Somebody asked me the other day, "Are you happy?"
Without thinking, I responded, "Content. Content is good. I am grateful for content."
Content -- ". . . satisfied with what one has or is, not wanting more or anything else."
Happy -- " . . . delighted, pleased, or glad as over a particular thing." Webster
I stand corrected, God. I am happy, not content. Content is definitely not the American way. I'm reminded of the television commercial of a young man riding a bike, saying he got the inspiration or goal of owning a bicycle shop while riding a bike. Then he says when a goal is met, we make another. Now that's the American way. Being happy with the status quo keeps one from being miserable over stuff we don't have. Being content with it, on the other hand, is to give up growth and progress and goal seeking. To be content is to atrophy emotionally.
It is being a little discontent that keeps us striving and the world twirling. It is the stuff behind inventions. It motivates us to get off our behinds and strive again. It's not just trying to keep up with the Joneses. It's trying to better oneself.
Now competition with oneself -- that is the key to true internal success. How can I make myself better today than I was yesterday?
Some endeavors, such as sports, have stats that show the fastest mile run or the tallest mountain climbed. But when there are no existing statistics to motivate us to achieve -- much less anybody recording our efforts -- how can we measure our own selves? We set up a competition with ourselves. We walked one mile today, how about more tomorrow? We wrote three articles this week, how about four next week? If I can clear three shelves today, I can certainly do more tomorrow.
Goal setting and fulfilling is the stuff that keeps us thriving. It is what makes us human.
No God, I am not content after all. I will settle now for happy.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Friday, August 9, 2013
Encourage Their Dreams
It's strange how the smallest of events can affect our futures for "forever". I haven't been a very competitive individual since elementary school. This is partly due to being more of a reactive than proactive type. It tends to show in my taking a seat in the back row of the classroom and attempting to make myself small during class participation. It shows in my too relaxed attitude about grades.
Most probably it pertains to getting the fight knocked right out of me at an early age. There was no one thing that caused my reticence to thirst for the jugular, but one event does remain toward the top of the list.
While in high school, I was very active in my church. I have memory of the pastor's wife and one of our girl's group leaders orchestrating me into leadership roles. I would like to think they were fostering some spark of leadership they saw in me. However, truth be told, they probably knew that if I were a leader, my mother would see to it whatever work there was would get done.
I don't know how long I was president of the young women's organization. It had been more than one year. The routine was for my mother to instruct me to tell all the girls we would pick them up. I would tell them. Then she would drive around all over our small city picking up people whom she deposited at someone's home for the meeting. Then, she would drive us all home. One particular night, every stop we made, nobody ran out to the car. I was sent to the door to enquire and was told that another individual had picked them up. Same individual each time.
My mother's wrath increased with each stop. I still feel the knots in my stomach as I pressed up against the car door trying to escape her flailing hands. Of course, it had to be my fault they were not there. They could not possibly have been the ones who were wrong.
Once we arrived at the meeting, it became a no brainer we were in the throes of a coup. It was the night of our annual elections. My cousin nominated me, but to a person every vote went to the individual who had picked up the group. I don't know if she actively campaigned for the office, or if it just turned out that way. I do know that the one hundred per cent rejection of my peers, coupled with the toxic temper of my mother, did keep me from ever wanting to hold office again. Even since retirement, although I transcribed the minutes of a group where I served, I refused to bear the label of secretary. Responsibility without authority has become my way of life.
Don't get me wrong, the girl was more than welcome to the gavel. If she had asked me for it, I would have given it gladly. It was the pain inflicted by the group rejection that turned me off. Ever since, I have deemed competition off the ball court or out of the business world to be an act of unfriendliness.
For a while, the trauma resulted in a reluctance to achieve. Thankfully, I recovered. Now I take the attitude to heck with them. I am whatever I am and they can like it or lump it. I will not sacrifice my achievements, assuming I have some, to get along with the crowd.
I don't remember what happened after that. I don't recall deciding not to go to further meetings, but I don't remember attending any either. I did start working that year and it may be the group fell to the need to study once in a while. Possibly my mother was just so grateful not to have to waste her time and gas driving around everywhere that she finally quit making me go. The feeling that the new president was not really my friend, after all, was one that never left.
It's not everyone who gets an extra look -- with hindsight -- into a past event. When my paternal grandmother died, quite a few of my mother's friends came for visitation. The girl's mother was there. After she elicited the apparently satisfying answer that I, as well as her daughter, was divorced, she moved in for the kill. She wanted to know if I did anything other than being a divorced mother of three. I will never forget the vindictive look on her face when I said I was a school psychologist.
Of course, by this time, the whole country was aware of poisonous cheerleader mothers. At least one was so sick that she arranged a kill on her daughter's competition.
The backward glance did show me the "new president" may not have been so two-faced after all. She may have been following directions of a hateful, spiteful mother who couldn't compete with her own generation, so took it out on the next.
It does make me extra careful in my interactions with young people today. I know what out-of-control competitive parents can do to the future of impressionable kids. I believe we should encourage dreams in others, especially the young, wherever we can.
Most probably it pertains to getting the fight knocked right out of me at an early age. There was no one thing that caused my reticence to thirst for the jugular, but one event does remain toward the top of the list.
While in high school, I was very active in my church. I have memory of the pastor's wife and one of our girl's group leaders orchestrating me into leadership roles. I would like to think they were fostering some spark of leadership they saw in me. However, truth be told, they probably knew that if I were a leader, my mother would see to it whatever work there was would get done.
I don't know how long I was president of the young women's organization. It had been more than one year. The routine was for my mother to instruct me to tell all the girls we would pick them up. I would tell them. Then she would drive around all over our small city picking up people whom she deposited at someone's home for the meeting. Then, she would drive us all home. One particular night, every stop we made, nobody ran out to the car. I was sent to the door to enquire and was told that another individual had picked them up. Same individual each time.
My mother's wrath increased with each stop. I still feel the knots in my stomach as I pressed up against the car door trying to escape her flailing hands. Of course, it had to be my fault they were not there. They could not possibly have been the ones who were wrong.
Once we arrived at the meeting, it became a no brainer we were in the throes of a coup. It was the night of our annual elections. My cousin nominated me, but to a person every vote went to the individual who had picked up the group. I don't know if she actively campaigned for the office, or if it just turned out that way. I do know that the one hundred per cent rejection of my peers, coupled with the toxic temper of my mother, did keep me from ever wanting to hold office again. Even since retirement, although I transcribed the minutes of a group where I served, I refused to bear the label of secretary. Responsibility without authority has become my way of life.
Don't get me wrong, the girl was more than welcome to the gavel. If she had asked me for it, I would have given it gladly. It was the pain inflicted by the group rejection that turned me off. Ever since, I have deemed competition off the ball court or out of the business world to be an act of unfriendliness.
For a while, the trauma resulted in a reluctance to achieve. Thankfully, I recovered. Now I take the attitude to heck with them. I am whatever I am and they can like it or lump it. I will not sacrifice my achievements, assuming I have some, to get along with the crowd.
I don't remember what happened after that. I don't recall deciding not to go to further meetings, but I don't remember attending any either. I did start working that year and it may be the group fell to the need to study once in a while. Possibly my mother was just so grateful not to have to waste her time and gas driving around everywhere that she finally quit making me go. The feeling that the new president was not really my friend, after all, was one that never left.
It's not everyone who gets an extra look -- with hindsight -- into a past event. When my paternal grandmother died, quite a few of my mother's friends came for visitation. The girl's mother was there. After she elicited the apparently satisfying answer that I, as well as her daughter, was divorced, she moved in for the kill. She wanted to know if I did anything other than being a divorced mother of three. I will never forget the vindictive look on her face when I said I was a school psychologist.
Of course, by this time, the whole country was aware of poisonous cheerleader mothers. At least one was so sick that she arranged a kill on her daughter's competition.
The backward glance did show me the "new president" may not have been so two-faced after all. She may have been following directions of a hateful, spiteful mother who couldn't compete with her own generation, so took it out on the next.
It does make me extra careful in my interactions with young people today. I know what out-of-control competitive parents can do to the future of impressionable kids. I believe we should encourage dreams in others, especially the young, wherever we can.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Who Noticed the Diseased Soul First?
"...You know, there's something missing in you people. I'm not sure what it is. It's not enough to call you mean-spirited, or hypocritical, or manipulative, or demagogic. It's more than that. First you ride to power by fanning hatred of the poor, blacks, immigrants, and just about everybody else who isn't white and middle-class. Then you work to actually throw all those people overboard. . . . What the hell's the matter with you?" These words were spoken by Robert (Mongo) Frederickson, hero of Dream of a Falling Eagle, speaking to a fictional, though remarkably authentic, Southern conservative Congressman. The book was written by George C. Chesbro, copyright, 1996
Ever notice how some things seem meant to be? On Saturday, July 27, I checked out several mysteries from the local library. The intent was to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday week in style. It's quite remarkable how much we can learn even from media meant to entertain. I'd never read any Mongo mysteries and find it so curious that I selected this particular one just when I was writing articles about Paul Krugman's column claiming there is something wrong with the soul of the Republican Party.
I wrote the article for my religious blog a few days ago. Today, after I read page 30 of Chesbro's book, I wrote the article for my political blog. Now here I am on page 84 of the same book, finding that a fictional detective has already spoken the words as well or better than Mr. Krugman and myself -- and Mongo said it first.
Please read all three articles. Information is as follows:
"Feeding the Poor" at lousdevotes.blogspot.com
"Cold Blooded Rich Men" louhough.blogspot.com
Then, please reread the above article.
"Who Noticed the Diseased Soul First?" lousissues.blogspot.com.
Then, note that the current trend is to teach hatred of everybody who is not upper class rather than middle class.
I rest my case -- for now anyway.
Ever notice how some things seem meant to be? On Saturday, July 27, I checked out several mysteries from the local library. The intent was to celebrate my seventy-fifth birthday week in style. It's quite remarkable how much we can learn even from media meant to entertain. I'd never read any Mongo mysteries and find it so curious that I selected this particular one just when I was writing articles about Paul Krugman's column claiming there is something wrong with the soul of the Republican Party.
I wrote the article for my religious blog a few days ago. Today, after I read page 30 of Chesbro's book, I wrote the article for my political blog. Now here I am on page 84 of the same book, finding that a fictional detective has already spoken the words as well or better than Mr. Krugman and myself -- and Mongo said it first.
Please read all three articles. Information is as follows:
"Feeding the Poor" at lousdevotes.blogspot.com
"Cold Blooded Rich Men" louhough.blogspot.com
Then, please reread the above article.
"Who Noticed the Diseased Soul First?" lousissues.blogspot.com.
Then, note that the current trend is to teach hatred of everybody who is not upper class rather than middle class.
I rest my case -- for now anyway.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
It's Open to Interpretation
Oprah Winfrey once told a story about entering a store to shop and noticing signs that said "We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone." She was offended that, black belt shopper that she is, anybody would exhibit such signs in her presence.
About the same time, Wal-Mart was advertising the friendly greeting program that they had used for years. We would be welcomed by an old person each time we entered the store.
It occurred to me right then that the most welcome I had ever received from one of these kindred old people was when one of them shoved a shopping cart in my direction while he/she kept right on chatting with another clerk.
As is my usual trend, I began analyzing. I had retired by this time, so entertained the thought that they were offended by my pastel sweat suits. That couldn't be it. I had stopped at Wal-Mart stores numerous times on the way home from work. My customary "uniform" was dress slacks, fancy blouses, blazers, jewelry and dress shoes. Not the stuff of lower class people, enticing the contempt of the upper crust.
If I were African American, I might be prone to cry racism. But I am not. I'm the palest of blue-eyed whites with a mop of curly Irish-style hair.
One day I entered the nearest Wal-Mart to be greeted with a friendly smile and the promised welcome. I took time to thank her and tell her she was the first person I could recall actually greeting me. "Oh, I try to treat everyone alike," she said. Even that comment held a sting. Was she implying I was chump change who should be delivered a charitable greeting?
The lady was dressed to the nines. Her bleached blonde hair was a classy color and pulled up in a French roll, like those I had worn many times. She wore a dressy suit and heels, a great overkill for the job. Her companion, she could not have known, was quite familiar to me. He was a well known wealthy businessman for whom I had actually worked. What they were doing slumming that day, I have no idea.
My point with this narrative is that I shall never know in this life why these greeters consistently ignored my entrance into the store when their paychecks were contingent on making customers feel welcome. As I said, if I were African American, I would probably assume racism, which was not a correct analysis in my case. But it is the knee-jerk response with which the people of color in our country do view interactions with everyone.
I don't know how Oprah dresses for shopping or whether she entered that posh store with a smile on her face. If she looked and behaved as she did on her daily show, I'm sure nobody would have resented her presence. But, what if she entered with four or five friends, dressed down, and acting like Sophie in The Color Purple? That would be a frightening scene to see.
We need to ask "What else can it be?" before we make assumptions. In the case of the Wal-Mart greeters, were they bored? Did their feet hurt? Were they too old to stand all day?
There could be a number of causes for each situation we face. Maybe we could adopt an "it is what it is" attitude and not analyze and blame everything to death. It's open to interpretation.
About the same time, Wal-Mart was advertising the friendly greeting program that they had used for years. We would be welcomed by an old person each time we entered the store.
It occurred to me right then that the most welcome I had ever received from one of these kindred old people was when one of them shoved a shopping cart in my direction while he/she kept right on chatting with another clerk.
As is my usual trend, I began analyzing. I had retired by this time, so entertained the thought that they were offended by my pastel sweat suits. That couldn't be it. I had stopped at Wal-Mart stores numerous times on the way home from work. My customary "uniform" was dress slacks, fancy blouses, blazers, jewelry and dress shoes. Not the stuff of lower class people, enticing the contempt of the upper crust.
If I were African American, I might be prone to cry racism. But I am not. I'm the palest of blue-eyed whites with a mop of curly Irish-style hair.
One day I entered the nearest Wal-Mart to be greeted with a friendly smile and the promised welcome. I took time to thank her and tell her she was the first person I could recall actually greeting me. "Oh, I try to treat everyone alike," she said. Even that comment held a sting. Was she implying I was chump change who should be delivered a charitable greeting?
The lady was dressed to the nines. Her bleached blonde hair was a classy color and pulled up in a French roll, like those I had worn many times. She wore a dressy suit and heels, a great overkill for the job. Her companion, she could not have known, was quite familiar to me. He was a well known wealthy businessman for whom I had actually worked. What they were doing slumming that day, I have no idea.
My point with this narrative is that I shall never know in this life why these greeters consistently ignored my entrance into the store when their paychecks were contingent on making customers feel welcome. As I said, if I were African American, I would probably assume racism, which was not a correct analysis in my case. But it is the knee-jerk response with which the people of color in our country do view interactions with everyone.
I don't know how Oprah dresses for shopping or whether she entered that posh store with a smile on her face. If she looked and behaved as she did on her daily show, I'm sure nobody would have resented her presence. But, what if she entered with four or five friends, dressed down, and acting like Sophie in The Color Purple? That would be a frightening scene to see.
We need to ask "What else can it be?" before we make assumptions. In the case of the Wal-Mart greeters, were they bored? Did their feet hurt? Were they too old to stand all day?
There could be a number of causes for each situation we face. Maybe we could adopt an "it is what it is" attitude and not analyze and blame everything to death. It's open to interpretation.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
High Maintenance People
As I approach the high speed end of that slippery slope toward my seventy-fifth birthday (July 29, 2013), I plan on becoming a high-maintenance chick. Not only do I expect to be coddled, catered to and pampered, but my overly stiff joints and my girth, are going to force me into getting pedicures. Now, if I get a pedicure, should I not also have a manicure? It would be a crying shame for my feet to look better than my hands. While I'm at it, I had better get more frequent hairstyles. It has probably been three years since someone other than myself touched my "coif".
Plus, I'm having a really hard time keeping up with housework these days. I remember the olden days when as a single parent I worked forty to sixty-five hours per week. I did the cleaning, yard work and ran errands in my spare time. Sadly, my home looked better then than it does now. In one of those blanked if you do, blanked if you don't situations, leaving it dirty aggravates my allergy to dust. Think what that's like when I move the dust cloth around and stir it up.
My balance problem, caused by my faulty Eustachian tube, which swells shut around dust and smoke, caused me to have to hire help with yard work about three years back. I willingly sacrifice whatever small luxury, like food, that I would buy with the $20 I pay the man who weed eats the yard (as well as does his laundry, while he raids my fridge). He is a son.
Do you remember those "How to tell you are old" e-mails that were so popular before Facebook? One of my favorites was "Remember when you cleaned three rooms in one day and now it takes three days just to clean one?" Today, I cleaned nothing. Does anyone know how much Merry Maids would charge for four rooms and a bath? Better still, do you know how I can wring the funds for just one cleanup a month of out my income? Yeah, yeah, I've heard about elderly cleaning services sponsored by the government, but I believe you have to be ill to qualify for those. Besides, I'd have to get over a serious aversion to having strangers in my home. I would probably spend as much time going around afterward putting the décor in its proper place.
But you think this is bad? My ex (Phyllis Diller called hers Fang, how about I use Dang?) was one of those people persons who preferred being around a crowd. Entertaining was one of his "things". When I started my doctoral program it was like a Special United Nations Summit negotiating him down to one dinner or party per month. Dang never recovered from the shock. Getting his commitment to help with preparations was easy by comparison.
Prior to this, the preparations required for entertaining his colleagues, a boss or out-of-town guests seemed endless. Usually there was a room that needed painting. Isn't there always? After I completed this, I shopped for curtains, etc. and made a major grocery store run. The day of the event, I cleaned the entire house -- eight rooms, one and three quarter baths -- including scrubbing all the vinyl and tile floors. Who would need help with this, you ask?
When the house was clean and the three kids bathed and dressed as well as dinner in the oven, it was my turn. You do understand that however tired a Leave it to Beaver-era housewife got, she was supposed to look like she stepped from the pages of Vogue with a friendly, welcoming smile for the guests. I won't put you through the usual critique of my performance once it was over. Well, maybe a little. It included stuff like I should have sat up straighter and I should "couch" my opinions in a manner he never used. Oh, yes, I should get my God-given curly hair straightened so it would be neat and smooth. (And Southern Baptists are supposed to stick together until death do us part. Oh, yes, we are not allowed to hasten his death, either).
But all humor aside, when the fantasies are over and reality sets in, I realize that handicapped as age has made me, I'm still better off than many. I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a dilapidated vehicle to drive and I don't have to take care of some high-maintenance dude any more. Take that and lump it Dang!
Plus, I'm having a really hard time keeping up with housework these days. I remember the olden days when as a single parent I worked forty to sixty-five hours per week. I did the cleaning, yard work and ran errands in my spare time. Sadly, my home looked better then than it does now. In one of those blanked if you do, blanked if you don't situations, leaving it dirty aggravates my allergy to dust. Think what that's like when I move the dust cloth around and stir it up.
My balance problem, caused by my faulty Eustachian tube, which swells shut around dust and smoke, caused me to have to hire help with yard work about three years back. I willingly sacrifice whatever small luxury, like food, that I would buy with the $20 I pay the man who weed eats the yard (as well as does his laundry, while he raids my fridge). He is a son.
Do you remember those "How to tell you are old" e-mails that were so popular before Facebook? One of my favorites was "Remember when you cleaned three rooms in one day and now it takes three days just to clean one?" Today, I cleaned nothing. Does anyone know how much Merry Maids would charge for four rooms and a bath? Better still, do you know how I can wring the funds for just one cleanup a month of out my income? Yeah, yeah, I've heard about elderly cleaning services sponsored by the government, but I believe you have to be ill to qualify for those. Besides, I'd have to get over a serious aversion to having strangers in my home. I would probably spend as much time going around afterward putting the décor in its proper place.
But you think this is bad? My ex (Phyllis Diller called hers Fang, how about I use Dang?) was one of those people persons who preferred being around a crowd. Entertaining was one of his "things". When I started my doctoral program it was like a Special United Nations Summit negotiating him down to one dinner or party per month. Dang never recovered from the shock. Getting his commitment to help with preparations was easy by comparison.
Prior to this, the preparations required for entertaining his colleagues, a boss or out-of-town guests seemed endless. Usually there was a room that needed painting. Isn't there always? After I completed this, I shopped for curtains, etc. and made a major grocery store run. The day of the event, I cleaned the entire house -- eight rooms, one and three quarter baths -- including scrubbing all the vinyl and tile floors. Who would need help with this, you ask?
When the house was clean and the three kids bathed and dressed as well as dinner in the oven, it was my turn. You do understand that however tired a Leave it to Beaver-era housewife got, she was supposed to look like she stepped from the pages of Vogue with a friendly, welcoming smile for the guests. I won't put you through the usual critique of my performance once it was over. Well, maybe a little. It included stuff like I should have sat up straighter and I should "couch" my opinions in a manner he never used. Oh, yes, I should get my God-given curly hair straightened so it would be neat and smooth. (And Southern Baptists are supposed to stick together until death do us part. Oh, yes, we are not allowed to hasten his death, either).
But all humor aside, when the fantasies are over and reality sets in, I realize that handicapped as age has made me, I'm still better off than many. I have a roof over my head, food to eat, a dilapidated vehicle to drive and I don't have to take care of some high-maintenance dude any more. Take that and lump it Dang!
Friday, July 12, 2013
This Is My Life, Go Get Your Own
So, what's the deal? Is there some big sign on my back that says, "I was born to serve, so to heck with my own needs?" Just get in line and state your wishes. I'll be happy to cut you down to size at once.
Jesus Christ of Nazareth did a number on a whole bunch of Christians. We took his admonitions to be meek and to serve others too much to heart. I'm sure Jesus didn't mean to turn so many of us into foot rugs, but that was the result for a lot of people over a number of years.
As an undergraduate, I unthinkingly did the bidding of others. My roommate needed posters for her run for class officer, I took time out to make them. The Southern Baptists around me thought I should go to church instead of studying for finals, I went to church. Somebody asked me to write her paper, I taught her how to write. My goal of graduating from college was severely threatened by my initiation to the "servants of the world club." I wised up just in time.
This kind of behavior is a problem for many people. Self-help experts write articles and give speeches meant to help people learn to say no. And hear this, they say it's even okay to do so.
The time wasters really came out of the woodwork as soon as I retired. Several people were searching for volunteers. No less than four individuals asked me to do their housecleaning. Two of these wanted me to move into their homes as an unpaid housekeeper. One of these expected me to contribute toward expenses.
Several people wanted me as their personal taxi service. Most of them didn't want to contribute gas money, at least not every time. I'm not talking about just family here. I even have a casual acquaintance wanting my car service.
A friend strolled down to ask me to fix her computer. Is she crazy? I'm a computer user, not a techie.
Two people have asked me to write their books. One didn't mention money at all. The other wanted me to work for a share of the profits on a book that wouldn't have sold a handful of copies.
A group asked me to design a garden for them -- for free.
Let me bottom line this for everyone. I have my own agenda, so I don't need yours. For every minute I spend meeting your goals, I lose a minute on my own. I'm not making and decorating your cakes unless you are family. I'm not editing your writing for free. I'm not researching your project for you. I'm trained in these skills. You can't afford me.
I'm not taking over your sales responsibilities so you can go off and do crafts. You may have been joking when you asked, but I don't think you would have turned me down if I'd said yes.
If I'm lucky enough to live to be 107, my life is almost three quarters gone. That doesn't leave much time to finish the great American novel or to read the thousands of dollars of nonfiction I bought when I didn't have time to read. I have crocheting and quilting in process. I have roses to smell. I can't have that many years left to do my thing.
All those years that I was working, I was building dreams of my own. My kids are grown. My grandkids are almost grown and now it's my turn. I get to fulfill my own wishes now.
I don't want to write your stuff, I'm writing my own. I don't want to clean your house. I need someone to clean for me.
Keep in mind my Mama didn't raise any dummies and I, for sure, didn't go through all those torturous hours of education to end up your mark.
So do you understand? I need you to go and live your own life and keep your mitts off of mine. I'm sure others feel the same.
And now is the time the guilt should set in because I have protected myself. Jesus, whatever were you thinking?
Jesus Christ of Nazareth did a number on a whole bunch of Christians. We took his admonitions to be meek and to serve others too much to heart. I'm sure Jesus didn't mean to turn so many of us into foot rugs, but that was the result for a lot of people over a number of years.
As an undergraduate, I unthinkingly did the bidding of others. My roommate needed posters for her run for class officer, I took time out to make them. The Southern Baptists around me thought I should go to church instead of studying for finals, I went to church. Somebody asked me to write her paper, I taught her how to write. My goal of graduating from college was severely threatened by my initiation to the "servants of the world club." I wised up just in time.
This kind of behavior is a problem for many people. Self-help experts write articles and give speeches meant to help people learn to say no. And hear this, they say it's even okay to do so.
The time wasters really came out of the woodwork as soon as I retired. Several people were searching for volunteers. No less than four individuals asked me to do their housecleaning. Two of these wanted me to move into their homes as an unpaid housekeeper. One of these expected me to contribute toward expenses.
Several people wanted me as their personal taxi service. Most of them didn't want to contribute gas money, at least not every time. I'm not talking about just family here. I even have a casual acquaintance wanting my car service.
A friend strolled down to ask me to fix her computer. Is she crazy? I'm a computer user, not a techie.
Two people have asked me to write their books. One didn't mention money at all. The other wanted me to work for a share of the profits on a book that wouldn't have sold a handful of copies.
A group asked me to design a garden for them -- for free.
Let me bottom line this for everyone. I have my own agenda, so I don't need yours. For every minute I spend meeting your goals, I lose a minute on my own. I'm not making and decorating your cakes unless you are family. I'm not editing your writing for free. I'm not researching your project for you. I'm trained in these skills. You can't afford me.
I'm not taking over your sales responsibilities so you can go off and do crafts. You may have been joking when you asked, but I don't think you would have turned me down if I'd said yes.
If I'm lucky enough to live to be 107, my life is almost three quarters gone. That doesn't leave much time to finish the great American novel or to read the thousands of dollars of nonfiction I bought when I didn't have time to read. I have crocheting and quilting in process. I have roses to smell. I can't have that many years left to do my thing.
All those years that I was working, I was building dreams of my own. My kids are grown. My grandkids are almost grown and now it's my turn. I get to fulfill my own wishes now.
I don't want to write your stuff, I'm writing my own. I don't want to clean your house. I need someone to clean for me.
Keep in mind my Mama didn't raise any dummies and I, for sure, didn't go through all those torturous hours of education to end up your mark.
So do you understand? I need you to go and live your own life and keep your mitts off of mine. I'm sure others feel the same.
And now is the time the guilt should set in because I have protected myself. Jesus, whatever were you thinking?
A Certain Kind of Memory
For several weeks, I've been unable to remember the second of Rudolph Dreikurs' four reasons for misbehavior -- usually, but not always, in children. Today I decided to look it up. As I ascended the stairs to my "extra" room, I was getting set to look for a black and orange spine with a used book sticker, resting flat upon the top of other books. I went to the bookcase with four shelves full of education and psychology books, but failed to see it. I proceeded to the bookcase where my education/psychology section begins, but could not find it there either. Back at the first case, I moved a couple of obstructions and found an orange and black book by Dreikurs, bearing a used book sticker, resting flat upon the top of other books. Perhaps everybody has this kind of memory, I don't know.
Had I learned the four reasons for misbehavior from this book, I would have remembered whether it began on the left or the right page and whether at the top or bottom. As it happens, I see the reasons listed on a blackboard in a specific classroom, a specific professor standing to the left and below it.
Once more I tell the good Lord how much more helpful it would be if I could also see all the words, in correct order, written on a page. Then I would not need to buy and store, as well as reread, so many books. I know there is that kind of memory, because I had a long-term best friend who had one.
To further explain the difference in our recall systems, I have a favorite example. I ran across a description of a god with many arms while researching a topic for a novel. I wanted more information. In my mind's eye, I saw myself in my parents' living room, reading one of the encyclopedias they had bought and taught us to use. I vividly saw a beautiful picture with a somewhat feminine individual with several arms. The arms were poised as though they should be carrying heavy trays.
I remembered lotus blossoms in this picture. I also remembered the word Siam. I simply knew no name, that important label essential for looking up information in encyclopedias and dictionaries. Not to worry, Fred will know. I called Fred and had not finished my query before he said "Shiva". Now it all made sense. The picture had been at the top left of the page. Siam I remembered at bottom left. Shiva I had not seen because it was on the previous page.
Criminal Minds, a television drama, has an FBI team member, a veritable fount of knowledge who professes to have an eidetic memory. I reached for my encyclopedias to find that World Book states there is no such thing as Fred's "photographic" memory. When they define eidetic memory, they define mine. They tell of someone who can look briefly at a scene and describe it with only a few errors, but they say the scene fades soon. They do not describe the Fred's of the world who can recall all the words from the first read until death. And they do not know that my kind of memory, almost without fail, lasts a long time. I read my parents' encyclopedias between 1952 and 1956. I remembered the multi-handed figure and the word Siam in February of 2000. Siam's name had been changed to Thailand by the time I was in college, which I remember because we had two delightful girls from there living in our dorm.
It is my belief that many scientists negate the experiences of others because, they, themselves, and nobody they know have had them. This attitude is also why the more unobservant of us do not believe others when they can detect "clues" that something has gone on around them. A person with and eidetic memory can tell at a glance if someone has disturbed his belongings. Others are reluctant to accept this kind of skill. This is especially so if they don't want to acknowledge a truth. I believe this is called selective memory.
On the long haul, it isn't much to have what World Book calls an eidetic memory. However, an old school, possibly mislabeled, "photographic memory" such as that of Fred and the young fountain of information on Criminal Minds, is a truly great gift. My kind of memory generally gets one labeled as paranoid by people who don't know the first thing about psychology. It may be helpful in finding books and it may lead you to discovering you have had intruders, but it doesn't do much for learning.
Had I learned the four reasons for misbehavior from this book, I would have remembered whether it began on the left or the right page and whether at the top or bottom. As it happens, I see the reasons listed on a blackboard in a specific classroom, a specific professor standing to the left and below it.
Once more I tell the good Lord how much more helpful it would be if I could also see all the words, in correct order, written on a page. Then I would not need to buy and store, as well as reread, so many books. I know there is that kind of memory, because I had a long-term best friend who had one.
To further explain the difference in our recall systems, I have a favorite example. I ran across a description of a god with many arms while researching a topic for a novel. I wanted more information. In my mind's eye, I saw myself in my parents' living room, reading one of the encyclopedias they had bought and taught us to use. I vividly saw a beautiful picture with a somewhat feminine individual with several arms. The arms were poised as though they should be carrying heavy trays.
I remembered lotus blossoms in this picture. I also remembered the word Siam. I simply knew no name, that important label essential for looking up information in encyclopedias and dictionaries. Not to worry, Fred will know. I called Fred and had not finished my query before he said "Shiva". Now it all made sense. The picture had been at the top left of the page. Siam I remembered at bottom left. Shiva I had not seen because it was on the previous page.
Criminal Minds, a television drama, has an FBI team member, a veritable fount of knowledge who professes to have an eidetic memory. I reached for my encyclopedias to find that World Book states there is no such thing as Fred's "photographic" memory. When they define eidetic memory, they define mine. They tell of someone who can look briefly at a scene and describe it with only a few errors, but they say the scene fades soon. They do not describe the Fred's of the world who can recall all the words from the first read until death. And they do not know that my kind of memory, almost without fail, lasts a long time. I read my parents' encyclopedias between 1952 and 1956. I remembered the multi-handed figure and the word Siam in February of 2000. Siam's name had been changed to Thailand by the time I was in college, which I remember because we had two delightful girls from there living in our dorm.
It is my belief that many scientists negate the experiences of others because, they, themselves, and nobody they know have had them. This attitude is also why the more unobservant of us do not believe others when they can detect "clues" that something has gone on around them. A person with and eidetic memory can tell at a glance if someone has disturbed his belongings. Others are reluctant to accept this kind of skill. This is especially so if they don't want to acknowledge a truth. I believe this is called selective memory.
On the long haul, it isn't much to have what World Book calls an eidetic memory. However, an old school, possibly mislabeled, "photographic memory" such as that of Fred and the young fountain of information on Criminal Minds, is a truly great gift. My kind of memory generally gets one labeled as paranoid by people who don't know the first thing about psychology. It may be helpful in finding books and it may lead you to discovering you have had intruders, but it doesn't do much for learning.
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