My father was a wise man -- some would jokingly say a "wise guy."
He loved his life, his wife and kids -- and wanted the very best for all of us -- but understood and always tried to convey that you had to work and work hard to achieve your goals -- regardless of how large and overwhelming or small, and seemingly insignificant.
No where was this more evident than on a sports field. I am not an athlete, but enjoyed playing sports all through elementary and high school -- even into college. All the Baker kids played sports -- but our family pastime was definitely baseball -- or in the case of me and my sisters, softball.
We all loved to play -- and during different periods of our scholastic careers, both Mom and Dad coached our teams -- or acted as scorekeepers, or umpires. They were involved, always.
Softball was great fun -- we were all good players -- and I almost always played catcher. To this day, I can hold a squat longer than almost anyone else I know -- and used to get in trouble for using just a bit too much 'chatter' behind the plate.
Where I struggled was batting. My Dad would practice with me, throwing balls to me for hours on end. And I would get frustrated at my inability to make significant contact with the ball. And we'd practice and we'd practice.
His favorite refrain -- "Lolly -- swing with your WHOLE body -- not just your arms!" Or "You're swinging with just your arms again -- you're chopping wood!"
And he was right -- that's exactly what I was doing.
In time, I became great at bat -- Oh, I wasn't going to win any college scholarships, but I was solid player - a base hitter - a "Charlie Hustle" as Pop used to say.
And I learned and always remembered that lesson that he taught me in our backyard -- to always give it, regardless of what "it" was -- EVERYTHING you've got.
To this day, I get frustrated with myself -- get really angry at myself -- for not being the best -- strongest, fastest, smartest (pick one or all). For not nailing every ball that comes my way, real or imagined. I hate showing any sign of weakness - even around those for whom I care most.
Some days I catch myself "chopping wood" -- not giving it my all, or feeling sorry for myself.
Some days, even if I do "swing with my entire body" it is simply not enough - some things are outside my control (gasp!).
Those are the hardest days of all.
I am learning, or trying very hard to learn, to allow my new found faith to strengthen me -- to be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. To allow HIS strength to pull me up, when I feel like chopping wood.
And I'm getting there.
And if I listen closely I can hear both voices in my head, both my Pop and my heavenly Father, whispering ... batter up!
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Snow days and scrambled eggs
Snowy days always seem to make me crave scrambled eggs.
As kids, we LIVED for snow days. And it seemed like we had a lot more of them then we do now.
I can well remember lying in bed, all cozy and warm, waiting for those magic words to come from either my Mom or the clock radio: Lower Dauphin School District is CLOSED.
The sheer magic of the snow day!
Immediately we would all bound out of bed -- and insist that we wanted to go out and play in the snow. We had these great old-fashioned sleds - and loved using them.
It would take us 30 minutes to get properly dressed -- snow pants, hats, mittens, long underwear -- we were wrapped up so tight we could barely lower our arms. Do kids even have snow pants anymore?
And inevitably, after 15 minutes outside, we'd had enough -- "we're cold!" and into the house we'd go.
And Mom would make us scrambled eggs -- even if it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
I don't know when the scrambled egg tradition began -- but it was critical to the joy of a snow day.
To this day, I can't look at a plate of scrambled eggs, without thinking "Snow Day!" in my mind -- sometimes it even leaks out, to the amusement of my fellow diners.
Nowadays "snow day" means that my husband gets to sleep in while I have to get up and get to the office.
Somehow the magic of a snow day is lost when hubby just rolls over and grunts something about "driving carefully" while pulling the warm covers up around his shoulders...pup at his side.
Maybe next time I'll make myself some scrambled eggs...while he sleeps...
As kids, we LIVED for snow days. And it seemed like we had a lot more of them then we do now.
I can well remember lying in bed, all cozy and warm, waiting for those magic words to come from either my Mom or the clock radio: Lower Dauphin School District is CLOSED.
The sheer magic of the snow day!
Immediately we would all bound out of bed -- and insist that we wanted to go out and play in the snow. We had these great old-fashioned sleds - and loved using them.
It would take us 30 minutes to get properly dressed -- snow pants, hats, mittens, long underwear -- we were wrapped up so tight we could barely lower our arms. Do kids even have snow pants anymore?
And inevitably, after 15 minutes outside, we'd had enough -- "we're cold!" and into the house we'd go.
And Mom would make us scrambled eggs -- even if it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon.
I don't know when the scrambled egg tradition began -- but it was critical to the joy of a snow day.
To this day, I can't look at a plate of scrambled eggs, without thinking "Snow Day!" in my mind -- sometimes it even leaks out, to the amusement of my fellow diners.
Nowadays "snow day" means that my husband gets to sleep in while I have to get up and get to the office.
Somehow the magic of a snow day is lost when hubby just rolls over and grunts something about "driving carefully" while pulling the warm covers up around his shoulders...pup at his side.
Maybe next time I'll make myself some scrambled eggs...while he sleeps...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Driving Miss Laura
I'll admit it -- I am not the world's greatest driver.
My husband would call the previous sentence an understatement.
From the very beginning, I have had a tumultuous relationship with both cars and driving. Like most sixteen-year-olds, I couldn't wait to get my learner's permit. I recall well the day that a high school girlfriend and I went together to take the test -- the summer before senior year. She left with a permit, I left with a failed eye exam (didn't even get to take the written test!) and a bus pass.
It wasn't a big deal at the time. Plenty of my classmates and friends drove (and had cars!) and I never lacked a ride when I needed one. Plus, the university I was planning to attend didn't allow freshman to have cars on campus - and Philly had a good public transportation system. No worries.
But after graduation, it became clear that I was going to have to learn how to drive. My Pop felt certain that he could teach me. I was less certain, but slated to begin my first full time professional job, so figured I'd better give it a go.
Trying to teach me to drive turned my mild mannered Pop into a nervous wreck. First day out I hit a bank. An actual bank, as in financial institution. Day two I almost ran my sister over trying to back out of the driveway.
Professional intervention was needed - and fast. And multiple trips to the eye doctor -- who assured my Dad, that while I had certainly inherited Grandma Baker's eyesight (or lack thereof), the biggest problem was lack of depth perception -- for which I could learn to compensate.
This time around, Dad hired a professional driver to teach me, and my license was finally earned around the time I turned 23. If all was not "well" it was at least "acceptable."
Not quite 20 years later, my driving reputation seems to have become something of a legend among family, friends and co-workers.
Admittedly, my eyesight continues to worsen, and what was once a simple depth perception issue has escalated -- but I do enjoy being in the driver's seat.
My husband would rather have teeth pulled without anesthetic than get into a car I'm driving:
"You're following too close!"
"Hold your lane!"
"Are you actually aiming for those pot holes?"
And I've been accused on several occasions of simply pointing my car in the direction I want to go and "flooring it."
We were married only a few weeks when he borrowed my car and noticed the oil light on -- he almost had a stroke when I casually commented that it had been on for a few weeks, but I wasn't worried as it hadn't started 'beeping' yet... (in my defense, in that vehicle, that was how the low fuel light worked...)
I've gotten lost so many times that even my GPS unit appears to 'sigh' at me sometimes, along with repeatedly notifying me that it is "recalculating" again...
New employees at work are clearly "prepped" the first time they get in the car with me -- strapping themselves in and making the sign of the cross before I even have my key in the ignition.
I don't know what they are so worried about -- I can stop my vehicle on a dime -- and have proven it many times.
And I'd like the record to show that I have never been in an accident -- a few fender benders, but I am hardly a menace.
But today I turned over a new leaf. I allowed a co-worker to drive the two of us to Philadelphia. I've never seen him so relaxed. It was nice...I chatted, got some work done, replied to email messages, and just enjoyed the ride.
No near death experiences. No pot holes. I even learned a little something about Audi's (he has a new car).
I know the day is coming when I will probably have to leave the driving to others again. And I will be very sad that day.
But the collective sigh of relief will most likely be heard all up and down the East Coast.
Good night Mustang Sally!
My husband would call the previous sentence an understatement.
From the very beginning, I have had a tumultuous relationship with both cars and driving. Like most sixteen-year-olds, I couldn't wait to get my learner's permit. I recall well the day that a high school girlfriend and I went together to take the test -- the summer before senior year. She left with a permit, I left with a failed eye exam (didn't even get to take the written test!) and a bus pass.
It wasn't a big deal at the time. Plenty of my classmates and friends drove (and had cars!) and I never lacked a ride when I needed one. Plus, the university I was planning to attend didn't allow freshman to have cars on campus - and Philly had a good public transportation system. No worries.
But after graduation, it became clear that I was going to have to learn how to drive. My Pop felt certain that he could teach me. I was less certain, but slated to begin my first full time professional job, so figured I'd better give it a go.
Trying to teach me to drive turned my mild mannered Pop into a nervous wreck. First day out I hit a bank. An actual bank, as in financial institution. Day two I almost ran my sister over trying to back out of the driveway.
Professional intervention was needed - and fast. And multiple trips to the eye doctor -- who assured my Dad, that while I had certainly inherited Grandma Baker's eyesight (or lack thereof), the biggest problem was lack of depth perception -- for which I could learn to compensate.
This time around, Dad hired a professional driver to teach me, and my license was finally earned around the time I turned 23. If all was not "well" it was at least "acceptable."
Not quite 20 years later, my driving reputation seems to have become something of a legend among family, friends and co-workers.
Admittedly, my eyesight continues to worsen, and what was once a simple depth perception issue has escalated -- but I do enjoy being in the driver's seat.
My husband would rather have teeth pulled without anesthetic than get into a car I'm driving:
"You're following too close!"
"Hold your lane!"
"Are you actually aiming for those pot holes?"
And I've been accused on several occasions of simply pointing my car in the direction I want to go and "flooring it."
We were married only a few weeks when he borrowed my car and noticed the oil light on -- he almost had a stroke when I casually commented that it had been on for a few weeks, but I wasn't worried as it hadn't started 'beeping' yet... (in my defense, in that vehicle, that was how the low fuel light worked...)
I've gotten lost so many times that even my GPS unit appears to 'sigh' at me sometimes, along with repeatedly notifying me that it is "recalculating" again...
New employees at work are clearly "prepped" the first time they get in the car with me -- strapping themselves in and making the sign of the cross before I even have my key in the ignition.
I don't know what they are so worried about -- I can stop my vehicle on a dime -- and have proven it many times.
And I'd like the record to show that I have never been in an accident -- a few fender benders, but I am hardly a menace.
But today I turned over a new leaf. I allowed a co-worker to drive the two of us to Philadelphia. I've never seen him so relaxed. It was nice...I chatted, got some work done, replied to email messages, and just enjoyed the ride.
No near death experiences. No pot holes. I even learned a little something about Audi's (he has a new car).
I know the day is coming when I will probably have to leave the driving to others again. And I will be very sad that day.
But the collective sigh of relief will most likely be heard all up and down the East Coast.
Good night Mustang Sally!
...Some are silver and the others gold...
How many friends do you have?
According to Facebook, I have 14. Fourteen friends. I can't quite believe it.
Okay -- one of them is our local airport. Then there are a few clients, and my beloved hubby. Still -- several folks I know on Facebook have hundreds. HUNDREDS of friends! And it must be true -- after all, there it is in on the computer screen.
I've never made friends easily -- and it hasn't gotten easier as I've gotten older. I am certainly friendly, (some would say entertaining). I have dozens of folks with whom I enjoy spending time, and co-workers I like very much. But very few actual friends.
In fact, if I am perfectly honest, I think I have four. Four friends.
And at first glance, some might think -- "how sad...she only has four friends..."
But I look at it quite differently -- I have FOUR FRIENDS!
I have four people who I know I can call anytime, day or night, and if it is within their capacity to help me they will -- regardless of time or distance. They know the same of me. People for whom I care deeply -- dare I say love -- and who I know feel the same way about me. To me, friends are family -- the family you get to choose -- and who choose you in return.
"A friend is someone who is there for you when he'd rather be anywhere else." -- Unknown
These are people who I want to talk to during both the best and worst moments -- mine and theirs. They are familiar with my faults and talents and willing to share both. The people to whom I can say: "I did the dumbest thing today..." and they will listen...and laugh with me at my idiocy.
Each adds something immeasurable to the quality of my life. I pray that I offer the same. They listen to what I say, and what I do not say.
"No lapse of time or distance of place can lessen the friendship of thosewho are truly persuaded of each other's worth." - Unknown
One friend I communicate with almost daily. One I speak to only once or twice a year. One is a beloved mentor...another a travel buddy and musical savant. Each precious. Each as necessary to me as oxygen.
And while I enjoy playing on Facebook, I am somewhat bewildered when I receive "friend invitations" from folks who simply seem to be "collecting friends." Truth is, I decline almost all "friend invitations" I receive. Not because I don't care about the person in question (if, in fact, I remember them at all), but because friendship means something profound to me. I invest in my friendships.
"How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to."
I lost a friend recently. Not to illness or death, or even physical distance. No, the tragedy is that I lost this friend to a point of view expressed in this blog. I feel today like I've lost a limb -- and not a pinky finger, but one of the important ones! -- because he fears my new-found faith. I mourn the closeness we've lost because he fears a judgment on his lifestyle that simply isn't there. I oscillate between anger and sadness, but am ultimately hopeful that we will somehow be able to recapture what we've had.
"It is as if their is a cord, knotted beneath my rib - connected to you in similar fashion, and I fear that cord will snap and I will take to bleeding inwardly." -- Jane Eyre
When, months ago, I re-connected with a friend after a long absence, this quote from my favorite book jumped into my mind. What a gift such a connection is! I do not take it for granted, but thank God daily for being the recipient of such a blessing.
But perhaps Edgar Guest sums up my feelings best:
"I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day, as you have meant, friend of mine, to me along the way."
According to Facebook, I have 14. Fourteen friends. I can't quite believe it.
Okay -- one of them is our local airport. Then there are a few clients, and my beloved hubby. Still -- several folks I know on Facebook have hundreds. HUNDREDS of friends! And it must be true -- after all, there it is in on the computer screen.
I've never made friends easily -- and it hasn't gotten easier as I've gotten older. I am certainly friendly, (some would say entertaining). I have dozens of folks with whom I enjoy spending time, and co-workers I like very much. But very few actual friends.
In fact, if I am perfectly honest, I think I have four. Four friends.
And at first glance, some might think -- "how sad...she only has four friends..."
But I look at it quite differently -- I have FOUR FRIENDS!
I have four people who I know I can call anytime, day or night, and if it is within their capacity to help me they will -- regardless of time or distance. They know the same of me. People for whom I care deeply -- dare I say love -- and who I know feel the same way about me. To me, friends are family -- the family you get to choose -- and who choose you in return.
"A friend is someone who is there for you when he'd rather be anywhere else." -- Unknown
These are people who I want to talk to during both the best and worst moments -- mine and theirs. They are familiar with my faults and talents and willing to share both. The people to whom I can say: "I did the dumbest thing today..." and they will listen...and laugh with me at my idiocy.
Each adds something immeasurable to the quality of my life. I pray that I offer the same. They listen to what I say, and what I do not say.
"No lapse of time or distance of place can lessen the friendship of thosewho are truly persuaded of each other's worth." - Unknown
One friend I communicate with almost daily. One I speak to only once or twice a year. One is a beloved mentor...another a travel buddy and musical savant. Each precious. Each as necessary to me as oxygen.
And while I enjoy playing on Facebook, I am somewhat bewildered when I receive "friend invitations" from folks who simply seem to be "collecting friends." Truth is, I decline almost all "friend invitations" I receive. Not because I don't care about the person in question (if, in fact, I remember them at all), but because friendship means something profound to me. I invest in my friendships.
"How lucky I am to have known someone who was so hard to say goodbye to."
I lost a friend recently. Not to illness or death, or even physical distance. No, the tragedy is that I lost this friend to a point of view expressed in this blog. I feel today like I've lost a limb -- and not a pinky finger, but one of the important ones! -- because he fears my new-found faith. I mourn the closeness we've lost because he fears a judgment on his lifestyle that simply isn't there. I oscillate between anger and sadness, but am ultimately hopeful that we will somehow be able to recapture what we've had.
"It is as if their is a cord, knotted beneath my rib - connected to you in similar fashion, and I fear that cord will snap and I will take to bleeding inwardly." -- Jane Eyre
When, months ago, I re-connected with a friend after a long absence, this quote from my favorite book jumped into my mind. What a gift such a connection is! I do not take it for granted, but thank God daily for being the recipient of such a blessing.
But perhaps Edgar Guest sums up my feelings best:
"I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me. I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day, as you have meant, friend of mine, to me along the way."
Friday, January 9, 2009
Getting Sick Is Not For Wimps...
For fifteen years I've listened to my beloved husband say things to me like "just you wait until you're my age...see how fast you race up and down the stairs then!"
And while I am still flying up and down stairs, I have noticed, particularly in the time since I first turned 40 (no comments, please!) that while my energy level remains high, my body has clearly decided to work against me.
Case in point -- caught a cold last week -- first time I've had a cold in probably five years. And if it wasn't bad enough that I sounded like Elmer Fudd, couldn't breathe through my nose, almost coughed up a lung and was otherwise miserable -- I managed to throw out my back.
By blowing my nose.
Yes -- I threw out my back by blowing my nose too hard. And by "threw out my back" I mean as in literally could not stand up straight. Had to crawl to the bathroom. Had to basically fling my drawers on the floor and step into them, wriggling them up my legs as bending over was NOT an option.
And while I'm better now...the cold lingers...and lingers...one week later I'm still good for a major coughing fit once per hour -- there simply are not enough tissues in Lebanon County to handle the snot spigot my nose has become.
Hubby just smiles that "now you understand" smile.
I don't like that particular smile.
And other fun stuff now accompanies the coughing fits -- all kinds of ... well let's just say that some of my...uh...muscles aren't what they used to be.
Plus the cough syrup has somehow managed to give me acid reflux. Which is helped by the Tums...except that Tums seem to cause phlegm...which then makes me cough more.
Oh, and let's not forget the big zit on my nose -- apparently a by-product of all the excess rubbing and blowing.
And while I am still flying up and down stairs, I have noticed, particularly in the time since I first turned 40 (no comments, please!) that while my energy level remains high, my body has clearly decided to work against me.
Case in point -- caught a cold last week -- first time I've had a cold in probably five years. And if it wasn't bad enough that I sounded like Elmer Fudd, couldn't breathe through my nose, almost coughed up a lung and was otherwise miserable -- I managed to throw out my back.
By blowing my nose.
Yes -- I threw out my back by blowing my nose too hard. And by "threw out my back" I mean as in literally could not stand up straight. Had to crawl to the bathroom. Had to basically fling my drawers on the floor and step into them, wriggling them up my legs as bending over was NOT an option.
And while I'm better now...the cold lingers...and lingers...one week later I'm still good for a major coughing fit once per hour -- there simply are not enough tissues in Lebanon County to handle the snot spigot my nose has become.
Hubby just smiles that "now you understand" smile.
I don't like that particular smile.
And other fun stuff now accompanies the coughing fits -- all kinds of ... well let's just say that some of my...uh...muscles aren't what they used to be.
Plus the cough syrup has somehow managed to give me acid reflux. Which is helped by the Tums...except that Tums seem to cause phlegm...which then makes me cough more.
Oh, and let's not forget the big zit on my nose -- apparently a by-product of all the excess rubbing and blowing.
Are you getting a picture here?
Whatever happened to the girl who laughed in face of streptococcus? The girl who went seven years without a sick day?
Oh wait, I know -- she just decided to invest in the company that makes Puffs Plus with Vicks Vapo Rub blended in...
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