(This post is a tribute to the friends and neighbors we've enjoyed through the years here in the sac. Love you all!)
On July 21, 1991, Rice and I moved with our three kiddos into a suburban neighborhood northwest of Atlanta. We chose a big house on a little cul-de-sac, smack in the middle of the bulb. We’ll probably move one day. For now, though, life’s on track here in the sac.
If you’d asked me back in ’91 if I’d still be living here today, I would have shouted NO! I figured we’d live here a few years, and then relocate to another home in another neighborhood, maybe one closer to the ATL. Turns out, the joke’s on me. The kiddos may have outgrown driving their camo jeep round and round the sac, but Rice and I are still here.
When I was a kid, I lived in at least seven different houses. That’s what people in my life did. They focused on movin’ on up. Rice, on the other hand, lived almost his entire childhood in the same house. Years after we married and moved away, he had to return to empty and then sell that very house after his mother’s passing. In the mind of a Rice, if you’ve got a good, strong house, why move?
Over the years, wanderlust has struck me more than once. Here are just a few of the reasons I’ve suggested to Rice that we should move: Cul-de-sac life is insular. It breeds dependence on cars and a false sense of security. Guests don’t have a place to park. Cars use it for a turnaround spot. Kids often skip our street when they’re trick-or-treating. The neighbors are close. Here’s the reality. Our cul-de-sac is safe and quiet. Littles toddle about and draw with sidewalk chalk like they own the whole bulb. Biggers play hockey and basketball, ride bikes and scooters, and sometimes tolerate their parents during a challenge of corn hole. Adults whine over wine. The neighbors are close. We look out for one another. We share a sense of community, a heart.
Have I mentioned the parties?
In this sac, we celebrate. Life gets reveled through pool parties, cocktail parties, jewelry parties, art parties, Bunco parties, holiday parties, gender reveal parties, rent-a-pony birthday parties, erotic toy parties, Pampered Chef parties, progressive dinner parties, Tupperware parties, karaoke parties, rent-a-bouncy-house just-because parties, engagement parties, divorce parties, come-sit-in-the-sac-cuz-it’s-Friday parties.
What a surprising journey, to watch your life story unfold around a cul-de-sac, season after season, year after year.
In this sac, lives evolve. The days of those lives (shoot, even the weeks or the months) don’t always merit a FaceBook post, pic, or smiley emoticon. Sometime pipes burst, playdates fizzle, cigarettes get snuck, parents yell, teenagers come out, marriages unravel, college rejections arrive, addictions get battled, miscarriages occur, cancer gets diagnosed, ceilings cave in.
So there you have it. In this sac, life sometimes sucks. Here’s the deal. We try to celebrate anyway. That’s how we role, here in the bulb.
Through the years, this sac has been home to sales execs, retail clerks, DFACS managers, at-home moms, flight attendants, dispatchers, fire fighters, grants managers, school teachers, RNs, airline pilots, and computer programmers. Yesterday’s littles have blossomed and moved on to become today’s school teachers, RNs, airline pilots, computer programmers, organic hippie moms, Arabic dancers, TV camera operators, nonprofit managers, and administrative whizzes.
Here in the sac, we’re mostly a gentle community, one with a big fat throbbing heart. Even on Halloween.
To this sac, yesterday’s littles who have blossomed sometimes return. Not for good. Just for one more taste…one more reminder that it’s a good thing to look out for one another.
For 27 years, 3 months, and 10 days, Rice and I have made a home in this little northwest Atlanta cul-de-sac, smack in the middle of the bulb . We’ll probably move one day. For now, though, life’s on track here in the sac
(This post is in recognition of National Grandparents' Day. 'Tis great to be a grand....)
A week or so ago, my grandson Britton faced a seemingly impossible task, in his mind at least. His teacher had challenged her first grade students with learning to tie their own shoes. As Britton’s mom dropped him off at our house before school, she encouraged him to work with me to tackle the shoe-tying challenge. “I can’t do it, JJ!” he grumbled. “It’s too hard.”
Now I’m no early childhood expert, but as far as I could see, Britton had no physical or mental limitations to learning this new skill. At the same time, my experience as a mom reminded me that kiddos develop different skills at different times, often to their parents’ pride…or utter frustration. (Britton’s mom tied her shoes at age three; she didn’t walk until fifteen months or ride a bike until age seven.) As parents, we take ownership for our kids’ successes and failures. As grandparents, we realize we’re not the complete reason for either.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I told Britton as we headed into the house. “Let’s get JJ’s shoes, because practicing on long laces is easier than short ones. But we’ll only practice tying three times before breakfast because practice takes patience. And patience takes time.”
Working side by side, I proposed to demonstrate each step so Britton could copy it. There was no pressure. If it worked, cool. If it didn’t, no biggie. There was always tomorrow.
Britton agreed to try. During our demonstration round, he grew annoyed with himself, not enjoying the fact that he wasn’t very nimble and couldn’t tackle this thing on the first go-round. I encouraged him to slow down and make adjustments (things like “pinch the loop lower on the lace, closer to the shoe”). Once he gave in to being patient with himself, he was able to succeed on his second go at it. You know that look a person gets when he thinks he’s done something stellar, like climb Mt. Everest? Oh, yeah, the kid had that look. Truth be told, I had that look, too. After all, I had taught the B to tie his shoes. I had reframed an impossible task into a doable challenge for someone I love.
A few days later, still basking in the afterglow of my JJ awesomeness, I came across a social media item written by M. Molly Backes (find her on Twitter @mollybackes). Her topic? The Impossible Task. Specifically, she wrote: “Depression commercials always talk about sadness but they never mention that sneaky symptom that everyone with depression knows all too well: the Impossible Task.”
Whoa. I could feel my afterglow of awesomeness start to fade. I continued to read. The Impossible Task, Backes wrote, is not an official name. Rather it’s the name she herself uses when something as simple as replying to emails or placing phone calls becomes suddenly undoable. The Impossible Task varies from person to person, and even more exasperating, the task itself can vary withinthe same person from day to day. In other words, you might have had zero trouble placing a phone call yesterday but find telephoning an Impossible Task to handle today. “From the outside,” Backes says, “[the task’s] sudden impossibility makes ZERO sense.” The task is rarely actually difficult, and it may be something you’ve done thousands of times before. This makes it very hard for outsiders to have sympathy. Or patience.
Ding ding ding! Dear God, I thought, she’s describing me.
Truth be told, I face dozens of Impossible Tasks almost everyday. Mundane but important information eludes me constantly (like computer passwords). I can’t remember simple sequences when receiving oral directions and almost always have to ask for repeated instructions. If I research a bit about the Impossible Task on Google, I might diagnose myself with Executive Functioning Disorder. If I complain about it to my husband, he might smile and tell me I don’t remember things that aren’t important to me. If I moan about my lack of recall at work….
Stop. Wait. No!
At work, I struggle with grueling ferocity to hide my lack of recall. My biggest challenges often relate to multi-tasking. Or new technology, which can leave me flummoxed. Shoot, even old technology presents Impossible Tasks. Judge me if you will, but often I’m the first to remind co-workers that I’m THAT PERSON, the more mature IT user in need of remedial assistance. My modus operandi? Make fun of myself first…before I become the laughing stock of others.
That’s not always possible, though. Sometimes I’m headed to a meeting off site, where our IT gurus are unavailable and my other colleagues are busy with their own pre-meeting to-do’s. On these occasions, I load myself down with iPhone notes and post-it’s to remind me of all sorts of mundane but important information that I might need to know:
call-in numbers and passwords
which cords to plug in where
how to link my laptop to the big screen
which icons or toolbars to click and when
a reminder that this too shall pass
Can you say ex.haust.ing?
I admit M. Molly Backes’ post comforted me. A good bit. She’d cut open her own veins to bleed out loud about something personal and poignant. Close to 15,000 readers liked that Twitter post. Hundreds commented “hell, yes!” They totally understood the Impossible Task.
Part of me, though, got little solace from Ms. Backes’ post. I mean, why does my brain not work better? Why do I struggle so with recall, especially when it comes to technology? Even at home, my computer gets testy. I swear, it freezes up when I’m having my most prolific thoughts. Technology, ugh. “I can’t keep doing this, Rice!” I’ll holler from my downstairs office to my husband’s upstairs workspace. “It’s too hard.”
Sometimes Rice will come down the stairs to offer help. Other times, he doesn’t hear me. (Or maybe he’s ignoring me?) During my most recent outburst, he simply wasn’t home. Agitated, I rose from my chair and paced into the kitchen. There on the floor sat my tennis shoes. Yes, THE shoes that represented my grandson’s recent Impossible Task. Both shoes had been tied by Britton, in double-knots even, because sometimes you can go that extra mile if you just take your time. “Practice takes patience.” My own words rang in my ears. “And patience takes time.”
Taking the time to teach a little boy to tie his shoes had been a lesson of love from me to him. Staring at those double-knotted shoelaces, I realized they held a lesson for me as well. Being patient with Britton is easy. So why is it so hard to be patient with myself? Especially at work, patience with myself is often my most Impossible Task.
So here’s to upping my game when it comes to sharing time and practicing patience. May I offer these gifts to others often. But may I also shower them on myself. After all, doesn’t the present of patience say “you’re worth it”? Doesn’t the gift of time say “you are loved”?
That, my friends, is just one of the wonderful lessons my grandson has taught me.
(Today's post is in honor of a very special anniversary. Only ten days late!!)
Dear Rice,
Do you ever wonder how we’ve managed to stay married for 39 years? I do! I mean, I’m glad about it. But is it luck? Stubbornness? Divine intervention? (Us above, Year 0.)
Thirty-nine years. That’s a lot of anniversary celebrations. There’ve been decadent dinners at John’s in Boulder…the Briarwood in Golden…the Blue Ridge Grill in Atlanta. Romantic getaways, too, such as to Canoe Bay in Wisconsin and the Annapolis Inn in Maryland. (Best B&B evah!)
Of course, not all 39 celebrations have been starry and passionate. Remember our 20th? You had a business trip to New Orleans, and I refused to go with you. (Me in the Big Easy in July? Our marriage wouldn’t have survived my humidity fit.) And let’s not forget this year’s trip to Michigan to witness my sister Lisa marrying her long-time love Mitch…on our anniversary. Nothing says “Happy 39th” quite like sharing a hotel room with a two-month-old granddaughter, her brother, and their mother. For better or worse, the uber road trip and room-sharing allowed us to enjoy Mitch and Lisa’s garden wedding…their reception on the river…and the photos snapped in between at the Y, where their love story started twelve years ago. (Lisa and Mitch below, Year 0.)
Speaking of anniversary memories, do you remember our 33rd? Or should I call it by its other name: The Lake Martin 9-1-1 Incident?
The dog days of summer were upon us. We should’ve been carefree empty nesters. Yet our adult children kept boomeranging back home. My mom needed a lot of care—getting to chemo and doctor’s appointments. Work deadlines were merciless. We were burned out. When a co-worker suggested to you that we use her lake house for a weekend getaway, we were on it. I can still see her place in my mind—beautiful, rustic, chic. And the lake—clear, aqua, expansive—against a lush green landscape. A couple icy adult beverages and some down time on the dock were just the ticket. No cell service? No problem. We were on the lake!
There on the water, I felt alive like I hadn’t felt forever. I eyed the jet skis tied at the dock. I called dibs on the red one. Named her Stella, then bragged to you about how the next day, Stella and I were gonna go out and spin double nickels on the lake together! (That’s code for 55, my pending age at the time, and the speed limit I was ready to push. And yes, let’s pretend that’s me and Stella in the pic below.)
“Why wait?” you asked. (You loooooove to egg me on.) And the next thing I knew, I was speeding across the lake, wind and water whipping my hair. Exhilarated, I found the marina “right beyond the point,” as they say in lake-speak. I visited with several of the locals, and then I gassed up and headed back onto the water. I loved this. I totally loved Lake Martin.
Here’s the thing, though. After leaving the marina, I realized that I didn’t know Lake Martin. (For instance, I didn’t then know that its surface covers over 68 square miles in three different counties.) Yup, I was out on a big ol’ lake…without a cell phone…and without recollection of the name of Linda’s subdivision or her street address. Shoot, I didn’t even know Linda’s last name.
Only after leaving the marina did I actually start to pay attention to my surroundings. I passed by colorful clusters of Adirondack chairs on the shore…cozy cottages…flapping flags. Then I passed them again. And again. Meanwhile, black clouds loomed. Lightning flirted, about to flicker. I couldn’t find Linda’s lake house. Nor could I retrace my way to the marina. Then yowza! I spotted a father and son still fishing on their dock. I edged Stella near them.
“If you don’t help me,” I screeched, “I’m going to beach myself right here and die in your cove in the rain and the lightning!” Okay, so maybe my memory of this is a tad dramatic. But the next thing I knew, the father and son started up their boat and had me follow them through the now dark waters back to the marina. I waved a “thank you” as some young people near the dock helped me secure Stella.
People seemed glad to see me…almost as if they knew me. Then I realized they practically did. They explained that an “elderly gentleman” had driven there “hours” earlier, worried about his wife on the water. I’m sorry that made me snicker because, truly, I felt bad about the worry I had caused you. I asked if someone could drive me to the local police station, figuring that was my best bet for connecting with you at that point.
Yet the next thing I knew, I was in the back seat of a jeep, riding around the wooded back roads of Lake Martin. The two young fellows in the front seat insisted they could find Linda’s lake house. They begged me to remember landmarks. “A little chapel, maybe?” I recalled. What about road names? they asked. “Any road names?”
“Peckerwood!” I shouted, ecstatic and then mortified to remember that particular name. Seconds later, I recognized the street sign. And then Linda’s subdivision sign. Hallelujah!
We pulled into Linda’s drive. The jeep engine was still running when the front door of the lake house flung open. You ran out, two law officers on your tail. You looked ashen from worry and about eighty years old. For a minute I thought you might chew me out. But you didn’t. Your smile lit the night, and you hugged me tight. Realizing I was safe, the officers left PDQ. So did my young heroes—before we could even offer a reward.
Later down on the dock, you shared your version of the story. You called the police after leaving the marina. (Certainly I was okay, but what if….?) The officers came to Linda’s and paced the dock with you. They shined their flashlights into the water. They eyed you with suspicion. Made you feel like you were in a Law and Order episode. Asked you a zillion questions.
As for me, I asked you only one: “How could you not remember after 30-plus years with me that I get lost everywhere, even in my own driveway?” To your credit, you didn’t attempt a comeback. And maybe there lies the key to a lasting marriage: Sometimes you just have to shrug, grin, and give in to the crazy.
So thanks for 39 years of crazy. Here’s to more fun years ahead. Love you loads! Me