved of the two girls, circled around and around the rink by herself. I watched as Julie, the more self-confident of the two, approached a small group of girls in her class and began talking to them. One by one, each girl turned her back and skated off, leaving Julie standing there alone. I could see the puzzled look on her face, and I began asking myself what we had done by moving away from our familiar, comfortable surroundings--and more importantly, what had we done to our daughters?

My mind whirled and my emotions eventually overcame me, so I called to the girls and told them it was time to leave. They didn't mind; neither of them was having much fun anyway. As they took their skates off, I hid my tears from them. I didn't realize I was being watched until a woman came over and asked me if something was wrong. To this day I don't know who she was, but there was true concern evident in her kind expression. I simply told her I'd be OK. She asked if I was sure, and I said yes. I wish so much that I had confided in her--who knows, perhaps she was in the same boat or maybe she had been in a similar situation in the past. At the least, she might have sympathized and turned out to be a new friend. But at the time I didn't want the girls to see how "broken" I was and I just wanted to leave that place. So I brushed her off with brief, vague answers.

It all ended up OK and my daughters now tell me they're glad we moved here. They're each happy with their partners and their lives. But I probably went through a heavy depression for somewhere between a year to two years. I'd have to say that I've never completely adjusted myself. Admittedly, I'd still rather live elsewhere and I toy with the idea of moving away when we retire. However, I'm conflicted knowing that my oldest daughter Michelle and her family will definitely settle here. I guess time will tell what we decide to do.

#4) I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

I've always been pretty good at staying in touch with friends, as it's very important to me. But there's one case in which I let a friendship lapse by simply losing contact, and I really regret it.

I met my friend George when I worked in Rocky Mountain Park during the summer of 1975. He was a very outgoing guy who made friends easily, and he became the boyfriend of one of my good friends there, Teresa. Our little group of friends would always plan to have the same days off in order to hike and camp together. We did lots of partying during those crazy Grand Lake days, and George was always the life of every party. Everyone liked him.

When the summer was drawing to a close, George was returning to school at the Univ. of Colorado in Boulder and I was at loose ends, having already graduated from college the previous spring. I had checked into the Univ. of Colorado and thought I might move to Boulder and attend graduate school there. George, another co-worker named Janet and I decided that we would get an apartment together in Boulder. We lived there together from the fall of 1975 through the spring of 1976... for the entire school year. I was working in a pizza parlor and studying for the GRE. We had a lot of fun times together in that apartment on University Avenue in Boulder. During that time, George began calling me "Shrun," a nickname that still sticks today. I met his parents and all three of his siblings when they came to Boulder at various times for visits, and I supported George during a very difficult time when his parents were going through a rough patch in their marriage and had temporarily separated.

My plans for graduate school never materialized, and after leaving Boulder I eventually wound up in Rancho Palos Verdes, CA with my friend Sue and her parents. Coincidentally, that's where George's parents lived as well, and the condo where I lived with the Burkes was literally next door to the neighborhood his parents lived in at Abalone Cove. George was still in school that year so he wasn't home often, but I remember getting together with him over Christmas break. Teresa came out to see him and we all went sailing together on his dad's sailboat.

After his graduation, George moved to San Francisco with our friend Jan, and I visited them a couple of times up there with Steve, my boyfriend at the time. The last time I saw George, he dropped in on Steve and I in Fox Hills with his sister Page. He and I had a good ol' time reminiscing about our escapades in Rocky Mountain Park and Boulder together that day. That was sometime in the early 1980s.

I lost track of George after that. He and Teresa finally broke up for good after having an on-again, off-again relationship for a number of years. I moved around a lot and so did he. We both were married and had children. I had no idea where he was living anymore and vice versa. In fact, I temporarily lost track of everyone from our Rocky Mountain Park group of friends during that time--including Jan, Jane and Teresa.

It wasn't until October of 2006 that Jan reconnected with me again through email. I was stunned and sad beyond belief when he told me that George had suffered from ALS, or Lou Gehrig's Disease, over the past few years, and had recently passed away. George had become a well-known person in the telecommunications business, his obit appeared in the Washington Post, and he left his wife and four daughters well-fixed in a nice home in Maryland. Before he died, George wrote goodbye letters to many of his friends over the years; Jane and Jan have both shared their letters with me. I so regret having lost contact with him. I would have cherished that last chance to tell him how much his friendship meant to me.

In 2009 the James family sold the Grand Lake Lodge, where we all lived together while we worked in Rocky Mountain Park. There was a big reunion held for the employees who had worked there over the years. I didn't find out about it until after the fact, and from what I hear, our particular summers of employment (1974 & 1975) were not well represented at all. I know it would have been very different if George had lived. He would have made absolutely sure that we all gathered together in Grand Lake for one last party.

RIP George, I love you.

#3) I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

Wow, how many times has this happened? A countless number, I'd imagine. I've gotten better about it, but in the past I was really reticent about expressing my feelings, especially the most emotional ones. I still wish I had spoken up the time when we had just moved to Georgia and I had a mini-breakdown at the roller rink watching my girls being ignored by their new classmates. I missed familiar people and places so much and was moved to tears as I questioned myself about what in the world we had done by moving our girls clear across the country. A kind woman spotted me and came over to ask what was wrong. I just couldn't open up to her at the time, and I brushed her off by vaguely answering, "Oh, it's nothing, I'll be OK."

Many times I've been so taken aback by a situation that I couldn't process the information fast enough to adequately put my feelings into appropriate words. One time in California I overheard one of my neighbors say that she didn't like her kids to play at my house because she felt that I didn't watch them well enough. This was a woman whose kids would show up at my house to play with my daughters uninvited, usually creating havoc in the process. Her son would ring the doorbell and boldly ask me for drinks and snacks. I was flabbergasted at her remark but couldn't trust myself to approach her and respond without anger. So I let the moment go and never did address it.

And then of course there are those times when I DID express my feelings, only to desperately wish I hadn't after it was too late. I remember the time I told my mom that my brother and I hadn't spoken to each other for a couple of years. I hadn't planned on divulging this information to her, but I blurted it out once when she asked one too many times if I had heard from Mike lately. I knew it was a mistake immediately as a troubled look crossed her face and she sharply asked me, "Why?" I responded in the simplest of terms, leaving out the details, and she didn't ask for them. The interesting thing was that a week or two later, she asked once again if I had heard lately from Mike, as though we never had that conversation. I'm not sure if her dementia was kicking in or if she had truly blocked out information that was painful for her. We never spoke about it again.

I've debated the problem of handling someone who's being rude without coming off as rude myself. I was once talking to a co-worker in my office when another co-worker came in and began whispering in her ear. I honestly don't think that had happened to me since junior high school days. My first instinct was to ask, "Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to whisper in front of someone?" but I decided I'd be sinking down to her level. Instead I jokingly remarked, "If that's something juicy I wish you'd tell me too!" She looked at me straight-faced and said, "No, nothing juicy." Wow, my attempt at pointing out her rude, childish behavior apparently went right over her head! In hindsight, I guess I shouldn't have been too surprised.

Then there's the problem of thinking quickly enough to respond to deliberate zingers. There's nothing worse than standing there dumbfounded, your mind drawing a blank and your open mouth catching flies as you wait for a streak of brilliance to hit. So often the perfect comeback finally develops in my brain long after the train has left the station. Like the time I was wearing my leopard print heels at work and my boss remarked, "You must have thought a long time before you bought those shoes."  Ouch!  The answer I gave her was probably the safest and most honest: "No, actually I liked them right away!" But later I had to chuckle as I pictured her standing in front of me as she made that remark, wearing her red turtleneck sweater tucked into the high waistband of her jeans that came up almost to her boobs. I imagined myself cattily retorting, "Probably as long as it took you to buy those jeans back in 1975."  Meow!

#2) I wish I didn't work so hard.

This is one regret that I don't have. Even though I've worked for the majority of my adult life, I've almost always been lucky enough to find a good balance and devote time to my family as well. When Michelle was a baby, I was very privileged to find Darlene, a full-time sitter who became Michelle's second mother. Michelle called her "Dee" and twenty-four years later they are still close, keeping in touch through Facebook. In spite of the fact that Darlene moved several times, we followed her through two Southern California counties and kept her as a babysitter, sometimes going to great lengths and traveling for miles in order to do so!

When Julie came along, I had begun working as a part-time consultant for Wells Fargo Alarms, and I could pick the days I wanted to work. I could work around babysitter's schedules, school programs, and most anything else that came up. I honestly don't think there was ever a time that my family felt I was away at work and unavailable to them to any great extent.

That's not to say that I didn't have times when I wished I was with my children rather than working! I remember one day in particular when Michelle was somewhere around 2 years old, and I was picking her up at Darlene's house after work. Darlene was watching several other children at the time, and Michelle was having a great time playing outside with the kids. Then I drove up to take her away from all the fun. She wasn't a happy camper to say the least! Darlene had a girlfriend over at the time and they were watching from the front porch as I attempted to strap a kicking, screaming Michelle into her car seat. All the while, Michelle was hollering, "I want to stay with Dee! I want to play!"  I was ready to cry myself as I tried not to feel rejected by my own child! Darlene told me later that she felt so bad for both Michelle and me. Not one of my finer moments!

Another day I remember well was Julie's graduation from pre-school. I'd been working in Redondo Beach for the previous couple of days, and I was just getting home in time to attend the graduation. Rich was in charge of getting Julie ready and taking her to the ceremony. As I sat down in the audience, I noticed that all the little girls were dressed to the hilt in their "Sunday best" dresses, except for my daughter. To my embarrassment, Julie was wearing a pair of black shorts and a black T-shirt. There she stood with a huge, proud grin on her face, a mortarboard on her head and the tassle waving in her face. She gave me an excited wave as she saw me enter, totally oblivious and uncaring about the fact that she wasn't dressed up like the other girls. I have to admit, I had some twinges of thinking "I should have been here to help get her ready," but I realized that the important thing was how happy and proud she was. So I shoved aside worrying about what the other parents might be thinking and smiled right along with her. Later when I asked my husband about it, he got defensive saying, "Well, that's what she picked out to wear!" *sigh*  A typical man answer!

But I have to admit, I chuckle when I think about these isolated incidents today. I really don't have any serious regrets about working too hard.