Dear Mr. Miranda

 

Dear Mr. Miranda,

 

I admit I was late to board the Hamilton train.  I didn’t want to get caught up in all the hype, jumping on the bandwagon for the “greatest musical of our time” kind of thing.  So I put off listening to the songs despite everyone I knew saying how amazing it was. 

 

I am a costumed interpreter (CI) at an historic home here in Louisville.  The people who owned the house where I reenact were friends with our founders. George Rogers Clark and his brother, William Clark, and their friends and relatives were mighty unto themselves. The older brothers fought with Washington and Hamilton and Lafayette.  They knew Madison and Jefferson and Burr.  In fact, Aaron Burr visited Locust Grove in 1806 when he was “taking a leave’” from Washington after the duel that killed Hamilton. 

 

About a month ago, our CIs were asked to attend the preview showing of "The Making of Hamilton" down at the Kentucky Center for the Arts, sponsored by PBS/KET.  We were doing a joint promotion of all things related to the musical here in Louisville.  I donned my best Regency dress and put my hair in a turban and proceeded to spend the evening inviting people to Locust Grove to cross the same threshold that had once been crossed by Aaron Burr.

 

When time came for the showing, I joined the rest of the attendees and went into the theater to watch.  I admit it….I was hooked.  From the very first song, I could not get your words out of my head.  I came home and immediately pulled the music up on You Tube and began listening non-stop.  I watched the documentary again, this time with my husband, and he became hooked as well.  We loved how you changed the lens through which we view history.  How the players are all people of color.  How you made our past become present.  It was incredible.

 

I don’t know your politics, but these past couple of weeks have been rough for me.  I’m a white, middle-aged, Catholic woman, living in upper middle class suburbia, and I am devastated by the election and all of the hate that has risen to the surface because of it.  It has been hard to wake up every day with the knowledge that our new president is someone like Donald Trump. 

 

Today, I decided to put my headphones on and go mulch the leaves in my lawn before the cold sets in.  I set my music to the Hamilton tracks and went to work.  As I walked back and forth across my yard, your words became so present to me that I began to cry.  

When Hamilton says to Burr, “If you stand for nothing, Burr, what will you fall for?” I realized I will need to be willing to stand up for what I believe, even more now that the election has unleashed so much bigotry.

 

As the Schyler sisters sang, “Look around.  Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now,” I realized that for all that has gone wrong in my life these past few weeks, I really AM lucky to be alive right now.  In this time.  In this country. 

When President Washington sang, “Teach them how to say goodbye,” I thought of President Obama welcoming Trump into the White House last week, teaching all of us that we don’t always get our way and for this experiment in self-government to continue to succeed, we have to look to our past for examples of greatness and follow those examples.

 

When “The World Turned Upside Down” came on, I thought, “Yeah.  That’s about how I feel right now.”  My world was turned upside down last week, but I took heart from the song. 

 

The whole time I was working, listening to the music, I kept thinking about my ancestors who fought in the Revolution and my ancestors who left Europe in the last century to come to America.  I kept thinking that we are greater than the hate.  We are better than what we appear to be right now.  I thought about how our ancestors sacrificed so much for the freedom they so desperately desired, and I became more determined to stand up for those freedoms today.  Your music made me feel empowered to speak up going forward, to not be afraid to stand for the rights of everyone and to call out the wrongs that I see when I see them.

 

I’ve not seen Hamilton, but I hope to someday whenever it comes near Louisville.  I know I will cry the whole time.  Thank you for such a powerful gift to the world. 

I Am Voting

I am voting for my grandmothers, both of whom were born before women could vote. One, raised in France, was sent to every school a girl could attend because her father wanted his children to have the best education possible and did not want their gender to be a barrier. The other, raised on a farm in rural Kentucky, went to a one-room school house and never graduated from high school. Both of them became productive members of society and raised good families and daughters who believed women could do anything. 

I am voting for my parents, who had only daughters, who taught us that we were capable and smart and could do anything we wanted. My parents, who raised us to believe that everyone was equal; that discrimination was wrong; that the color of one's skin didn't matter; that we should share our bounty with the less fortunate; that we should take care of the Earth that God made for us; that is it okay to disagree, but that it is not okay to be disagreeable.

I am voting for my dad, who was a precinct captain, and who let me canvass the neighborhood with him every election. I hung out the car window, putting flyers in mailboxes as he drove through the streets where we lived. My dad, who worked the polls every year, who got up at 4:30 a.m. to drive into town to get doughnuts for the workers and stayed until the end of the day. My dad, who would bring the election printouts home, spread them on the kitchen table, and sometimes let us call in the results to democratic headquarters. 

I am voting for my mom, who took us to the polls with her; who let us pull the lever to shut the curtain and then flip the smaller levers to vote for our candidates. My mom, who didn't go to college, but who made sure that her daughters did. My mom, who worked in a school for nearly 30 years as a teacher's aide, and raised hundreds of children and was dearly loved by all.

I am voting for my husband, who is a member of our armed services, who has spent 25 years defending our freedoms. My husband, who has been my partner for a quarter of a century, who believes that my job as a stay-at-home mom is equally important to our family as his; my husband, who is helping me to raise a son who believes that women are equal and our daughters, who believe that they are equal. 

I am voting for my son, who is seeing that the world is not always a nice place; who is trying to make it better; who stands up for his sisters and for women who are marginalized; who will lead his peers as the next generation of young men become old enough to make a difference.

I am voting for my daughters, who are beautiful and smart and can do anything they set their minds to. I am voting for my older daughter, who just last month, was called "sweetie" and "dear heart" by a male professor at a college she visiting to see if she wanted to attend in order to study chemistry. I am voting for my younger daughter, who doesn't take any crap from anybody, who once told a boy who said something mean about one of her friends, "That's my friend, and if you can't be nice to her, then I don't think we need to go out anymore."

I am voting for my 88-year old aunt, who I am taking to the polls on Tuesday. She needs a walker to get around. She has macular degeneration and is nearly deaf, but she wants to vote for the first woman president. 

Finally, I am voting for the best qualified candidate to come along in many generations. A woman who understands the intricacies of the world we live in today. A woman who is cool under pressure and compassionate to the less fortunate. A woman who knows what it is like to have to make tough decisions and who won't make them lightly. A woman who believes that America is already great and who will make it even better. 

I am voting for Hillary Clinton. I hope you will too.

The System: College Admissions and Scholarships

I am exhausted with the college application process, and I am not even the one applying to college.  The whole system is a game, and I, for one, am just plain disgusted with everything about it.

For Kyle, choosing a college wasn't such a big ordeal.  He was a good student with a decent GPA and an above average ACT score.  He had a solid resume with activities and service.  He could have gotten in pretty much any of the schools he applied to, but his scholarship opportunities were minimal.  He didn't really know what he wanted to do, but he knew he wanted to graduate with as little debt as possible, so he decided early on that he'd attend an in-state, public university in order to use his KEES money and get in-state tuition.  Luckily for him, he scored a coveted full-ride scholarship at UofL because of all of his civic involvement during high school.  Had he not gotten that scholarship, he would have probably ended up at UofL or Northern Kentucky University or Western Kentucky University, and it would have been fine.  The merit scholarships he received were enough to offset the majority of the tuition, and he would have had to take out only a few thousand dollars of loans.

Claire, on the other hand, is in a quandary.  She is my most academically gifted child with an unweighted GPA of 4.0 and weighted well into the mid 4.5 range.  She's taken the hardest classes at school.  She's involved in several clubs.  She's danced since she was four years old.  She works at a nursing home.  She is a Kentucky Governor's Scholar.  But her ACT score is at the bottom end of "full ride."  

Claire is a perfectionist, very methodical, and takes her time in order to ensure accuracy.  Therefore, even though she gets 100% of the questions correct when taking the ACT at home un-timed, she fails to complete some of the sections during the actual test and has to guess at the last few, missing enough to keep her from attaining that magic number that equals "Major Scholarship" even though she scores high enough to get accepted to pretty much any school she wants to attend.

So we are left with this:  she can get in; she can get good scholarships, but we can't pay for the rest of the tuition without taking out tens of thousands of dollars in loans.

And this is where the bullshit starts.

Thankfully, we are able to afford ACT classes and a private tutor for her.  After her first ACT test, we paid for her to attend a week-long class right before the next ACT, and she was able to bring her score up about 4 points.  The next couple of times she took the ACT, she would go up in one area and down in another, getting basically the same composite score, which, while high by most any standard, wasn't high enough.  

So we paid for a private tutor.  She went twice a week for several weeks to work on speed and short cuts and tricks of the trade.  We are waiting to see if her latest score improves, and I hope it does, because we've spent nearly a thousand dollars over a couple of summers trying to help her reach that magic number.

But here's the thing...what about kids from families who don't have the money to pay for a private tutor?  What about kids who don't have the guidance from home?  It's not fair to kids who may be just as smart or smarter than Claire not to have the same advantages she had.

And then there is the Common Application.  This fabrication of a college application is so much crap that I don't even know where to begin.  Okay, let's start with the essay prompts.  

1. Some students have a background, identity, interest, or talent that is so meaningful they believe their application would be incomplete without it. If this sounds like you, then please share your story.

 2. The lessons we take from failure can be fundamental to later success. Recount an incident or time when you experienced failure. How did it affect you, and what did you learn from the experience?

3. Reflect on a time when you challenged a belief or idea. What prompted you to act? Would you make the same decision again?

4. Describe a problem you've solved or a problem you'd like to solve. It can be an intellectual challenge, a research query, an ethical dilemma - anything that is of personal importance, no matter the scale. Explain its significance to you and what steps you took or could be taken to identify a solution.

5. Discuss an accomplishment or event, formal or informal, that marked your transition from childhood to adulthood within your culture, community, or family.

But you can't write about the death of someone you love, and you can't write about a sports failure, and you must make it "unique" and grab the reader at the first sentence. Claire has been working on hers for weeks, but she just can't find the right tone or idea.  She knows the admissions people are looking for that certain "uniqueness" in the essay, and she is stuck.

Again, some kids are able to hire writing coaches who help them come up with a topic, do a rough draft, write, edit, and then turn it in.  We haven't done that yet, but I know people who have.  Good for them if they have the money.  We could, I guess, but I just don't want to.  It shouldn't be necessary.  

There are people who are able to hire college counselors who do nothing but help their kids submit applications, prep for the ACT, do mock interviews, etc., all in the hopes of getting the full-ride.  And that's great...for those kids.  But the majority of people in the good ol' USA don't have that luxury, so what we are creating is a privileged class of college students who get the scholarships and the full-rides over kids from families who can't afford all of the one-on-one.  I admit, we are a part of that first group.  It's hard not to do it if you can, and it will benefit your child.

Meanwhile, we have all of these colleges and universities coming to the high schools, touting their institutions of higher learning, getting the kids all psyched up to go on a campus visit.  And we go, and we love it, and then we see the sticker price, and leave with our mouths hanging open in shock.  

Claire would like to maybe go to the University of Pittsburgh or St. Louis University.  We visited both last week, and the campuses are amazing.  The dorms at SLU are all new.  The workout facility is fantastic.  The opportunities for study abroad are top notch.  They even have a satellite campus in Madrid.  But the tuition alone is $40,000 a year plus fees.  Room and board another $12,000-13,000 a year.  If Claire gets the maximum amount of merit scholarship possible, she would get $76,000 over four years.  Nothing to sneeze at, for sure, but minus $76,000 from $210,000, and you are left trying to figure out how to come up with another $132,000.  

Sure there are grants and loans.  We filled out the FAFSA with Kyle, and we make too much to get any grants and not enough to afford the tuition without taking out the loans.  A student from SLU called our house after our visit asking if we had any questions.  I laughed and asked how do people afford SLU?  He replied that many of his friends get 50% tuition through scholarships.  Okay, great.  But that still leaves that tiny issue of where to come up with the other 100K.  

The University of Pittsburgh, Centre College, Hanover College, the University of Dayton...all of them were the same.  $40,000-55,000 a year.  Probably half tuition in merit scholarships.  We have to come up with the rest.  All of them offer full-rides, but maybe 10-20 max out of thousands of applications.  She could very well get one, and she might, but if she doesn't, then what?

So we are looking at in-state, public universities as a back-up plan.  I've told Claire she can apply for any school she wants.  She will also apply for any full-tuition scholarship she is eligible for at these schools (again with the "tell about a time you failed" essays).  But unless she gets a full-ride to one of the other universities, she will be going to UK or UofL or WKU.  Kirk and I feel very strongly that we don't want our kids to graduate with a mortgage payment unless they have a house to go with it.

Silent No More: Thoughts on the sexual harassment in my life

After the videotape of Donald Trump and Billy Bush surfaced yesterday, Kelly Oxford, a writer in LA, started a tweet storm with the hashtag #NotOkay.  She asked women to share their stories of sexual harassment, writing about their earliest memory of inappropriate behavior against them.  I started thinking about the times I was harassed over the years.  I remember my first experience, since it is seared into my brain because of the shame I felt at the time, but then an avalanche of unwanted and unwelcome sexual advances and comments started flowing through my mind.  I thought I would write them down.

My earliest memory of harassment happened at the end of sixth or seventh grade.  One of our classmates was having a pool party after the last day of school.  My mom sent me to school that day with my new bathing suit (a cute, rainbow two-piece that I loved) and my Garfield beach towel.  We walked over to her house en masse, joking and laughing on the way.  Her pool was above ground with a small deck around it, set back from her house and the patio where the moms sat to chaperone.

We changed and jumped into the water.  It was cold, but we were so excited to be swimming for the first time that summer, that we didn't mind.  We had chicken fights, kids were dunking each other, and  doing cannonballs off the deck.  Some got out to get food; others, like me, stayed in.

I was hanging with a friend when a group of boys came up and surrounded me and started splashing me in the face.  As I tried to splash back, I heard one of them yell, "Grab her!" and two boys grabbed my arms and two grabbed my legs and held me back against the side of the pool.

My immediate fear was that I was going to drown.  Water was splashing over my head and I was gasping for air.  All of a sudden, one of the boys went underwater and grabbed my bathing suit bottoms and pulled them down.  He came up shouting, "I can see her hairy bush!"

The boys holding my arms and legs let go, and all went under the water to get a glimpse of my pubic hair before I had a chance to get my suit bottoms up.  I pulled them up as quickly as I could and got out of the pool and ran to the patio, where the moms, oblivious to what was going on, sat drinking Tab and talking.

I wrapped myself in my beach towel and sat in the sun, ashamed and humiliated.  I felt vulnerable and angry, and I never told a soul.

That was just the beginning.

During the last couple of years at my Catholic grade school, I continually had my uniform skirt pulled up so the boys could get a glance at my underwear.  Once it was on a tour of the museum at the Cathedral of the Assumption downtown where we were learning about our faith before our Confirmation.  Once I was having my period, and blood had leaked onto my underwear.  I told my teacher, and instead of admonishing the boys to keep their hands to themselves, she said maybe I should start wearing shorts under my skirt.  I finally did, but I should not have had to do that.

I was an early bloomer.  I hated my breasts.  I had one shirt that I wore nearly every day that smashed me down enough that I remained flat-chested as long as possible, but it wasn't long at all.  I was very well-endowed for my age.  Boys in my class would hold me down and feel me up or "accidentally" bump into my breasts.  I had boys give me "titty twisters."  I was called "Jugs" and "Tits."  I began to slouch to cover up my figure.  My mom used to get after me all the time to stand up straight and put my shoulders back, but I was afraid if I did that, it would only bring on more "titty twisters," more groping, more condescending language.  I felt humiliated and ashamed of my body.  Still, I never said a word.

Most of high school was spent in an all-girl environment, and I had steady boyfriends for much of the time, so it wasn't too bad.  I did have a date with a guy my senior year who just randomly pulled into a bank parking lot on our first date and started trying to feel me up.  We only went out once.  Another guy got angry with me because I told him to stop trying to touch my breasts.  He said, "Well then why did you agree to go out with me?"

I worked as a cashier at a family grocery store.  Our assistant manager was good friends with the owner and harassed me constantly.  "What size bra do you wear?" "Sharron, bend over and let me see you pick up that pencil" that he had dropped on purpose.  He would come up next to me while I was ringing someone up and stand as close as he could and brush his body against mine. He was about 6'2" and had played football.  I am 5'4".  Imagine how powerless I felt.  As an assistant manager, he was in charge of closing the store, and often I was one of two female cashiers working to close of the day.   He and the other male workers would make crude comments after the doors were locked.  The other female workers and I could do nothing.  Who could we tell?  He was friends with the owner.  We knew if we said anything, the harassment would only get worse.  I finally quit and went to work somewhere else, but I shouldn't have had to do that.  I never told anyone why I left.

I was at my general practitioner's for my annual pelvic exam when I was about 21.  My doctor did the vaginal exam with a nurse present but then came back in before I had a chance to get dressed.  He started flirting with me and asked me out to dinner five minutes after having his fingers inside me doing a Pap smear.  I sat on the exam table in a paper gown, the stirrups still out, no idea what to do.  I told him I had a boyfriend.  I felt gross and violated and still, I never said anything.  Who would I tell?  I didn't know.

I had a favorite high school teacher, who I respected and admired, ask if he could kiss me.

I had a youth minister tell me that if he was 20 years younger, he'd ask me out.

I had a priest tell me that if he'd met me 30 years earlier, he wouldn't be a priest.

I had an army officer tell me that pregnancy looked good on me because it sure made my boobs big.

I've been called a "MILF" by students where I was substitute teaching.

There are more, but you get the picture.

I'm not commenting on Trump.  I am saying that I have been harassed throughout my life, starting when I was 12 years old.  I know I am not alone as evidenced by #NotOkay.  This happens every single day to women all over the world.  I know my experiences are not as bad as some women have had, but they were bad enough over the years to bring me shame and humiliation and to make me embarrassed about my body.  It has taken me a long time to feel good about how I look.

I don't want my daughters or my nieces to ever experience what I did.  I have spoken with my girls about what I went through and told them to speak up.  To say stop.  To tell someone if anything like this ever happens to them.  I have told my son that he is never, ever to do or say anything to demean women, and that if he ever sees it happening, he is to speak up, to stand up against it.

So for all of those years that I remained silent, I will stay silent no more.  It was wrong in 1979.  It was wrong in 1987.  It was wrong in 2005.  It is wrong now, and it needs to stop.

I Knew You Before I Knew You

My older daughter, Claire, works in the dining room of a nearby nursing home.  She loves her job and the folks who live there, and they, in turn, love her sweet, smiling face.  I think watching my dad's decline, as hard as it was, gave her a sense of compassion for the elderly, and she treats them with much dignity.  More than once she has said, "They used to have lives outside of this nursing home..."

One gentleman, Mr. Farmer, reminds her of her Poppy.  She told him when she first started working there that he reminded her of her grandpa, and he said that she reminded him of his granddaughter.  They became friends, and Claire has gone in to visit Mr. Farmer on occasion, taking him coffee from Starbucks and listening to tapes of the songs he wrote when he was young.  He has Parkinson's now, and can no longer sing or play the guitar, but he was quite the musician at one time.

Mr. Farmer has a roommate named Elmer who has lost use of one arm.  Elmer is a little bit crotchety and sarcastic and teases a little hard. He was married 3 times and swears a lot.  Claire says he always asks her if she's got a boyfriend and if she's married yet.  She said he doesn't smile much.  She treats him kindly and said she feels guilty going to see Mr. Farmer and not Elmer.

Last week, Claire went in to work early to visit Mr. Farmer and try to figure out how they can get people to play his music.  She was telling me about the visit and how Elmer came in and was kind of jealous because nobody really comes to see him.   I asked her how come she called Mr. Farmer "Mr. Farmer" and Elmer "Elmer" and not by his last name.

She said, "Everybody just calls him Elmer.  I don't know why."

For some reason, I asked if she knew his last name, and she replied, "Yes, it's Walton."

"Elmer Walton?" I replied with surprise. "Did he own a barbershop?"

"I don't know," she answered, "but that sounds right.  I can check this weekend when I work.  Why?"

                                **************************************************

In 1998, Kyle had really bad hair.  He had cowlicks all over his head, and his hair stuck out like straw.  No amount of product could tame that mop.  He hated getting his haircut. Fought it.  Cried and screamed.  Sometimes I'd have to hold him on my lap to get through it.  Cookie Cutters was a no-go with all of the cool chairs and movies and balloons at the end.  There was just too much to distract him.  Supercuts or Fantastic Sam folks could not get the haircut right, and he'd end up looking worse than when we went in.  What he needed was a good, old-fashioned barbershop, and I found one just down the street from our house in the old neighborhood where we lived.

You guessed it...Walton's Barber Shop.

Walton's was the kind of place your dad would have gone to.  It was in the front room of an old shotgun house on a busy road.  The name "Walton's Barber Shop" was painted across the picture window and two old time barber chairs were set up in the space.  Jars of blue barbacide, clippers, and a brush sat on the shelves behind the chairs, and big mirrors covered the back wall.  A Coca Cola clock hung between the barber stations and under it was a calendar from the local car dealership.  A television set to the race of the day was mounted in the corner.  Red leather chairs sat along the side, some of them so old the leather had cracked.  Stacks of magazines piled in baskets next to the chairs, and a bin of Legos was available for any kids that might have to wait.  But the clincher was the bucket of Bazooka Bubble Gum on the counter.  I saw that and knew this was the place for a haircut for Kyle.

The barbers were brothers who had turned their mom's house into a barbershop.  It had been there for many, many years, and sometimes one or both of them would be there, either one able to whip Kyle's locks into shape.  He loved going to Walton's.  They always treated his three-year-old self like a grown up.

"You got a girlfriend?" they'd ask.  "You married yet?"  He thought it was so funny that grown ups would think he was old enough to get married.

They would pull out the bench and set it on the arms of the barber chair, help Kyle up, and get to work.  He never fussed.  He never complained.  He just climbed up onto the bench and sat still while one of the Walton brothers went to work, buzzing and clipping and powdering his neck off.  When they were done, he'd get two pieces of gum.  One for now and one for the road.  They'd shake his hand and tell him to watch out for the girls, and send us on our way.

One day when Kyle was 3 1/2, I documented his day in pictures and turned it into a book called Kyle's Day.  He got a haircut that day, and I took some pictures of him at Walton's.  We went to lunch afterward and then to a church picnic.  It was an ordinary day in our lives, but special too.  I made a book for his grandparents who lived out of town and kept a copy of us.  He loved reading it.

Kyle getting a haircut from Elmer's brother.  I wish I had a picture of Elmer.

Notice the tightly closed hand holding the coveted gum.

As Claire got older, and hard to keep down, she'd end up on that floor full of hair happily playing with the Legos while Kyle got his hair cut.  Gross, for sure, but it was once every couple of months, and I'd just throw both of them in the tub to get them cleaned off after a visit to Waltons.  She felt so grown up when she was finally allowed to have gum.

We stopped going to Walton's after we moved when Kyle was in kindergarten.  We tried getting a haircut there a few times, but it was out of the way, and he was old enough to go to Big League Barbers in the shopping center across the street, so that's what we did.

A couple of years ago, I was driving past Walton's and saw that it had closed.  It made me sad.

                           *******************************************************

When Claire went to work last week, she found Elmer and asked him if he'd ever owned a barbershop.

"Hell yeah I did," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh my gosh," she said, "you used to cut my brother's hair when he was little!  I used to come in there with my mom and Kyle and play with the Lego blocks you had in the corner."

He replied,  "Well, isn't that something?"

"And you had a big bucket of gum!" she said. "I loved that gum!  I have a lot of memories of going to your barbershop!"

She smiled.  "Elmer," she said, "I knew you before I knew you!"

His face began to soften, and then it was his turn to smile.

The Wallet

I have no memory of the kind of wallet I carried before I got this one.   I’ve had it so long that I don’t even remember exactly when I got it.  High school?  College?  Probably college, but I’m not sure.  My mom gave it to me for Christmas, I think, or my birthday.  I remember she told me she agonized over what I would like, and settled on a practical, brown leather wallet similar to the one she had carried for years.

My wallet at the end of its life.

Her wallet was so full that it wouldn’t snap closed.  Besides her driver’s license and credit cards, it housed a little cash, photos, grocery lists (many were months old), receipts from Melton Food Mart, Target, and The Dollar Tree, holy cards, an “I am a Catholic. Please call a priest” card, odd scraps of paper with phone numbers or address on them, and an occasional quarter or dime that had found its way in between the papers when she dropped her change down into her purse.  Her checkbook and register were in there as well, although most of the time, her register was full, and she would write the check number and amount along the edge or back of it.  I don’t think I ever saw her balance it.

I asked her once how she ever found anything in that wallet and suggested she needed a new one.  She said liked her wallet and knew where things were.  She still had it, still stuffed with stuff, when she died.  I went through each piece of paper and holy card and receipt later, and kept a few things.  They were like little snapshots of her life.   The paper with the phone number from St. Elizabeth’s is where my sister had her daughter in 2004, but I kept it because Mom had blotted her lipstick on that piece of paper.  The Holy Family holy card was from a friend at church, and the Blessed Mother card was from one of my mom’s best friends. The picture of Kyle was taken his first Christmas when we lived in Hawaii.  The other inspirational cards and quotes just reminded me of how she lived her life:  for her family, with faith.

The items from my mom's wallet.  I keep them in my jewelry box.

                                          

Even though I didn’t really like this wallet when I got it, I kept it.  It looked like a “mom wallet,” and I was 19 or 20, but I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings by taking it back. Then I moved to Texas, and it became a kind of connection to her.  It followed me to Arizona then Hawaii then back to Kentucky.  It got worn around the edges and the inside started wearing out, and I really needed a new one.  Then Mom died, and I just couldn’t let it go.

Over the years, my wallet filled to the point where I could no longer snap it closed.  Receipts from Kroger and Qdoba; rewards cards from Kinney Dance Store and The Popcorn Station; library cards and photos and holy cards made closing it all but impossible.  My only hope was that everything didn’t fall out inside my purse.  Once in awhile, I’d cull through things and get it to where it almost snapped, but that would never last long.  Soon, it would be popping open again.  One of my girls suggested I needed a new one.

This past spring break, we were staying with 8 teenagers in a rental house in Florida, and I wasn’t positive they’d remember to lock the door when they left.  I’m pretty safety-conscious, and so I always hide my wallet whenever I’m on vacation and not taking it with me.  This time, I put it in a pair of pants in my dirty clothes basket.  It stayed there all week with no problems.  Then on the last day, I did laundry.  I forgot my wallet was inside the pants, and when I opened up the washing machine, a big ball of wet paper gunk greeted me.  Credit cards and my driver’s license were stuck to the drum.  My wallet was destroyed.  So were my photos and my holy cards and the snapshots of my life over the past 25 years. 

After the wash.

I tried to dry my wallet out, but it was beyond help.  The only piece of paper that wasn’t shredded was a Christmas list from when the kids were little.  I’m thinking 2009 because it says Dad owed, “$10 poinsettia,” and Kyle was selling poinsettias when he was in 8^th grade.  It took me back to see what my kids were getting for Christmas that year.  It’s been a long time since I’ve bought them toys, and it made me nostalgic to remember that.

   

Christmas shopping list, 2009

I finally tossed my poor, sad wallet into the trash.  I took a picture of the Christmas list and then threw it away too.  I called my friend to see if she had another holy card she could send me to put in my new wallet whenever I get one.  My credit cards, reward cards, and IDs are in a Ziploc bag in my purse until I can figure out whether I want a practical, brown leather “mom wallet” or something more fun.

Not that there’s really any doubt what I’ll end up with!

Worry Wart

My son has been a little extra worried about his health lately.  He's almost 20 and living in an apartment while attending university, and he's at the age where maybe he's starting to realize he's not invulnerable to life's problems.  I've tried to reassure him that the ringing in his ears is probably from wearing his earbuds 24/7 and that he should maybe give his ears a rest;  that his eye strain doesn't mean he's losing his vision, but that just maybe too much screen time is causing his issues.  To be safe, he went to the doctor for both problems, and he is fine, just like I said, but it got me to thinking about worry and how it affects me. I realized that I live in fear and have for a long time.  I'm not sure what to do about it, if anything, but I wanted to acknowledge it, and by doing so, hopefully put it in its place.  Here goes:

I was not always afraid.  I used to be able to hike and camp and go tubing down rivers in Texas without a thought of a snake.

Our campsite.  Inks Lake, TX 1990

I even took a picture of a sign on one of our camping trips that said, "Watch for snakes," because it amused me.

Inks Lake, TX 1990

I didn't like heights, but I wasn't afraid of falling off a cliff while standing five feet away from the edge.  I wasn't afraid of terrorists on the airplane or worried about finding an exit in a crowded room in case I had to evacuate quickly.  A headache was a headache and not a brain tumor.  A mole was a mole and not melanoma.

Things changed for me when I had kids.  Kyle was my first.  I started to become hyper-vigilant about every sniffle and cough, where he was, who he was with. Was he still breathing? Was that person watching him as closely as I would?  What if they didn't have covers over the outlets?  What if they left the toilet seat up, and he fell in or the lid came down and hit him in the head?  Was his food cut into small enough pieces?  What if he choked on a hot dog or a piece of carrot?

As he got older and began venturing out, I worried that he would get lost in our neighborhood or sneak over to Kroger, crossing the busy road at the end of our street.  We had woods across from our house, but I didn't like him to play there because there were older kids from the high school who hung out there, and I worried what they might do to him.  Or what if he got bitten by a snake?  What if he climbed a tree and fell out and hurt himself? If he wanted to spend the night at a friend's house, I worried that they might have a gun that was not locked away.  What if he found it?  He knew not to pick it up, but I'd seen Dateline. That didn't stop those kids.  And when he started playing with airsoft guns with his friends, I worried that someone would think he had a real gun, even though his had the orange tips, and would shoot him.  What if?  What if?  What if?

After my girls were born, I got a whole new set of worries.  What if some weirdo tried to molest them?  What if a boy tried to take advantage of them?  What if someone put something in their drink?  What if a boy liked one of them and became abusive?  What if some girl was jealous of them and did something mean?

They played sports.  What if they got a brain injury?  What if their teeth got knocked out?  What if they had an undiagnosed heart defect and they died on the field?  What if a ball hit them square in the chest and stopped their heart from beating?

Worry fills my life.  I have been around long enough to see every single one of my own concerns become reality in someone else's life, but  when they were young, I had some control.  I could be around much of the time in case something bad did happen.  I became a most efficient helicopter parent.  I'm sure I have set my kids up for years of therapy, and I am not kidding when I say that.

Now that they are older, the worry has become a constant companion for me.  Two of my three kids are driving.  One doesn't live here anymore.  The anxiety I have on a day to day basis sometimes overwhelms me because I no longer have control and the consequences are even more real than they were when they were younger.

They could have a wreck when driving.  They could hit someone or be hit.  They could lose control driving in the rain or on ice.  They could see someone needing "help" on the side of the road and stop and be assaulted.  Or hit by another car as they get out to assist the first person.  They could get pulled over by someone impersonating a police officer and get robbed or raped.

I worry that they are drinking underage.  Many teenagers do.  I don't think it's an issue with mine, but I'll never say never.  What if they are?  My dad was an alcoholic, so they could become one easier than a kid who doesn't have that gene.  I've told them this over and over, but did they listen?  What if they didn't?  What if they decide to drink but have no idea how much is safe and then get alcohol poisoning and die?  What if they are at a party and they drink too much and pass out and someone does something to compromise them and puts it on social media?  What if they decide to start smoking cigarettes?  God forbid, what if, despite all their dad and I have taught them, they decide to use drugs?

When my son goes camping with friends at Red River Gorge, I worry about him falling off a cliff while hiking or during the night if he has to go to the bathroom.  What if he gets attacked by a wild animal or bitten by a snake while out on the trail?  What if he meets someone on the trail who has stepped out of "Deliverance"?  What if he gets lost?

When my girls want to go skiing, I worry that they will hit a tree or slide into the road or a creek or get a concussion.  What if they fall out of the ski lift?  When my son went sledding the other night, I worried that he would get frostbite.

My son is planning a study abroad in Germany next semester.  What if there is a terrorist attack?  What if he gets abducted?  What if he gets taken advantage of by some ne'er do wells?  What if he runs out of money?  What if he gets in trouble with the law and ends up in jail somewhere?  What if he goes hiking and gets lost?  What if he gets sick overseas?  What if he gets talked into doing something that he shouldn't do?  Can he use the subway correctly?  What if he can't and he gets turned around and ends up in the wrong part of town and gets robbed?

What if he uses a chain saw and cuts off a body part?  What if she cooks a quesadilla and accidentally catches the kitchen on fire?  What if she goes to a friend's house who has cats and has an allergic reaction and dies?  What if her headache is meningitis and not a plain old virus?  What if their harness on the roller coaster breaks on the way down the hill? What if they take the cinnamon challenge and choke to death?  What if the plane they are on crashes?  What if they go too far out in the ocean and can't get back in?  What if there is a shark?

I haven't slept well for about 19 years.  My ears are trained for any odd noise or stirring from a bedroom down the hall.  I sometimes still check in the middle of the night to make sure my kids are breathing.

I know most of my fears are irrational, and they don't keep me from doing much (except hiking and camping) or letting my kids do most of what they want.  I know these things can and do happen, and I know that they most likely won't happen to my kids.  Still I think that they happen to some people's kids.  God forbid it be one of mine!  I try not to let my fear and worry consume my life or interfere with my kids' lives, but I'm not always very good at it.  I am trying to trust that I have taught them well and that they know what to do in case of emergency. It's just really, really hard.  I treasure the days and nights when I have all my kids at home, sleeping safely in their own beds, and I know where they are, and I can rest.

This parenting thing doesn't get easier as they get older.  In fact, it's harder because the consequences are real and they are out of my control.  I am learning that I cannot obsess over the bad things that might happen but that I should enjoy the good things that are happening.  I have three great kids.  They are smart and aware and thoughtful.  They have good friends and make good choices.  Stuff can happen, but like my wise friend, Amy, says, "Why worry?  That just means if it does happen, you have lived it twice."