Regrets

It's not about what you think!

Have you ever been offered an opportunity, a really special opportunity, then been too cowardly to take it? Of course you have. We all have.

Like that fresh-out-of-college job offer. For years I had planned to spend at least a couple of years as a flight attendant (back then we called them Stewardesses)for United Airlines between college graduation and settling into a teaching career. The only fly in the ointment was the UAL requirement for a minimum uniform size. They demanded a minimum size 8; I wore a size 3. In 21st century fashion, that's about a Size 0. Admittedly I could have carried more weight, but I don't think I was skeletal. It didn't matter. United was not an option. American Airlines was. Could I start training in February in Kansas City? Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhh... Kansas. That's east of Colorado. Wrong direction! What did an American Airlines aircraft look like? I couldn't remember ever seeing one, let alone fly on one. What state is Kansas City in?

It was much more comfortable to take the teaching position in California. In the grand scheme of things, that's not a decision I regret. The one I regret has to do with dams, spillways, and a D9 Caterpillar tractor.

If you knew me in the pre-Groveland days, you knew a real girly-girl. Like the character in "Flower Drum Song", I enjoy being a girl. Swirling (or slinkly) skirts, spikey high heels, books, needlework, entertaining, dolls, lace .... Then I got a job with a drinking water/hydroelectric power system. After a few years as a secretary, I found myself in a new role -- providing visual documentation of system conditions and changes. That required being with a camera (or two or more) where the work was being done. It was fascinating. It meant getting dirty. I had my own set of company-provided coveralls, a couple of hard hats, and 2 pairs of rubber boots -- one knee-high for ordinary wet-and-muddy, and one hip-high for the REALLY yucky places. Those had to be specially ordered -- no catalog house stocks boots for women with short, fat feet. One year we had to modify a spillway, allowing it to carry more water and reduce the risk of flooding. We hired a couple of extra Equipment Operators, including one gentleman only a bit younger than my dad who normally worked as a laborer. I liked working with Otto because he had lots of stories to tell about the area through which our pipelines passed -- all 135 miles of pipeline. Otto liked me, maybe because I liked to listen to his stories.

Every afternoon I went down to the job site, perched somewhere out of the way, and filmed the operators at work. They cut material away, moved it someplace else, shaped the new spillway according to the engineering plans, and loaded excess rock and dirt into dump trucks that hauled it off to a spoils area. It was summer. Field crews were on their daylight saving time schedule, 7 to 3:30. I don't do mornings gracefully. I kept the 8-4:30 schedule.

One afternoon Otto called, "Want to drive?" I gulped. "It's easy." he assured me. "You can do it." Aaaaaahhhhhh ... but it's big. It's noisy. Uuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh ... one of the superintendents will come along and catch me playing instead of filming. Some of them really didn't like women on their jobs in the first place.

In the end I declined. No, refused. Didn't have the nerve to try. By the time I realized I really should do it, the cat work was complete and my opportunity was gone.

What opportunity did you let slip away? Why do you regret your decision? Will the opportunity ever come by again? Can you get around your regrets?

Give thanks for the opportunities, especially the ones taken. Look for new opportunities. Don't forget to pray!

Reaching Out

I am reaching out tonight to my friend, Sharon. Ray called her Smiley, because when we first met her she didn't say much but sure did grin! Over the last 25 years Sharon has gained enough weight that she recently opted for gastric bypass surgery.

Now, as she comes home and begins a whole new relationship with food, Sharon faces a new set of challenges. So does her family. If I were constrained to the limits of a gastric bypass diet, I know I wouldn't be the least bit interested in cooking meals for anyone else. The temptation to abuse my tiny new stomach would be too great to assure a successful outcome of the surgery.

Let's pray for strength for Sharon as she learns to live with her new, tiny stomach. Let's pray that she has the guts and determination to do those things she has to do. She's faced and overcome some pretty awesome challenges in the last few years. I know she can do this, too -- with help. Let's pray for her husband and sons. Mom's not a mind reader, guys. She needs you to TELL her how much you love her and that you really do stand beside her every step of the way in her new journey. We all need that kind of support in our lives. It's not unique to Sharon or this particular situation. Nor is it unique to women. Oh, yes. Then she needs you to walk the talk.

Look for those silver linings. Trips through the grocery store can focus on quality rather than quantity. Dinner out can be one entree and two plates. Give thanks -- for Sharon's determination and courage. Keep praying.

A New Role

I spent the morning yesterday repackaging 10 antique quilts into storage boxes at the Queen Emma Summer Palace in Nu'uanu Valley. The palace is one of two Hawaiian royal palaces operated by Daughters of Hawaii, a lineage society like DAR or the Mayflower Society. In this one, you have to have an ancestor who was living in Hawaii by 1880. In my case, that is my Hawaiian great-grandmother Kina.

Emma (1836-1885) was the wife of Alexander Liholiho, who reigned from 1855-1874 as King Kamehameha IV. Emma was responsible for establishing Queen's Hospital, today the 500+ bed hospital where my father spent two weeks in November and December, 2008. Emma brought medical services to the Hawaiian people (distinct from others who lived in Hawaii). It was at her invitation that the Anglican church came to Hawaii, and that two Anglican nuns arrived to open a school for girls. The story handed down in my family is that Emma called on all her relatives and friends to send their daughters to the new school. That was 1867.

When Kina was old enough, she left Hana on the island of Maui to attend Queen Emma's school, St. Andrew's Priory, in Honolulu. She wouldn't stay long, for at 14 she gave birth to her first child. She was only 19 when my grandmother, her 5th child, was born in November 1888. By September 1891 Kina was pregnant with child #7. Daughters 5 and 6 were by her current partner, who put the two little girls in the care of the nuns at St. Andrew's Priory, and took Kina to California. The couple returned to Hawaii the following month and separated shortly after. Their daughters remained at the Priory until they married. Our family owes a great deal to Queen Emma.

The quilts which were the object of yesterday's exercise had been part of a 3-month exhibit in the Summer Palace, and were demanding attention. We folded them in acid-free paper, repackaged them in their storage boxes, and returned the boxes to their shelves. It's fun to be back in an all volunteer museum setting. Although this one is quite different from -- and substantially older than -- our little museum in Groveland, there are lots of similarities. The real work is done in the basement, with minimal storage room. The quilt boxes fight for space with shelves of koa bowls, china, clothing, the family bible, and artwork from the second half of the 19th century. This is in addition to the whole furnished house that makes up the museum upstairs. There are photo albums, a box of unsorted photographs, CDs with more photographs. The Daughters need a real librarian to organize their meager library -- our HRC library in Groveland is every bit as good for its purpose as the Daughters of Hawaii book collection. The DOH clipping file is far more extensive than the GYGM files, but I suspect the GYGM databases are at least equal to those of DOH.

Now it's decision time. The History Committee meets on Tuesdays. They are a small working group. The Quilting group meets on Wednesdays. They are a social group. I cannot run away for two meetings every week. So do I work for two weeks with the History committee and two weeks with the quilters? Do I pass on the quilting and just do the history work? I don't think so!

Look for good things. Give thanks. Don't forget to pray ....

The Anniversary

It's been two years.  Someone told me early on it gets harder, not easier.  I think she was right.  Numb has worn off.  Reality is not always kind.  

The photo is not the best, but it is here, and one of only a handful of the two of us together.  This was taken in Dec 2005 while visiting Lyla Berg at the Hawaii State Capitol.  

Aloha, Ray.  You're still making a difference in my life, still influencing how I view the world and the people whose lives touch mine.   You always will.  I am so thankful for the time we shared, for the things we learned together, for the things we taught each other.  You made me a better person, more tolerant, more caring, more able to reach out.  You gave me confidence, reminded me to laugh at myself.  I love you.  

Today I am off to the Queen Emma Summer Palace in Nu'uanu to begin as a volunteer with the Daughters of Hawaii.  It's a time for beginnings as well as farewells.  

Give thanks for Ray.  Look for something special he -- or someone else close to you -- added to your life.  Don't forget to pray ....   

Automotive Mechanics

I looked at the little tag in the windshield of my mother's car the other day, the one that says when the next service is due. I had been paying lots of attention to the mileage, noting we were still several hundred miles from the "next service due at ..." number. This time I also paid attention to the recommended service date: April, 2008. Oh-oh! That meant it's been a year since the Passat had its oil changed. It's been making funny noises, too. Squeeky doors. Brake rubbing noises. Unexpected creaking in the steering. I guess I've been spoiled by years of Saturn service. I expected that when you take a car in for a safety check or routine service they would look at things like brakes and tell you if it was time to deal with them before you destroyed something significant. Nobody ever mentioned the turn signals that only work on manual ....

When the Passat went in for service this week I specifically asked the mechanic to change the windshield wiper blades, check the brakes, and estimate the repair cost of those leaking oil seals. The news was not good. $1000 in repairs to replace the leaky seals and the rear brakes. Mother almost cried when I told her.

Yesterday morning at breakfast she announced that she wanted to go "to the Ford place". She wanted to look at cars. She has always enjoyed driving Fords. Her first car, she told the salesman, was a Model T. She didn't add that it was practically new at the time. So we looked. She was enchanted with the little green 2008 Focus with its manual everything (except transmission) and its $4000 rebate. "It's a beautiful color!" she said. I could just hear Ray. "Bonnie P, you don't buy a car because of its color!"

"What do you have in used cars?" she asked. The salesman drove her around to look at a sage green 2006 Fusion, Ford's current mid-sized offering. It had lots more bells and whistles, lots more room, similar gas mileage, and would save her $2000. It was a lease return and had relatively low mileage, even for Hawaii.

"Will you take a trade-in?" They would take the Passat. "How much do I have to give you to hold the car for me?" For $100 she could take the car of her choice home today. Several hours later, and well within her original budget, we left the Ford dealership in the Fusion. It's taking time getting used to turn signals that really work, to brakes that stop without rubbing, to a trunk where things are out of sight, and to the different size and shape of this vehicle. It's not too big, about the same as the Passat, but feels like it sits higher. She is happy. I am thankful.

The new picture at the top of this page? That's Sarah's Quilt, the one I made for her to take to art school last summer. It's hanging on the railing of my deck in Groveland. There's still some basting in place, but the bright colors reminding me of Budhist dancers in Bhutan are all there. It reminds me of Sarah and her youthful outlook. Keep happy, Sarah.

Look for the positives -- even in the message that your vehicle needs $$$$$ repairs. Give thanks. Don't forget to pray.

Without a Valentine

Some days -- notably, American holidays -- are intended for pairs, partners or families. Without a partner, without close family links, it is no wonder that holidays bring on depression in lonely souls. It's easy to lock yourself up (literally or figuratively) and feel sorry for yourself.

It takes more effort to think of those holidays as times for reaching out to others, known and unknown. By reaching out, the overwhelming awareness of what you don't have -- no longer have -- perhaps never had -- is lessened by the joy in the faces and voices of those to whom you reach out. The shadows disappear for awhile in the light that fills your life, at least momentarily.

So Valentine's Day was a solitary day. My mother commented at breakfast that she used to have heart-shaped cake pans (they are now in my pantry in California), used to put heart-shaped candies on the table set with red-and-white linens. But not any more. It was not clear whether it is too much effort, or if she has lost the spirit with the loss of affection for my father.

But I made my weekly telephone call to a solitary friend in California, and heard her voice brighten. I visited my father, and saw the joy in his eyes that I -- someone he recognized as belonging -- had arrived. I talked to a cousin in Colorado, a daily event that goes a long way to keeping me sane. We help each other grope through the shadows of widowhood. I am making friends at the nursing home where my father is resident. Mr. Ally, who has the bed next to my father, spends all day in front of the elevator where his daughters have assigned him as greeter. He beams when I greet him by name. Charlotte is another long term care patient who sits most days in her wheelchair near the nursing station. She seldom speaks, only sometimes acknowledges, but when she smiles and waves it is another reward. I can make a difference.

Reach out. Look for positives. Give thanks. Pray.

Mother, May I?

We have different styles, my mother and I. The biggest differences I recognize as coming from Ray. Surprisingly to me, they often involve tolerance for and respecting the needs of others. Ray said we are afraid of the things we don't know. Getting to know someone very different from yourself breaks down barriers and fear. Some differences have to do with country living. I love it. She lived in the country as a child and hates it. I like quite outside, but the sound of a human voice inside -- radio, TV, something to counter the solitariness of living alone. She doesn't hear the outside noise. Deafness brings its own isolation.

Ray said that when you have disposable income, it's OK to pamper yourself occasionally. Mother says, "Don't buy it unless you absolutely need it. When you do buy it, get the lowest price available." That's why we have 11 lbs of margerine in the freezer -- it was on sale, 5# for $5. Consider that "It's Not Butter" is selling here for just under $3/lb and butter is $4.50 - $7/lb. That's also why she loves thrift shops and garage sales. It's a left-over from Depression Era economics, followed closely by WWII in Hawaii when not much was available.

Mother is just 3 months short of her 95th birthday. She moves remarkably well for a 95-year-old, but her pace is slowing and her endurance level is getting lower. Bringing a loaf of bread from the car to the house after a trip to the market is an effort. There are things she would like to do, but doesn't because they take too much effort. Traveling, for example. Anything that requires stairs. Walking up or down a slope, even 15' of sloped driveway or parking lot. Crossing the street is a long walk. Will she do some of those special things in a wheelchair? Not on your life! She doesn't say it, but I'm sure she is thinking it makes her look old.

Mother wants to be in control. It's not "I'm going to ..., would you care for....?" It's "Here's what I'm doing (or having), and here's what you will do." I am, after all, still her daughter. Apparently daughters are not adults. My daughters, biological and hanai, are adults. Even the teen-age granddaughters have likes, dislikes and interests that are unique and important. Sometimes there are things they can learn from me. At least as often, there are things I can learn from them.

Mother doesn't want to spend time with my dad -- her husband. To say that he has treated her badly for most of the 70 years they have been together is an understatement. Emotionally and verbally abusive is probably a better description. She is resentful of the time I spend at the care facility and meeting some of his physical needs. Like doing his laundry. Or taking care of the boat. Or packing up his possessions. "Why should we bother to store those?" she asks. "We should dispose of them." Some of those things she wants to dispose of are things that Ian and/or I find interesting.

So the dance goes on, balancing her needs, both physical and emotional, with his -- and with my own. Mother, may I go out dancing? The answer depends on the mood.

Look for positives. Give thanks. Keep praying.