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Pursuit of Happiness

27 Sunday Dec 2015

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The Saturday before Christmas, Rich and I watched Hector and the Search for Happiness, a movie starring Simon Pegg who plays a psychiatrist stuck in his daily routine for which he experiences little happiness. He sets out on odyssey to unearth what makes people happy.

By the end of the film, he’s experienced fear, elation, wonderment, and many unexpected adventures, which lead him to the path of happiness and contentment. The film is worth watching in that my saccharine description glosses over his journey across several continents, people he meets, and lessons he learns.

For our recent trip to Bullhead City, Arizona, I decided to take notice of the genial people we encounter, and harvest their zeal, optimism, and outward happiness.

Early Sunday morning, we boarded a shuttle at the Bellingham International Airport. The driver was jovial, sharing that he had five daughters (two were twins), nine grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. He laughed, recalling the many pranks he’d played on them, including insisting a large, gaudy-painted sphere was an alien egg. He commented that one of his daughters still displays the “egg” on her mantel, and eagerly tells visitors how her father tricked her as a kid.

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His favorite prank, which he’s been reenacting for his grandchildren, is using wire ties to secure bananas to his cherry tree. He then invites his grandchildren to harvest the bananas, confirming his tall tale that cherry trees can indeed grow bananas!

We wished him a merry Christmas, and the joy of dreaming of new antics to entertain his daughters’ children.

As we went through the security line at the airport, we commented to the TSA agent it’s a pleasure flying out of Bellingham with short lines and easy parking. The agent added the security personnel are also nicer. While they’re certainly nicer, Rich had to go through additional security screening because he left his wallet in his pants pocket when he went through the body scanner.

Our flight to Las Vegas was pleasant. Halfway through, we struck up a conversation with one of the flight attendants, a 26-year old woman who said her job is super fun, and that I should consider becoming a flight attendant. I was sold after she told me the oldest person in her class was 68, training is just 5 weeks in length, the benefits are great, and after a year, you can choose how much you want to fly. The drawback is that I’d need to commute to Seattle, which is one of Alaska Airline’s bases.

Julie the flight attendant? Maybe.

After landing in Las Vegas, we drove to Laughlin and Bullhead City, which are on opposite sides of the Colorado River, straddling the Nevada and Arizona borders. After seeing Rich’s step-father, enjoying Mexican food, and settling into our room at the Tropicana in Laughlin, we walked to a quickie mart for soda and nibbles. Two women were behind the counter. One was an older woman. The other, a younger, heavy-set woman with a man’s haircut.

No doubt, working at a quickie mart isn’t the most enjoyable job, especially if you work the graveyard shift. However, both were affable, and eager to help me overcome my indecisiveness about the best “snack” to purchase. After deliberating, and enjoying the lighthearted banter, I settled on Tic Tac mints.

The exchange was so amusing, the next evening we returned, hoping to find the same clerks. This time, there were two men who were equally pleasant, but lacked the joie de vivre of the women.

One of the reasons for our visiting Bullhead City was to check on several rentals overseen by Rich’s step-father, who’d been hospitalized since September. There’d been several issues with one of the renters – a woman and her two young daughter – so we prepared for a confrontation. Instead, we arrived to find them in the midst of moving out.

The woman overseeing the move was a relative, dressed in a tank top with crude tattoos on her arms and chest, cigarette dangling from her yellowed fingers, and hair in a scraggly ponytail, emphasizing the blemishes and wrinkles on her face. Her looks, however, were deceptive.

She was courteous, conscientious, and cooperative, working with Rich to identify issues with the rental (a double-wide mobile homes that’d seen better days), and discuss what needed to be done to lockup the property to prevent vandalism.

In the property next door – also a rental owned by my father-in-law – lived a woman and her mother. They had six small dogs, four cats, and several cages of birds in their single-wide mobile home. While they obviously had way too many pets, it was hard to overlook their soft heartedness. They no doubt had to stretch their meager welfare and social security payments to provide for their furred and feathered companions.

Difference between Happiness and Meaning

Viktor Frankl, a prominent Jewish psychiatrist and neurologist in Vienna, who wrote the bestselling book, Man’s Search for Meaning, which details his experience in Auschwitz and other concentration camps, champions the difference between those who lived and those who died while imprisoned hinged on whether they had “meaning.”

Research has shown that having purpose and meaning in life increases overall well-being and life satisfaction, improves mental and physical health, enhances resiliency, enhances self-esteem, and decreases the chances of depression. Whereas simply pursuing happiness doesn’t result in consistency of happiness.

Many of the people we met during our trip had challenging lives, but they had meaning. We learned the woman who was helping moved the family from my father-in-law’s rental was an aunt who’d previously been instrumental in raising the mother. For the past eight months, she’d cared for the woman’s children who worked 45 minutes away. She explained how she’d walked the girls to the school bus stop every morning, and ensuring they had what they needed at night. The meaning of her life was to care for others.

Perhaps the meaning for the next-door neighbor with the multitude of pets is to take in unwanted and abused animals. The shuttle bus driver at the Bellingham Airport found meaning in delighting his grandchildren with playful antics.

A study in the upcoming issue of Journal of Positive Psychology associates leading a happy life with being a “taker,” while leading a meaningful life correlates with being a “giver.” Kathleen Vohs, one of the authors of the study explains, “Happy people get a lot of joy from receiving benefits from others while people leading meaningful lives get a lot of joy from giving to others.”

Because a “giver” may have to sacrifice happiness in order to achieve meaning, they tend to experience more stress and anxiety than happy people. On the other hand, happiness without meaning can result in a person being shallow, self-absorbed or even selfish, continuously seeing ways to satisfy their needs and desires, while avoiding unnecessary entanglements.

The Declaration of Independence states the unalienable rights of “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” Happiness isn’t guaranteed, just the freedom to pursue it. But like Hector in the Simon Pegg movie, a more satisfying goal might be to find ones meaning, and thereby, lead a more caring life.

Invocation #45-#46: Doors

08 Tuesday Dec 2015

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In life, there is only one true ending, all others are but transitions to new beginnings.

Living, from the moment we are thrust into the world becomes a series of doors, closing (endings), and opening (beginnings).

The first closing comes at our expulsion from the womb. That phase of development is complete and final. The door shuts tight, no re-entry allowed.

At that instant, we must take that first breath to send us through the open door called life to begin that continuous task of learning how to adapt to ever-changing locks and keys so we may survive.

One door leads to another, and generally we can’t reach a particular door until we’ve gone through another.

The infant can’t learn to chew until it has suckled, or walk before standing, or become an independent being before learning to control and coordinate all mental and physical functions.

Going up the ladder from elementary school to junior high, to high school and college may seem simply a continuation of studies, but at each step we start afresh with new teachers, new subjects, classmates, competition, attitudes, social pressures, and problems. That means having to accept change and make adjustments.

Getting married closes the door on singlehood. Being divorced doesn’t put one back to the same singlehood. It will be different. Widowhood is equally different.

Changing jobs, retiring, coming into money, losing money, an illness, an accident, all create whole new situations, needing new rules, new planning.

Sometimes, an opening or closing is so subtle we are unaware of the change. Sometimes it’s obvious. Or it’s so unexpected, we are caught short, and end up floundering around for a while. Or too many close or open at the same time, we are overwhelmed. Or hold a door open too long, we find it difficult to let go. Or let go too soon, and we are not ready. Or there is no new door to open, and we are stuck behind the old one.

Yet, for seniors in particular, as the years advance, and there are fewer and fewer new doors to open, we must hold tight to keep old doors from slamming shut. We mustn’t let go of too many activities, and interests, even if need to jam a foot into the doorway to keep it open.

Each opening and closing, beginning, and ending, contributes something to what we must learn in order to exist. Each offers challenges and opportunities, another chance or problem to solve.

For better or worse, that is life.

My grandmother, Rose, passed away in her Burbank bungalow, a month after her 90’s birthday. Her husband, Morris, died 13 months later, in the same bed he’d shared with his wife for over 60 years. Together, they’re opened and closed numerous doors, life in New York, and then Southern California, austerity during World War II, contentment after retirement, adventure in travels, sorrow from disappointments and deaths, and joy from children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren.

They lived a pleasant life. Throughout their marriage, my grandfather worked as a taxi driver, chauffeur, car salesman, and eventually an assembler at Lockheed. He retired with a pension, which afforded them an opportunity to travel to across the United States, Israel, Japan, and other far-flung places. For most of their lives, they lived in a tidy bungalow in Burbank with a vegetable garden in the back, Meyer lemon tree by their bedroom window, and hibiscus bush in the front.

While on the outside my grandmother appeared happy with her life, she felt a disappointment of having never gotten her work published. She was a dedicated, determined writer, who left several boxes of her work, some of it written on the backs of form letters, scrapes of paper, loose-leaf notebooks, and small flipbooks.

If she’s looking down, I hope she’s pleased that her writing is finally getting an audience!

Invocation #44: Pep Talk (continuation)_

29 Sunday Nov 2015

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Good knows, our spirits are willing and eager. If only our bodies would respond in like fashion!

If only we could jump out of bed in the morning rarin’ to go and keep going. If only the sun setting beneath the horizon, wouldn’t take our energies with it.

If only we could regain the enthusiasm of yesteryear, to find everything as important or they once were. Or as exciting. Or necessary.

If only then we seniors would be standing at the lectern, and not sitting in the audience.

O Lord, what we seniors don’t need is a pep talk. What we do need is a pat on the back, a word of praise that we are doing as well, and as much as we are. And that would spur us on to do even better.

Perhaps the young can imagine how it is to walk in the shoes of the old. But they can’t, nor should they know how painful the pinches.

I was so caught up in writing my response to invocation #43, I hadn’t realized it went onto another page. Reading the rest of the invocation, I’m struck by the statement “Perhaps the young can imagine how it is to walk in the shoes of the old. But they can’t, nor should they know how painful the pinches.”

This assertion is especially relevant today with politicians on one side quick to propose extending the retirement age and cutting benefits, and employers on the other unwilling to retain older workers, or expecting them to ramp up their productivity as they implement lean policies. It’s a losing proposition. 

Older Workers and Age Discrimination - infographic Older workers that aren’t shuffled out the door are expected to keep up with peers’ decades younger with more energy, health, and conceivably, more relevant education. Maturity, experience, and foresight become irrelevant. Once unemployed – from lay-offs, forced retirement, and other circumstances – older worker are faced with few choices. Employers prefer younger workers, and if an older worker finds a comparable job it’s often for less pay, and possibly no benefits because it’s a contract versus full-time position.

If an older worker has the financial freedom to retire, they may be chastised for becoming a drain on society by collecting social security and signing up for Medicare. Many older people, especially single and divorced women, who don’t have the financial means to retire are forced to overcome their “painful pinches” and work at low-income jobs at fast food restaurants, retail and grocery stores.

Older workers in America don’t need a pep talk, they need compassion, acceptance, and the ability to retire with dignity.

Invocation #43: The Pep Talk

23 Monday Nov 2015

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She came, as a volunteer worker in a service group, to address our club meeting.

Charming, sparkling with health and vitality, she could easily have passed for under 40, although she boasted she had just crossed the half-century mark.

But interesting as was her talk, she did not say what we wanted to hear.

Her main thrust was to encourage our seniors, a full generation or older than she, to put more action in our lives. More zest.

“Don’t shut yourselves off,” she urged. Don’t sit home enslaved to the TV. Get out. Keep moving. Go places. Do things. Get out into the community. They need your talents and your time. You have much to give. Give it.

And don’t ever say, “I can’t,” because you can. Whatever you still want to do, you can. Just go after it. Stretch your vision.

Certainly she meant well. She just didn’t understand.

Who of us seniors doesn’t want, nay, yearn to do more? Go more. See more. Work more. Help more. To take a long drive, to hop a plane to hear and there. To visit and be visited. To still do all we once did. To be part of the crowd-on-the-move.

It’s been months since I’ve posted one of my grandmother’s. Her thoughts on a “pep talk,” strike a familiar cord. While, I’m up-and-about working, cooking, doing yard- and housework, shopping, and other day-to-day chores, I’ve starting to feel the drag on my energies. A symptom of age.

This is the first year in decades that I haven’t baking a dozen or more different types of holiday cookies and candies, then packaged, and sent them to friends and family. The gifts I usually purchased in October, so they can be given to people by Thanksgiving, are a mirage.

I started to write my holiday letter a few days ago. If I’m lucky, I’ll make copies and get it in the mail by early December. Although, it’ll probably take me a week or so to address the cards. Groan.

This year, I procrastinated in trimming bushes, and preparing them for the winter. Only half of my grasses, lavenders, and other flowering bushed received their obligatory haircuts. With the nights now dipping into the 20’s, it’s too late to trim them.

Last week, I pulled some carrots out of the garden, and realized I never pulled out the tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables, which long ago stopped producing. The large rose along the back fence, which had phenomenal growth over the summer, is still loosely tied to the fence. It should have been cut back so the branches don’t break if it snows are they get covered with ice.

I don’t think I need a pep talk. I need the energy and motivation I had a few years ago.

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Tricked-out, Fast Cars

30 Sunday Aug 2015

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Several weeks ago, Rich and I went to the NHRA Northwest Nations drag race at the Pacific Raceways in Kent, southeast of Seattle. It was the first time I’ve attended a National Hot Rod Association event; although, I’d heard Rich talked about it since we’d met.

When Rich was at Sequent, prior to it being acquired by IBM, he worked on dragsters and funny cars driven by Cristen Powell, Jim Epler, and Bob Vandergriff, Clay Milican.

His being a part of the race car team started off innocent enough when he introduced himself during a company picnic to Casey Powell, the CEO of Sequent and father of Cristen Powell. They started talking, and Rich was subsequently invited to fly on the Sequent corporate jet to Cristen’s next race.

He continued working on cars for the next few years, being an engineer at Sequent during the week, and flying to races on weekends to change tires, service motor heads, change oil, and do other miscellaneous mechanical tasks.

Until I went to the NHRA race, I found racing somewhat yawn-worthy. Occasionally, Rich would flip to a sports channel, and watch half an hour of a race. I’d immediately find something else to do.

However, when Rich said he really wanted to see the NHRA races, I said “okay,” even though the idea of sitting on bleachers, baking in the sun, while watching cars do burn-outs then rocket down the track seemed mind-numbing and unpleasant.

Happily, the day we went, the week’s heat had subsidized, and was replaced with overcast skies and cool breezes. We arrived within an hour of the track opening, and immediately zipped over to the pits, where the cars were being unloaded, and the crews were setting up.

I was intrigued by the trailers that transport the cars. They’re split into two horizontal levels, with tool chests, parts, tires, and “delivery” vehicles on the bottom, and the race cars, and less used parts and tools on the top. The back gate of the trailers can be folded down, and then raised up like an elevator to the top level. A race car can then be eased onto the gate, and lowered so they can be pushed into the pit area.

The delivery vehicles, ranging from motorcycles to golf carts and very small cars like Fiats and Mini Coopers, are used for moving the racecars onto the track, getting parts, removing and bringing drums of fuel and oil, and carting drivers and crew and from the track.

Once the race cars enter the pits, a team of technicians work on optimizing and testing their performance. Hydraulic stands are used for elevating and keeping the cars in place when they revved up. Because the nitro methane, the fuel used in the cars, is an irritant the pit crew wear gas masks when revving up the cars.

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Next, we headed over to the Harley Davis tent, where Rich and I hoped onto several motorcycles to check ‘em out. After talking to the representative about our desire to do day trips — with me sitting behind Rich — he recommended we consider the Fat Boy Lo since it is stable, can accommodate two people, and has lots of horsepower, but doesn’t have all the extras of a touring bike – which we don’t need.

I was titillated with a small sportster, but know I’d never have the concentrate or coordination to ride a motorcycle by myself.

For Rich’s birthday, he wants to get his motorcycle license, and edge a bit closer to getting a Harley, and zooming around the Puget Sound!

Exhilarated from sitting on Harley’s, we breezed through the vendor area, then found great seats in the bleachers, half-way down the track. The lightly overcast sky kept the sun at bay, and my large hippy hat shaded my eyes.

The first set of cars were pro stock, which were fun to watch because each one is different, and it was entertaining to wonder whether the clunky, ‘70’s station wagon – tricked out with decals – could beat the zippy souped-up Toyota sedan. It was the amazing the breadth of stock cars from El Caminos and small trucks to muscle cars, sedans, traditional sports cars, and itty-bitty Fiats.

After I thought all the stock cars were done racing, a crazy fast Corvette with a custom silver body, owned by Martin Motorsports zoomed by. I screamed with delight, and turned to Rich, “Holy shit, that was f*cking awesome!”

Rich just smiled and said, “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Next up were the funny cars. Fast, but not particularly interesting. They look the same! Although, Rich was intrigued by them since he’d worked on a couple in the past.

While top fuel dragsters all basically look the same, they’re totally awesome. Totally! Cartoonish in design with two giant tires in the back, a moderate-sized, exposed engine, and a ridiculously long front that stretches 15 or so feet in length, balanced on two small, go-cart tires, they go over 300 miles in less than four seconds. To win, they need to accelerate to 100 miles per hour in less than 0.8 seconds.

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Dragster drivers experience an average force of about 39 m/s2 (meter per second squared), nearly five times that of gravity, the same force a space shuttle leaves the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. They accelerate faster than a jumbo jet, fighter jet or Formula One race car.

In addition, a dragster consumes 1½ gallons of nitromethane per second, the same rate as a full loaded 747 plane, although with 4 times the energy volume. However, because they travel a very short distance, they use between 10 and 12 gallons of fuel per race – at a cost of $30 per gallon — including the burnout and return to the starting line. Their fuel pump can deliver 65 gallons of fuel per minute, which is equivalent to eight bathroom showers running at the same time.

According to Rich, the fuel is injected into the engine with 16 or more injectors, one for each cylinder, plus 8 for the blower.

The end result is a screaming fast car, which we found nearly impossible to photograph (or videotape) using our smart phones. The next time we go, we’ll bring our digital camera, which has a faster lenses, and can take multiple photos within seconds. Nevertheless, we did capture some great photos by anticipating where the cars would be, and then being prepared to quickly tap the shutter release.

Around 2 o’clock, having brought no food, and a small water bottle of water, we decided to buy a very expensive hotdog, which we shared, along with a coconut ice cream bar. Not only is the food at sports events very unhealthy, but ridiculously expensive.

Our bellies a little fuller, we found seats on the other side of the track. However, it was farther away and more difficult to take photos. As the afternoon progressed, the overcast sky turned to light showers, and hence the races were temporarily stopped until the weather conditions could be properly assessed. They started up half an hour later, but we decided to leave, avoiding the mad rush of traffic when the races concluded for the day.

In spite of my apprehensions, I truly loved going to NHRA… and can’t wait until next year!

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Melancholy Weekend without Suki

29 Saturday Aug 2015

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In 2010, I’d found a tiny black and white kitten while picking blackberries in Mount Vernon. We named it Suki, but from day one he was lethargic, and after a few weeks and many visits to the veterinarian, he was overtaken by feline infectious peritonitis.

We were devastated, many months later, we started noticing dead rodents and rabbits, strategically left in our front yard and by our vegetable garden. We also occasionally spied a young black and white cat dashing through our yard.

I was convinced it was Suki, reincarnated.

Slowly the cat became a regular visitor. Even though he was very feisty like a feral cat, he allowed up to pet him, and wasn’t opposed to coming into our house for food. Rich called him Mr. Mustache because of the white blob under his nose. I called him Suki.

At least a year passed, before we discovered Suki actually belonged to the person living in back of us. He was a barn cat from a farm in Burlington, Washington, and had been given the less-than-distinguished name of Kitty.

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Much of the time he lived outdoors, honing his hunting skills. Our neighbor to the east was convinced he was catching and killing the gophers in her yard. When my mother lived in our house, and had a bird feeder, Suki evidentially caught quite a few birds (not so good). We continued to receive his gifts of dead rats, moles, and mice. I’m sure he also swept his owner’s yard for vermin.

Every Friday, we’d arrive in Mount Vernon, to find him waiting by our garage or on our deck. During the warm months, he’d assist with gardening, walking among the plants, rolling in the dirt, and running between our legs until we pet him.

In the cold month, he’d happily come inside for several hours, wandering through the house or finding a warm place to sleep. His owner said he usually slept during the day, and was outside during the night.

Suki also enjoyed spending time with Lila, even though she would chase him. She’s wait at the sliding glass door until he arrived, and then admire him from on top of a counter. When outside, they’d be within a few feet of each other, exchanging glances, coyly flirting.

Sometimes, he’d spend the night in our house. Most times, he’d eat and run, dashing outside, and then running back to the open door hissing and pawing at Rich or me before he’d turn and leave for the night.

When outside, he was fairly docile, but inside, he’d angrily bat out our feet, hiss, and if you lowered your hand to pet him or pick of his dish, he’d slap with his claws extended. His owner reported the same behavior. He could be a perfect gentlemen in the house, and then turn into a wild animal, hissing, batting, and biting.

But, we adored him. We looked forward to seeing him every week, whether assisting us outside, rolling in catnip, assaulting a cat toy or sitting in our front window.

A month ago, I felt like he was slowing down, even though he was probably only four or five years old. Last week, he didn’t show up, and hasn’t been seen this week.

Often his owner would open his slide glass door, and Suki would race out, hop over the fence between our yards, dash across the grass, and scamper up the stairs to our deck. Many times, I’d stand outside, shout his name, and he’s show up a few minutes later.

Today, I’ve seen our neighbor open his sliding glass door, but no Suki rushes out. I’m heartbroken because I know he’s dead. Something has happened to him. I’m afraid to ask his owner because I already know the truth.

Suki, little Suki, the reincarnation of our deathly ill kitten is gone.

Lila keeps looking outside, but Suki isn’t going to come any more.

Victory! Bread!

06 Thursday Aug 2015

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A couple years ago, Rich and I had a two-day staycation on Orcas Island. Having taken the first ferry to the island, we were hungry when we arrived, but didn’t want a sit-down breakfast. Instead, we wandered into Brown Bear Baking in Eastsound, and purchased a kalamata olive and rosemary bread. Tearing off chunks in-between sips of coffee, we discussed purchasing whether we should purchase one of their delectable pastries or another bread. In the end, we opted for an apricot and fig bread, which I used the following week for open-faced sandwiches with poached eggs on top, along with tomatoes, kale, and other goodies.

What makes Brown Bear Baking’s breads so amazing are their round shape with a chewy crust, and soft, tangy inside. I asked the bakers how they make their breads, and they shared the dough is proofed in baskets, and then baked in heavy cast-iron pots with lids.Bread in ceramic, Julie Lary

Months later, when wandering through the Bellevue Goodwill, I spotted a large ceramic pot with a lid. The only problem was it had several small holes in the bottom for use as a berry strainer. Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist buying it.

The first bread I made in the pot was ghastly. I used parchment paper to cover the holes on the bottom, and the light coating of olive oil I rubbed on the loaf, dripped through the holes, and smoked when it hit the heating element in the oven. The smoke made the bread taste terrible.

My second attempt was marginally better, but the crust was soft, and the inside of the bread wasn’t overly tasty.

Disgusted, I placed the pot in the living room as an art piece. This week, however, I did research on cooking bread in a ceramic or iron (dutch oven) pot. I found a simple recipe and gave it a try, placing a small piece of foil inside my pot to cover the holes, and a length of foil beneath the pot, just in case any oil drizzled out.

The result was nothing less than “wow!” Below is the recipe for what I’m calling my victory or “I finally figured it out” bread! I made some revisions to the recipe, using one-third whole wheat flour, and adding McCormick Everything Bagel Seasoning from Costco.

Victory Bread

Mix and knead until smooth

  • 2 cups white flour
  • 1 cup whole wheat flour
  • 1½ cups of lukewarm water
  • 1 tablespoon everything bagel seasoning (coarse salt, dried onion and garlic, sesame and poppy seeds)
  • 1½ teaspoons yeast

Shape into a round mound, and place on a well-floured counter or marble slab. Dust with flour then cover with plastic wrap. Let rise for 8 to 18 hours.

Punch down, knead lightly, and then form into a mound. Let rest for 30 minutes.

Place ceramic pot and lid into a cold oven. Heat to 450°. Remove pot and carefully lift up dough with floured hands and place in pot. Drizzle oil over the top, and sprinkle on additional everything bagel seasoning. Cover the pot, and bake in oven for 30 minutes.

Remove the lid, and bake for another 15 minutes until brown.

Turn out onto a rack and enjoy!

Charm Bracelet

31 Friday Jul 2015

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When I was six or seven, my aunt and uncle gave me a sterling silver charm bracelet. Over the years, I added charms whenever I visited interesting places. My mother often bought me several charms at once, and had several custom made. Silver charm necklace

By the time I was an adult, the bracelet was so full of charms it was completely unwearable. A jeweler recommended I place the charms on a silver chain. She sold me the split rings, and gave me a tool, which made it easier to open the rings and attach the charms.

I wore the necklace a handful of times, then stashed it in a ceramic pot in a display cabinet. I recently discovered the necklace, and was surprised at how random charms added in my teens took on meaning later in life.

Some of the charms include:

Animals

  • The original charm was a delicate horse, which continues to be one of my favorites.
  • The charm of a longhorn is a very detailed with majestic horns. I placed is towards the back of the necklace because it lacked meaning. However, when I moved to Texas and saw longhorns, I was instantly captivated with these incredible animals, and subsequently quit eating beef. I also have a charm of an oil derelict, which may have been a prediction to Rich and me moving to Texas.
  • I’ve always like rhinoceros so it’s no surprise I have a rhino charm.
  • I’m not sure how I ended up with a charm of a six-point elk

Marine

  • One of the first charms I received was a sailing vessel with multiple masts. It was created by a jeweler in Tarzana, California, and originally cast in gold. My mother asked to have it remade in silver.
  • I have no idea how anchor and rope, starfish, swordfish, and boat wheel charms ended up on my bracelet. I don’t recall purchasing or receiving them. Unexpectedly, Rich introduced me to sailing, and I ended up getting bare-boat certified. One day, we look forward to owning a sailboat.

Places I Visited

  • Tinkerbell from Disneyland
  • Stagecoach from Knott’s Berry Farm
  • Thunderbird with inset turquoise from Mammoth Lakes, California
  • Dutch shoe from Solvang, California
  • Flamingo from San Diego Zoo
  • Buddha from San Francisco Chinatown
  • Bear and cub from Yosemite, California
  • Pineapple given to me by my grandparents who went Hawaii. My stepchildren grew up in Kauai, and Rich lived there for several years.
  • Kokopelli from New Mexico

Personalized

  • Four charms that represent my parents’, brother’s and my astrological signs.
  • Mortarboard with a pearl, given to me when I graduated from high school.
  • Mortarboard inscribed with PSU (Portland State University) and the date I graduated.
  • Round charm that represents when I graduated from either elementary or junior high school

Random

  • Dragon, which maybe represents future interest in Game of Thrones (kidding)
  • Two fairy charms. There’s a third, which I never placed on the necklace, and carry in a cloth bag in my purse. She’s a parking fairy who ensures I can find a parking space even when the possibilities are remote.
  • Bird cage with a bird inside. Maybe it meant I’d marry a man with several birds.
  • Frog with a crown. Rich turned out to be a prince, but in mortal skin.
  • Helicopter. I’ve been in a helicopter twice, both as birthday gifts from Rich.
  • Skis. My mother’s lover after my father died (and the person she lived with prior to meeting my father) had a ski school and summer camp in Mammoth Lake, California
  • Large filigree bell, three little bells, heart with a key charms
  • Cinderella’s coach, woman who lived in a shoe, cuckoo clock, and merry-go-round charms
  • Fisherman, and fishing gear charms to represent my brother who fished
  • Two airplanes, one a jetliner, and another a prop plane
  • Ballerina, bicycle, flip phone, and eagle kachina, which I definitely picked out!

Musical

  • I can’t sing or play an instrument, but I guess to represent my cousins who are musicians, and my mother’s interest in playing the piano I have a piano, clef note, ornate series of notes, gramophone, and a man on a park bench playing a guitar (my mother thought it represented her lover holding a skis).

Invocation #42: Light from the Menorah

17 Friday Jul 2015

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12/15/82

We thank you, O Lord, for giving us this day to come together with our fellow-members in celebration of Hanukah.

Every mindful of what it means to be living in a land where one is free to practice religious beliefs as conscience dictates and in the manner of one’s own choosing, we are careful to extend to all others the same tolerance and respect.

It is with fervent hope that we offer up the prayer that America’s torch of religious freedom will continue to burn as bright as the light from our own menorah.

America’s torch of religious freedom has thankfully continued to burn bright, as has other freedoms. As the saying goes, however, with freedom comes responsibility. Unfortunately, recently the freedom to purchase and carry guns has come with a price.

Today, four people were shot in Maine by a former convict. Yesterday, four Marines were shot in Chattanooga, Tennessee at a military recruiting center. Later in the day, James Holmes, who killed 12 people inside a Colorado movie theater three years ago, was found guilty of murder in the first degree. About a month ago, 9 people in a Bible study group at a historical church in Charleston, South Carolina, were shot.

The Constitution also provides the freedom of speech. Lately, it has meant a proliferation of hatred spewed online – and occasionally on the streets and events – against people of color, homosexuals, and immigrants.

It’s frightening to think the nasty and unsubstantiated remarks by Donald Trump are propelling him into the top spot as the Republican presidential candidate. Do his followers truly agree with his comments about Mexico sending rapist to America, and assumption that some are “good people?” Do they nod in agreement when Trumps says America needs to boycott Mexico, Senator McCain is a dummy, and Governor Perry needs to take an IQ test before the GOP debate?”

Equally startling is the adoration for the Confederate flag, which has come to symbolize racism. One could argue it represents Southern pride. To others, however, it’s a disturbing reminder of slavery and discrimination. The freedom to fly or display a flag shouldn’t overrule the sensibilities of a group of people. Seeing a Confederate flag probably invokes the same abhorrence among blacks as Jews seeing a Nazi flag.

While freedom is the ultimate blessing, it has a darker side, which sometimes needs to be tempered, and at times, regulated.