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Author, Historian, Storyteller

Fathers, Live and Learn, WritingView all 3 comments

Growing up my dad had two go-to pieces of advice that he used for just about any situation. ‘Shit or get off the pot’ – I think it’s perfectly clear where I got my poetic turn of phrase – and ‘Pick your battles, not everything is worth getting upset about.’ While I definitely think the former was his favorite, the latter always seemed to come up when I would do something that I assumed he would get upset about – mostly because my friend’s parents had – only to find out that he wasn’t upset at all. He would simply remind me that I was a good kid, straight-a student, etc., that kids made mistakes, and that he had better things to get upset about. Now mind you, I did see him get upset on occasion, but those occasions were few and far between. Over time, I realized that those ‘better things’ were only things that truly mattered. Things that would make a difference 5 or 10 years down the road. Something that would be forgotten in a week or two, would illicit a raised eyebrow at the most.

Get off the pot

Sometimes I have to remind myself of that. I blog on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and it is a goal of mine this year to keep to that schedule and not skip days like I did quite often last year. So this year I’ve been sticking to it, and I’ve been doing a good job of it too. Until yesterday. I didn’t get a blog written and that broke the longest streak I have ever had. This made me upset. Not crying, throw a temper tantrum upset, but enough that I was down on myself. I had broken my streak, and I didn’t like that. Then last night as I was cleaning out all of my kitchen cabinets with my roommate – long story – my dad’s words came back to me, ‘You’ve got better things to be upset about. Pick your battles.’

That’s when I realized that I had picked my battle yesterday, and I had picked it correctly. For some time now I have lost my confidence in my Heroines of History articles. I have no idea why, or what triggered this, but I find myself paralyzed when it comes down to writing them. I do the research, and I can talk about the woman all day, but for whatever reason, when it comes time to put words on the page I freeze up. I come up with something else that has to be done first, something that is more important. I push it aside and keep moving the task down my to-do list. Well yesterday, I guess I decided to follow my dad’s first piece of advice – shit or get off the pot. It was time to write that piece and get it checked off my to-do list. So I started, and I hated everything that came out. I think I rewrote the first paragraph seven times before it was even tolerable enough to move on. It was painful and laborious, but eventually I worked through the crap – fear, loathing, self-doubt – and by the time I was nearing the end of the article, I found, much to my amazement, that I was actually enjoying myself. Writing her story was making my blood flow with a purpose again.

Baby

I had chosen my battle for the day, and I had won. So what was the point of getting upset about missing a blog post? So this week I’ll blog on Tuesday and Friday. That’s perfectly acceptable. I have better things to get upset about.

Fathers, Mothers, Right vs Wrong, SistersView all 2 comments

My sister once said to me, “For someone who has the biggest vocabulary I know, you sure say the word ‘Fuck’ a lot.” I took this as a complement. She had not meant it as a complement. Truth be told, she swears very little. I can’t even remember the last time that I heard her swear. I, on the other hand, tend to swear like a very well-educated pirate. What my sister doesn’t comprehend is that I don’t swear for the shock value, or because I can’t think of anything else to say. Trust me when I say, that I can think of a plethora of other expletives to fit any number of situations. But using a swear word, one of those “taboo”, “inappropriate” words has a power behind it that still exists even if you are all alone.

Lalochezia

That power is given to those words from the moment that we start to learn language. Kids get in trouble for swearing. They are told that those are naughty words or only for adults. Which of course means that by the time you hit fifth grade you’re uttering every swear word you can think of with your friends and then giggling incessantly if a teacher or parent should walk by and almost hear you. At least this is what is was like with my friends. But then of course, I grew up in a very small mountain town where there wasn’t much to do. So maybe giggling at swear words was our version of hanging out at the mall. Who knows. At any rate, swear words take on this aura of rebelliousness. For most kids.

I was not one of those kids, because I didn’t get in trouble for swearing. When I was about nine, my mother scolded me for saying the word ‘shit.’ I pointed out to her that she said it all the time. Sometimes in different languages. I also told her that I didn’t buy the whole argument about adult words vs kid words especially since adults used those words around kids. So she made me a deal. She said that she wouldn’t swear for the entire week, and if she slipped up then I would be allowed to say that word with impunity. By the end of the week I could say them all. Needless to say, dad, who worked in the school district I attended, was not overly thrilled with this deal. Especially since I’m sure he imagined getting reports about me swearing in class. So dad added an addendum to the agreement: I could say any word that I wanted to, but if I got in trouble for my particular word choices, I was on my own. It was up to me to take responsibility for what I said.

Sailor

Herein lay my first lesson in the power of words. I was nine years old and allowed to say anything I wanted free of reprisals from my parents. But I had to learn not where certain words were appropriate, but how they were received and whether or not I liked that reception. For example, swearing at school out a recess with my friends was fun and daring. Swearing during class in front of the teacher got me trouble. Obviously I liked the first, but not the second, so I kept swearing in the first instance and never swore in the second. It was in this way that I developed the ability to switch my vulgarity on and off. Around older adults (who appear to be the type that would not appreciate it), or children, I don’t swear. I turn the pirate off. Around my friends, and heck even sometimes in my writing, the pirate gets turned back on.

Quite frankly, I prefer it and I’m more relaxed when the pirate gets to come out. I swear, because I choose to swear. It provides a lovely release of frustration, or surprise, or anger, or whatever emotion tends to be surging. And I’ve even seen studies that show that people who swear regularly are healthier and in general more honest. Don’t know if I believe that, but there you go. So for those of you who were offended, or “put-off,” by the f-bombs that were dropped in my last post, I apologize. However, I’m not going to start mincing my words. I do have an extensive lexicon, but as my sister so adroitly noticed, ‘Fuck’ happens to be my favorite word.

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Growing up it was a rare occurrence to see my father truly upset or mad. It’s true that my sister and I were better behaved than most kids – that tends to happen when you have to start helping care for your mother by the time you’re eight – but we were not angels, and there were plenty of opportunities for dad to get upset with us. Despite this, he would rarely get mad. One day, after doing something that I was sure would result in at least a few fireworks, and getting none, I actually asked him why he didn’t get upset more often. After all, my friends talked about their parents blowing gaskets on a regular basis. Then my dad said something that has stuck with me ever since. He said, “Kid, there are better things to get upset about in this life than (insert whatever dumb but inane thing I had done).”

There are better things to get upset about.

How simple, yet profound is that statement. Think about all of the things that you got upset about in the past week, the past month. How many of them, in retrospect, weren’t really that big of a deal? I’m gonna guess most of them. That’s at least what I discovered when I really started looking at the things that I got upset about. So I stopped. Now don’t get me wrong, I have my moments and I’ve definitely gotten upset with people, but years later, I find that like my father, it takes a lot to get me truly upset or mad. I’ve learned that I have better things to expend my energy on. I choose my battles. However, what I’ve recently come to discover is that it really goes beyond choosing your own battles because when you get upset you’re actually choosing a battle for someone else as well.

'If you want to yell at our service agent because you're a frustrated psycho who has no say at home or work, and want to take it out on others, press 1.'

I work with a couple of people who get upset about everything, and I mean everything! We’re talking if somebody moves their lunch from one side of the fridge to the other on the wrong day then somebody is getting yelled at, and not necessarily the person who moved the lunch. I’ve seen it time and time again and what I’ve noticed is that it becomes this horrible chain reaction. Person 1 gets pissed off so they yell at Person 2. Person 2 is now upset because they were yelled at, so they take it out on Person 3. Person 3 is now in a bad mood so they take it out on Person 4, etc. It keeps going until somebody finally takes the abuse, but instead of passing it on, they let it roll off their shoulders and they greet the next person they see with a smile instead of a frown. It keeps going until somebody finally realizes that they didn’t do anything wrong, that the other person is having some sort of an issue. It keeps going until someone decides that there are better things to get upset about. But who knows how many people have been negatively affected by the time you get to that last person who chooses to let that battle pass them by.

Think about it, how many times have you been around someone who gets upset at everything and then watched as that ire is passed on to someone else. It’s like a virus and I’ve realized that I’ve come to a point in my life that I don’t have time for people like that. I realize that there are better things to get upset about than the ordinary idiocy of everyday life, and with that I realize that there are better people to spend my time with than those who get worked up over the smallest infraction. I guess I feel like life is too short to be mad all day.

, , , , Fathers, Humor, Life, Live and LearnView all 2 comments

I take great pleasure in the fact that I can make people laugh. The more they laugh, the more I want them to keep laughing, so I keep cracking jokes. More than one person has asked me if I do stand-up. That’s on the bucket-list. Until then I keep my act much more spontaneous with smaller audiences. I think I’ve always been so drawn to laughter because of the power it has. Laughter is therapeutic, contagious and can diffuse some of the tensest situations. I definitely use laughter as a self defense mechanism. If a mood is too dour, or a conversation begins to drift into unwanted territory there’s nothing like laughter to distract and redirect the focus. My particular brand of comedy is self-deprecating. I generally make fun of myself or my situation . . . or word play, which I’m sure is a huge shock to everyone.

I credit the development of this particular brand of comedy to my father. He is very clever and gets seemingly endless joy from jerking people’s chains. Well as an inquisitive child I would bombard him with questions about anything and everything. Most of the time the teacher in him would come out and I would get a detailed answer. Generally much more detailed than I was actually interested in. However, every now and then, when the mood would strike him, he would answer questions like this:

Kat: Why is the sky blue?

Dad: Because it would look weird green.

Kat: What does the ‘H’ stand for in Jesus H. Christ?

Dad: Henry.

No hesitation, nothing but confidence. Then he would walk away or go back to doing whatever it was he was doing, conversation closed. Now is a good time to add that on top of being inquisitive, I was also very gullible. So I would believe him. After all, he was my dad and 98% of the time his answers were absolutely correct. However for that 2%, his answers were complete bunk and I was left to figure out which were which, and I did figure it out. Generally in a very public, loud fashion.

I have a very underdeveloped filter – okay, it’s not underdeveloped it’s overworked keeping me from swearing like a sailor at all times – which means that thoughts tend to jump straight out of my mouth. I don’t pull punches. I also say stupid things with full confidence because I learned them from a “reliable” source. So on more than one occasion growing up, I would announce things to a gathering of classmates like, “No, the ‘H’ stands for Henry. Jesus Henry Christ.”

Then they would all laugh at me.

You’re probably laughing at me right now. In retrospect, it’s pretty funny. So I was faced with a decision. I could either get really embarrassed, hate my life and slink away to hopefully never show my face again, or I could laugh with them. After a couple of these incidents it occurred to me that maybe this was my lot in life, so I should go with the flow. I started to laugh with them. That’s when I discovered that not only could I laugh with them, I could make them laugh more. I really liked that feeling. I could transform from the butt of the joke, to the joke, to the joker. It’s a powerful feeling, and there is nothing like the rush you get from brightening someone’s day and putting a smile on their face. I am completely addicted to it. They’re all gonna laugh at me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Laugh

Fathers, Life, Love, Mothers, VoiceLeave a comment

My father sent me a framed picture he came across of my mother in her senior year of high school.  Looking at that photo a bittersweet melancholy fell over me.  She was so young with that spark of hopeful anticipation in her eyes.  She had her whole life in front of her.  Little did she know, she had already lived almost half of her life.  Little did she know, a disease would so drastically ravage her body and mind her children would never get to meet that woman in the photo.  At her funeral, I sat and listened to people talk about a vibrant, head-strong woman I didn’t know.

My mother didn’t get to see me graduate from college.  She was not there to tell me how proud she was when I won my Emmys.  I will not have the opportunity to ask her what she did for her something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue when I get married.  If I have kids, they will never be held by their grandmother.  However, these are not the things that brought about the melancholy while looking at her picture.  It was really much simpler than that.  The melancholy was caused by the fact that I don’t know my mother’s voice.  I don’t mean the actual sound of her voice, but her personality.  Was she sarcastic, was she witty, was she a straight shooter?  What were her dreams and aspirations for herself?  For me?

So to the mothers and fathers out there I have a request.  Write your children a letter.  Not on the computer, but by hand.  Write them a letter.  Tell them that you love them.  Tell them how proud you are of them.  Tell them of your hopes and aspirations for their success and happiness.  Tell them of your hopes and aspirations for your own success and happiness.  Tell them of your dreams.  If you haven’t achieved them yet, tell them that, but you’re working toward them.  Tell them your favorite music, movies, sports, board games.  Tell them the story of the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.  Tell them of the bravest thing you’ve ever done.  Tell them a joke.  Tell them of the things that are important to you.  It doesn’t matter what you tell them, just let them see your personality.  Let them see you.

I pray that the letter will never be needed.  That it will go unread tucked away and forgotten in some drawer.  But life is unexpected and sometimes all too short.  Give your children the opportunity to know you, whether through your actions or through your words.  Write your children a letter.  I wager it will turn into one of their most prized possessions.  Even if it doesn’t get to their hands until after you pass away peacefully in your sleep at the age of 100.

Love You Quote

Fathers, WritingLeave a comment

It is a very recent development that I claim the title of writer.  Despite the fact that it has always been something that I did, I never really identified with it as part of who I was.  However, when I stumble upon things like the one I am about to share, it makes me shake my head that I didn’t figure out that writing really is a deeply ingrained part of who I am.  So for your father’s day enjoyment I present an oldie – judging from the handwriting I’m going to guess that this was presented to my father when I was about ten.  I do hope you will forgive the liberties that ten-year-old me took with the rhyming scheme, 31-year-old me resisted the urge to edit.

 

Twas the Night Before Father’s Day

 

Twas the night before father’s day and all through the world

The mothers were stirring cause the baby just hurled.

The children weren’t nestled all snug in their beds

Cause my sister just kicked me square in the head

Mom was in her curlers and pop in his cap

Finally settled us down before I kicked her right back

Revenge isn’t sweet said pop with a sigh

That wasn’t very nice to kick her in the eye

When out in the den there arose such a clatter

Pop sprang from the room to see what was the matter.

When what with his wondering eyes did he see?

But a miniature pond cause I broke the window accidentally.

The rain was pouring in so lively and free

Dad knew in a moment new carpeting it would be.

He was fuming and red from his head to his toe

But calmed down again cause he knew I felt low.

And then in the attic we heard with a beat

The prancing and pawing of little bird’s feet

Faster than bullets towards us they came

Their leader whistled and shouted and called them by name

Come on Ollie, now Stanley, now Larry and Moe,

On Wally, on Beaver, on Shemp and Groucho.

They shouted as they fled off into the night

Happy father’s day to all, and the kids won’t even fight!

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With summer coming up, for some of us it’s already upon us, there seems to be a lot of talk about kids and boredom.  Which kind of makes me scratch my head.  Growing up, my sister and I were not allowed to be bored.  Okay, we were allowed to be bored, but my dad made it very clear from a very young age that we DID NOT want him to “solve” our boredom problem. His theory was that there were always things to do, so how could someone possibly be bored.  Therefore he was more than happy to direct you to one of those tasks like: sweeping out the garage, hauling firewood, picking up dog crap in the backyard, sanding the front deck (not with power sanders mind you, a block of wood with sandpaper stapled to it), etc.  And should the word “bored” escape from your lips these were not suggestions, these were directives. Generally half way through the assigned task he would holler from the door, “Still bored?  I’ve got more stuff for ya!”  We learned quickly that we were NEVER bored.  EVER!

We were kids though, so there was generally the yearly reminder at the beginning of the summer when one of us would let it slip.  Or worse yet, one of our friends would let it slip.  Our father had no problems setting any child under his roof to a task to “cure” boredom, and cure it he did!  We did not have video games or computer games, we did not have the internet and we did not have 200+ channels to choose from or movies on demand.  We had books, board games, bicycles, the great outdoors and our imaginations.  We used all of them and quickly discovered that there was no need to be bored.  We had the world at our disposal . . . as long as we stayed in the yard and came in when it got dark.  But truth be told, even that was negotiable.

While I am sure the ten year old me sanding the front deck would disagree, I think he did all of us a great service.  I can’t remember the last time that I was bored.  It’s not in my vocabulary.  I always have something to do, can create something to do to amuse myself.  I don’t need outside stimulation or motivation.  He taught us to be independent, starting with something as simple as our own entertainment.  Well played dad.  Lesson learned and deck sanded . . . I’m still a little bitter about the deck . . . not that you’d notice or anything . . .