The Ties That Bind

 Like most parents, I often wonder if my child will achieve important milestones. Yet, when my son Jack was almost three and stubbornly refused to "pee in the potty,"  I never envisioned him going off to college in a diaper. Nor did I fear he would arrive at the fraternity house, swigging beer from a sippy cup. Kids have a way of accomplishing tasks on their own terms. Until this week, however, I could see a future—some nine years down the road—when my exceedingly bright child might arrive on an Ivy League campus in tennis shoes fastened by Velcro. Yes, I’m ashamed to say that I had neglected to teach my nine-year-old son how to tie his shoes. It's not all my fault, but attaching blame is sticky. Especially in this case. Surely Velcro inventor, George de Mestral, did not envision his innovation would bring about the decline of childhood dexterity and self-esteem.

Shoes make the boy.

   Well, at least I’m not the only slacker mom in the world. Earlier this year, Internet Security Company AVG published the findings of it's "Digital Diaries" study. 2,200 mothers of 2-5 year-olds in eleven countries were given a list of technical skills and life skills and asked which ones their children had mastered. Turns out that while 25% of these tots could "navigate a website with ease," only 11% could tie their own shoe laces. Is it possible that parents all over the world have given over to the path of least resistance—aka Velcro? Although the study aimed to illustrate how children gravitate toward technology at an increasingly early age,  it also made painfully clear that we have collectively thrown up our hands when it comes to teaching basic "life skills." If we're too busy to be bothered with shoe laces, what else are we neglecting?

  Thankfully, the denouement for Jack v. Shoe Laces occurred the night before he entered fourth grade. His current pair of sneakers were at least a full size too small. The kid needed new shoes. Time to shop! 

  In the past, the mere suggestion of shopping for clothes elicited the same response from him as a trip to the dentist.  But this outing proved different. In another rite of passage Jack demonstrated a keen awareness of brand names: Nike, Reebok, Adidis, Sketchers. No sooner had we entered the consumer vortex, Jack spotted Footlocker. Good-bye J.C. Penney. So long, Sears. We're headed to the Bigs now. Turns out, Jack knew exactly what style and brand of shoe he wanted. "These are the ones the football players wear," he says, pointing to a sleek Reebok with a vibrant green sole. I had to admit, they were very cool. A glance at the price tag reminded me why they were so cool.  I swallowed hard and asked the clerk for Jack's size. But there’s one little, tiny 36-inch problem: These cool shoes come with shoe laces. Jack hunted for a Velcro model in the same style, but there ain't no Velcro in Coolsville. Jack's bottom lip began to trimble. The store clerk backed off, suddenly remembering the miss-matched sock bin that’s calling his name. 

   "But I'll never be able to tie them myself!" Jack wails. 

   "You know Jack, you didn't think you'd ever be able to ride a bike, but you can do that now like a pro," I said.

   Jack kicks at the very cool Reebok box. I fight my urge to escalate my argument to Parenting Tactics Code Red. You know, where you say brightly, "Well, then, c'mon, let's go down to Penney's and get those Lightning McQueen numbers with the Velcro!" (Even I know Lightning McQueen is SO first grade.) Instead I say: "I know you can do it, son. I mean, you're on the five-thousandth level of that Harry Potter DSi game, I think you can figure out how to make the rabbit go into the hole."

   Jack tries on the shoes, and I show him how to tie the laces in the simplest way possible. With these ultra-cool "football" shoes on his feet, he's immediately given a boost of confidence. He primps and preens in front of the mirror and then makes a lap around the store. 

   "So, what do you think?" I ask.

   "I can learn to tie the laces," says Jack.

   Back home, Jack and I sit side-by-side. After some initial frustration, he allows me to help him. "Left over right and under. Now make two ears. Now, left over right and under..." Jack's little fingers, which are normally so nimble and capable, falter at first. I hold my breath as he attempts to make the bunny go through the hole. "Please work," I pray. I know if he can tie a bow one time, he'll get over his aversion to the task. As he pulls both "ears" to complete the bow, Jack proudly says the three words that I've been waiting to hear, "I DID IT!"

  Jack beams and immediately turns his attention to the other shoe. When I offer guidance, this time I'm flatly turned down. "Mom, I can DO it!"  There are still some false starts and stops. Tying shoes takes a good ten minutes the next morning, but there's clearly more at stake here than a child learning to tie a bow. Overcoming a seeming insurmountable challenge—or even completing a task that's less than convenient—for the sake of self-satisfaction is a positive example to lay down for future reference. In years to come when facing his SATs, will Jack think of the night before his first day of fourth grade when he calmly listened to instruction and then found a way to accomplish a goal? Perhaps. One thing is for sure: He would have never gleaned such a reward from straps of Velcro.

Feed the Ocean

Friday morning finds us back on the beach. Jack delights to see a red flag flying above the white, powder sugar sand. Waves crest at the sandbar and hurdle into the shore as dark clouds gather on the horizon, far out over the Gulf. My son doesn't care. These are his "ideal" beach conditions. Do I worry just a bit that only a few other people are in the water? About a hundred yards down the beach, two teenaged boys plunge in the surf. A little family teeters by the edge of the water. The children, longing to rush in to meet the onslaught of surf, are held back by cautious hands. Jack and I, intrepid, hold our boogie boards above our heads and meet the tide.
  Standing in the waist-high waters, I don't have time to think before a powerful crush of water pushes me back toward the shore, like a bully daring me to cross an invisible line on the sand. Jack is taken under. Completely submerged. I move toward the spot where he stood, readying myself to plunge in after him. Within seconds he is spit out. His damp head pops from the roiling surf. He laughs and shouts. "Mom, did you see that? That was awesome! Did you see me?" And in the next moment, he rushes into the waves and is consumed again.
   Now let me assure you that Jack is an excellent swimmer, and he is not a daring child. He has always been cautious, so much so that I once wondered if he would ever agree to plunge his head beneath water. There was a time not too long ago when he would cry if a wave smacked him in the face. Now, he laughs it off. Surfing is a game between he and the waves. He keeps score. He "feeds" the ocean handfuls of sand to appease its "hunger" and draw out its best surf. I hear him singing a refrain from a song we listened to in the car on the drive down. He explains he is taming the waves. In this way, he controls—if not the ocean—his fear.
   Life is this way. We are ever in the balance, and yet we willingly plunge in. We forge ahead with our goals and dreams because they draw us in—sometimes rudely pushing us back or abruptly spitting us out. The alternative would be to sit upon the shore and wistfully wonder what it would feel like to experience the crush of something more powerful than ourselves. So we throw ourselves in. We take a risk. Find ways to comfort ourselves if we grow fearful. Then, we run headlong into the surf. In the process, we forget the danger that is all around us and have fun.
   Jack and I spend an hour or so tossed like flotsam on the waves. I drink a gallon of salt water and my ears and hair are crusted in sand. No matter. We have abrasions on our shins and elbows from where the surf pummeled us into the soft sand. We don't care. That's why we're here.

When It's Right, You'll Know It

Even in its state of disrepair, I knew I'd
found my home.

   On a Tuesday morning in mid-June, I found myself once more driving past the familiar Talladega Super Speedway. on my way to Atlanta. I had an 11:30 rendezvous with a lavender bridesmaid dress. My friend Kaye is getting married for the first time and I was happy to oblige her request that I stand up in her honor. "I'll wear a feed sack, if that's what you want," I said, although I was relieved to find she had selected a fashionable forties-style knee-length number instead. Two years ago, Kaye met her true love, and they are destined to be wed in July. When I met her husband-to-be, Todd, I could understand why she knew he was "the one" within a few short weeks of their meeting. He had all the right stuff: smart, self-aware, very kind and compassionate, with a great sense of humor—plus he looks like Steven Spielberg.
   I stopped at the Starbucks in Oxford to fuel up on an iced-Chai Latte and called my realtor, Shirley, who was anxious to hear my reaction to the inspection report on the house I had contracted to purchase. After my first ill-fated attempt at home buying, I now had my financial ducks in a row and was ramping up for the big commitment. In hindsight, I was grateful that first house fell through. The initial disappointment gave way to clarity, and I knew more now about what I required in a home—specifically, what I could live without and what was essential to my happiness.
   I'd been looking at homes in the neighborhood where I lived with my now-ex-husband for the past seven years. I wanted to stay close to Jack's school, but houses in the area come at a premium, and property taxes reflect the neighborhood's fine public school system. Plus, to stay in the same 'hood meant running into my past. When I thought of my dream house, something different always came to mind: An airy, two-story home, with a porch, a foyer, spacious rooms with high, high ceilings and solid, hardwood floors, built-in cabinets, french doors, and a claw-foot tub. Unfortunately, I could not afford this house in my old zip code.
   One day, while checking the dismal real estate listings in my price-range, I typed in the zip code of a nearby neighbor known for its historic homes. Images of turn-of-the-20th-century Craftsman bungalows and stately Victorians soon populated my search results. I could get twice the home and be just a 10-minute commute away from Jack's school.
   The first house that caught my eye was a grand Craftsman, which needed a new roof and soffits, but was well-priced. It was in "short sale," which meant the bank, as well as the owner, would have to approve the offer and months could pass before receiving an answer on a contract. The home possessed the aesthetic all details I desired—right down to the claw-foot tub—but it had also suffered from some bad remodeling along the way. There would still be trade-offs. As the realtor and I stood outside, admiring the detailed gables, I noticed a similar house under renovation two doors down.
   "What's going on with that house?" I asked. Many homes in this area are fixed up and split into apartments to accommodate the college students.
   "Oh, that house?" the realtor said. "The guy who bought it is fixing it up to sell. It will be a single family home, but all new inside. Not what you want at all."
   I envisioned a sterile, new interior, gutted of all charm and didn't give that house a second thought. We continued on to tour another home, also a Craftsman design, but smaller and with fewer historic amenities. This home had the basics (hardwood floors, high ceilings, a charming staircase leading to three bedrooms upstairs), however, and seemed move-in ready. I could close by the end of July and be done with the time-consuming house-hunting process.
   "This house will be more manageable for you,"Shirley said. "Since it's smaller, it will be less expensive to heat and cool, too."
   The realtor's practical advice beat down my desire for aesthetics. The larger home did seem imposing and needed a lot work. I decided to write an offer on the smaller Craftsman. I would install my own claw-foot tub, thank you very much! I wrote a fair offer, and told the realtor I would not negotiate. Of course, my contract was contingent on having a home inspector peruse the place thoroughly. To my surprise, the Sellers accepted my price and met all my terms, save one: They wanted the inspection conducted quickly so as not to drag out the process. Although I was very busy and traveling on Tuesday, after making a few calls, Earl the home inspector, agreed to meet me first thing on Monday.
   At 8 a.m. the air was already thick and hot, but Earl donned his overhauls and climbed up into the attic. As I waited on the second floor, I began to notice flaws that I had previously overlooked. The floors were definitively bowed inward from the exterior walls to the center of the house—like the way New Orleans creates a bowl. And several of the door frames had a Dr. Seuss aesthetic. When I closed the bathroom door, a full two inches of daylight could be seen between the top of the door and the frame. Could I really live with that? How much would it cost to straighten the door frames and shim the floors? Downstairs too, there were issues with settling. Yes, this house was over 70 years old, and some settling was to be expected, but how much settling should I settle for?
  That night when the inspection report arrived in my Inbox, more issues were evident. Although the current buyers seemed attentive, the house had been neglected at some point over the years. Wood rot had set in. Repointing the brick was long overdue. A shoddy job bolstering up the floor joists added to the complaints. This home had "issues" and clearly needed some TLC, but I wasn't sure I could make that commitment—for better or for worse.
   Fortunately, I had not succumbed to the cardinal sin of house buying this time: I had not let myself become emotionally involved. Although caught up in the initial infatuation of owning this old home, I was reluctant to take on its many problems at this point in my life. I refused to settle.

    Sipping my latte in the parking lot, I explained my concerns to Shirley the Realtor.
   "It's an old home!" she countered, feeling her commission grow cold. "You can't expect everything to be perfect and new! Just give it a little more thought. We can have a foundation specialist come out and look at the basement, and I know someone who can shim up those floors upstairs—"
   "Okay, okay!" I said. "Let me sleep on it. I'll call you back tomorrow with my final decision."
   An hour and a half later, I stood in front of a fitting room mirror, having a lavender dress altered to my curves. Despite my wise-cracks, the dress was lovely. I had never had a dress tailor-made to me, and I realized I perhaps all this time I had been going about things wrong. I always excepted what was on the rack and then fit myself into it. Perhaps it was time that I allowed someone to fit things around me. Sure, it might cost a little more, and take a bit more time, but the end result was custom-made and unique to my liking.

  The next morning, as I speed west on I20, an idea crystalized in my mind so clearly that I laughed out loud. Why hadn't I seen it before? I recalled something Shirley said, "You can't get everything you want! You can't have an old home and have it be all new." Actually...I could.

  Arriving in Birmingham, I drove straight to the house that was being renovated next door to the grand old Craftsman. The electricians were taking a smoke-break outside and I sweet-talked them into showing me around. Even with its walls torn out and plaster shards on the floor, as soon as I walked into the foyer, I knew this was it. I was home—and I didn't have to settle.
   In a few days I returned to my house with the builder. Since I was writing a contract on the place at this point, I could choose the paint colors, floor finishes, fixtures and tile. I was relieved to find that the builder had saved the old built-in cabinetry, and kept intact the century's old staircase, which led to the second floor from that gracious foyer. Yes, he was even restoring the claw-foot tub. The new floor plan would be spacious and airy, combining a smart modern floor plan with old-world character. It was as though the home were custom-made just for me. I had to share the good news with someone, so I called Kaye.
  "That's wonderful," she said. "I'm so happy for you!"
   I described the house to her and we chatted for a while. Then she handed the phone to her beloved, Todd.
   "Mazel Tov on your new house!" he said.
   "Thank you! Can't wait for you guys to come visit," I said. "You know, Mr. Groom, you're very fortunate to be marrying my amazing friend Kaye."
   "Yes," Todd said softly. "I am very lucky to have found my love. She is home to me."
   I smiled and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. For a moment I couldn't respond,  but I knew exactly what he meant.

Little rocks

When in doubt, I ask my sisters for advice. I'm fortunate that I have three sisters to turn to when I need help sorting out a problem. I think three is exactly the right number for me under the Goldilocks Rule of Siblings. One might be too hot, another too cold, but someone will always be j-u-s-t right. Since I've started dating again, I'm finding I need my sisters—all three of them—more than ever for guidance. (And yes, maybe if I'd asked more questions of them when I was younger, I wouldn't be going through this do-over now.)
   Recently, I asked my sister Mary how she knew her husband, David, was the right man for her. They've been married for more than thirty years now, and happily so, but when they met, they seemed to be very different people—not at all the couple I would have put together. Of course, I was only a kid at the time they met and married, so what did I know?  

It was the 4th of July, and Mary and I were exploring the creek at my parents' old farm. The house was razed last fall, and the property cleared of privet and brambles in hopes of finding a buyer for the acreage. Divested of its old ramshackle barns, fences and blackberry bramble, the property exuded a park-like quality and hardly resembled the place where we all grew up. We hadn't been there together since before our father died, but it was the 4th of July and we had come to shoot off fireworks, just as we had when we were kids.
   The landscape seemed to have shifted since we lived there decades ago. Mary and I tried to recall where the barns formerly stood, and wondered why the lofty, old pine tree by the bank, where we once caught catfish, looked so different. Instinctively, we began to hunt for colorful pieces of shale and crystals among the creek bed. I was six and she was fourteen, again.
   As the sun went down, the night's first fireworks popped nearby. I heard Jack's cries of delight. Earlier in the day, his Uncle Mike took him to the fireworks stand where they purchased half an arsenal to light up the night. In the distance, I heard my son shout, "That was awesome! Do it again!"
   Mary picked up an yellowish stone, like a tiny, cratered moon, and turned it over in her hand. "Here's a pretty one," she said.
   I took the rock and examined the shimmering slivers of crystal imbedded within its surface, reflecting the dying light of day. I had hoped to find a crystal for Jack like the ones we sometimes found in the creek bed. This one wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but it was interesting and pretty and it would do. I slipped in into my pocket.

Sisters playing in the creek, 1965.
From left: Katrina (8), Brigid (2), Gretchen (12) and Mary (10).

  "So how did you know when you met David that he was 'it'?" I asked "How do you know when you've met the right guy?"
   Mary bent low to pick up another rock. After a moment she let it fall back onto the ground. She stood up and stretched her back. "Well," she said. "I'm not sure. But I think when it's right, nothing else will matter."
  Another explosion erupted, and for a moment we looked up and watched the gray smoke drift slowly into the soft, pale light. Mary continued.
   "I have a friend who had been dating this fellow for a while, and she seemed very happy with him. She had been married before and still lived in the house that she bought with her first husband, but her children were grown and she seemed ready to start a new life. One day, he asked her to marry him. At first she was thrilled, but then she started finding excuses not to marry this guy. She didn't want to start their new life in her old house. No, problem, says he, we'll buy a new house of our own. That seemed like a perfect solution, but she couldn't see it. And at every turn, this woman found reasons why she could not marry this man. Nothing against him specifically, just logistical hurdles she could not overcome. So it seemed to me that she just didn't want to marry the guy, but she swore up and down that she did."
   Mary paused and picked up a small smooth stone and handed it to me. "This one is pretty," she said. "So you see, if it was really right, that old house wouldn't matter to her. So I guess he wasn't the right man for her after all but she didn't want to admit it."
  I rubbed the remaining dirt from the small, smooth stone and felt its coolness between my fingers.  Now clean, it appeared almost white and I could appreciate a translucent quality at one tip, as if it would soon crystalize.
  "Why are you asking me this?" Mary asked, with an impish smile. I was fourteen and she, twenty-two, again. "Do you think you've met someone special?"
   "Maybe, I'm not sure," I said. "I don't know. He seems like good guy, but he lives in Atlanta. I guess we'll just see where it goes. But it's awfully soon for me to be involved with anyone. I'm barely divorced."
  "Yeah, well," Mary said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. Like I said, if it's right, none of that will matter."
   I picked up a smooth, flat piece of dark slate and ran my fingers around its sharp edges. From reflex memory of performing the task thousands of times before, I positioned the flat stone in the crook of my index finger and flung. It skimmed the top of the darkening creek, and skipped once...twice...three times, before it was swallowed, whole.
   Near the pile of stones where our house used to stand, a battery of firecrackers exploded and male voices shouted what sounded like a battle cry. Above the din, I heard Jack's reedy excitement, "That was awesome!"
   The hazy light of day retreated as the artillery fire sounded again. Mary and I tentatively made our way across the stream, stepping on protruding rocks, trying to keep our sneakers dry. After all, I am forty-eight, and she is fifty-six. I hopped across and then, extended my hand to help my sister to the other side.
    I smiled. Why worry about the future? I was back in my beloved childhood haunt, by the creek where I spent so many happy hours, with my family whom I loved. And my son was now experiencing a piece of my childhood that he only heard tale of before. In that moment, nothing else mattered.
   As I climbed the loamy creek bank to rejoin our 4th of July party, I felt the moon-shaped rock dig into my thigh. I stopped, retrieved it from my pocket and examined the stone one more time. Then I lobbed it into the darkest waters of the creek, and watched until the ripples met the shore. After all, it wasn't quite what I was looking for.

You Can Lead a Horse to Water, But You Can't Make a Shetland Pony Do Anything

Growing up on a small, family farm in the south was rather idyllic in many ways. Although at times I longed to be a City Mouse, and live closer to my school friends, country life afforded amenities that my in-town peers did not possess. For example, living in the country, we could shoot off fireworks on the Fourth of July since we were outside the Little Rock city limits. We also had a stream running through the property that provided a place to swim and catch fish in the summer. City kids paid big bucks to go away to camps and do the stuff we did everyday on our farm. Our most prized country amenity, however, was a little brown Shetland pony named Butterball.
  Butterball became the family pet around the time I was born. She was a Christmas pony. With four girls in the house, there is no doubt that Santa fielded his share of requests from us for a pony, and Butterball was finally delivered. She was fully grown when she arrived, and no one knew for sure how old she was, but she became a fixture on our farm for decades. In her latter years, my sisters' children enjoyed her largess as she dutifully gave them rides and pulled the little cart my Dad bought just for her.

My sister Gretchen and me, riding Butterball.

   To be honest, I was never the horsey type. I took riding lessons as a Girl Scout, but I never fell in love with horses the way many girls do. They were always too big and intimidating for my taste. I don't recall being thrown off (extremely) or clinging to a run-away—no horse trauma—but I possessed a healthy respect for the beasts, who were, after all, a great deal bigger than I. Yet, Butterball the Pony was the perfect scale. At one point when I was about ten, I fancied myself as an equestrian and determined I would make Butterball my mount. I imagined the tricks I could teach her and the adventures we would have galloping across the open pasture. We would have been great pals, too, if not for one major consideration: She was stubborn. Shetlands are known for their ornery streak. If they do not want to go, they simply will not be moved. There is no sugar cube or switch that can prompt a Shetland with her ears pinned back. All you city kids out there can just take my word for it, a Shetland pony will out-stubborn a mule.
   One fine summer day, I decided to play Annie Oakley and bridle-up Butterball for a ride on the range. I caught her without much trouble, slipped the steel bit between her big, yellow teeth and fastened the bridle tight. Saddling the pony was trickier. She had a habit of bloating out her stomach so that, once cinched, all she had to do was exhale to loosen the saddle, and her riders would slide precariously off to one side to humorous effect for anyone watching. For this reason, I determined to ride bare back.
   Butterball was short enough to climb aboard without benefit of a saddle horn or stirrup. One would simply take a lunge across her sway-back and quickly swing a leg over. Voila! I was aboard the horse and ready to ride. Of course, Butterball had other ideas.
   I prompted her to walk via clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth and tugging on the reins. She complied, slowly ambling along in the general direction of my intention. There was an old cedar tree in the pasture, and Butterball made her way to that goal. I realized what she was doing but could not stop her. If she were going at a full gallop (which thankfully, she was not) she would make for that tree and expertly run so close to the trunk to "brush off" her hapless rider. Even still, I knew that tree was home base for her. Butterball outweighed me, of course, and my ten-year-old biceps were hardly a match for her will. I tugged on the reigns to try to make her turn the other way. No luck. She ambled to the cedar so close that my knee touched bark, and there she stopped. She bent down her large brown head, pulling the reins defiantly from my fingers. With bit in mouth, she started to nibble at a blade of unseen grass, ignoring my attempts to move her from that spot. And there I sat, my big adventure curtailed by the pony's desire to stand in the shade: The end of the trail. All I could do was cry in frustration or get off and give up my aspirations as an cowgirl.

Perhaps my sister Mary had the better idea.
At least expectations were low when riding a cow.

   Turns out good ol' Butterball was a wonderful Dharma teacher, and it's taken all these years for me to appreciate her lessons.
   How often do we try to push or pull a relationship when it has the inertia of a fat, Shetland pony? You cannot make someone do or feel something that they cannot do or feel. You can cajole and coax and sweet-talk all you like, but if the person on the end of the line is not willing to go there with you, then you might as well call it a day. Somewhere along the line—perhaps before she came to live with us—that pony learned to dig in when she didn't want to serve, and she found that an effective means of dissuading her young mistresses from riding on her back. Even if it was good exercise for her and companionship to boot, once she had it in her head not to go, that was it. People learn to dig in too when they don't feel like going the distance. Sometimes it's for the best. They are just not up to the task and should recuse themselves. Sometimes it does him or her a disservice, but I've found I cannot persuade a stubborn person any more than I can a stubborn pony. Better to walk away and, if I really want to become Annie Oakley, find a horse more suited to the task.

Sunday Morning Buddhism

On the other end of Sunday...dusk in Little Rock.

Since I've been on the road a lot lately, I haven't much chance to add to the blog, but that does not mean I'm not gathering insight and inspiration for stories. Look for more adventures soon. In the meantime, I'll share this Buddhist-Catholic prayer, written this weekend when the soft glow and quiet of Sunday morning delivered a moment of clarity. 

Sunday Morning Prayer

I don’t know what happens next and that’s okay. 

You tell me. I will write it down. 

I am not giving up, only giving in to the knowledge that all things are possible 

and in that possibility, I cannot possibly know the next step on this path, only that I am on the Right path after so very long. 

I concede to a greater understanding that will be delivered to me when I am ready to clearly see it. 

I know that everything that has transpired has been right, 

and has brought me to this place where I understand so much more than I did yesterday. 

Help me to learn from my experience. 

Keep my eyes open. 

Give me the strength to Act and not React

and do what is required of me and nothing more, nothing less. 

To love beyond all fear. 

To show compassion beyond all self-regard. 

To be in this moment, complete and whole and happy. 

To treat others with respect and love, even when that is difficult. 

To not race ahead to that which I cannot possibly comprehend, because it is Future. 

To know there is a future than is destined for me.

To listen to my teachers and be humbled by all that is honest and good. 

To know that these three most important words: I don’t know, will be a comfort, not a source of anxiety. 

To know that as long as I stay true to my convictions—the truest and most genuine essence of myself—all will be well. 

This is my prayer: Guide my way.

Uncommon Wisdom

My Dad was, and remains, one of my most honored teachers in this life. 

I am still learning from his example. (Above: Me, age 4, with my Daddy.)

Although my Dad offered many sage words throughout the years—“Never let your health insurance lapse.” “Always buy a used car.” “Don’t put baby calves in a pen together because they’ll suck each others' ears.”—one lesson in particular stands out. 
   During the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college I came home to work. Southwestern at Memphis, the small, liberal arts school I had chosen to attend, was expensive and I worked three jobs year-round to pay for tuition, room and board. My parents contributed all they could and I had grants and a small student loan, but even with financial aid, I had to come up with several thousand dollars—a huge amount at that time. I juggled a schedule that gave me 60+ hours of work each week and one of my jobs that summer was working for my Dad in his feed and farm supply store. 
  I had worked at Uncle Jack's Feed & Farm Supply since age fourteen, when my Dad started the business. I started out writing up receipts, running the cash register, and sweeping the floors, but over the years, I learned quite a bit about feed, fertilizer and animal care. I could hoist a fifty-pound bag of sweet feed onto my shoulder and tote it out to a customer’s car “faster than a cat could lick behind it’s ear,” as my Dad liked to say. I didn't mind the work, and I rather liked saving my money towards a worthy goal. On my bedroom wall, I kept a sheet of paper with the amount I needed ($2000) written at that top. Each week, I filled in the amount I saved. It was gratifying to inch the ledger up, knowing I would return to that lovely campus with its classic stone buildings and slate-floored refectory in the fall.

   In mid-summer that year, I received a letter from the provost of the school. Room and board expenses were increasing by $500 a year. In my mind, it might has well been five million. In 1982, minimum wage was $3.35/hour. I ran the numbers again and again. I couldn't work another 150+ hours in the next six weeks .Even with financial aid and my parents’ contribution, I would fall short of making the initial payment, which was due in September. 

  That afternoon I went to the feed store a little before my shift. I thought Dad was away, picking up a load of feed from the mill. Alone in the cool, dark store, I let out a frustrated scream and began to sob. 
   "What in the world happened?" shouted my Dad. He was in the office, but I neglected to see him behind the stacks of unfiled invoices, bags of Sevin dust, boxes of dog wormer and a hulking dog-tag making machine that he’d bought in an auction. (He swore "would pay for itself in no time.")
   I tried to quickly wipe my face and make up some excuse for my outburst. I knew my parents didn't have any more money to contribute to my education. They were retired, on a fixed income, and were already doing all they could to help me. I didn't want Dad to know that I was in over my head.When I was accepted to this school, I knew it would be a stretch. I told myself—and my parents—that I would pay for it myself. I was that determined to attend Southwestern, and yet, the reality was more stressful than I expected. But now the cat was out of the bag.

   “What’s the matter, baby girl,” he asked. 

    I couldn't lie.

   “I...just...don’t...know...how...I’m....gonna...pay...for...school!” I sobbed, barely getting the words out through my heaving breaths. 

   With five women in the house (I have three older sisters), Dad must have grown somewhat immune to feminine tears. He was able to deftly sidestep our hormonal tantrums, dating woes, and the heartbreaks over not making cheerleader, but this problem fell directly into his court. It was financial, and he knew it was not going to be an easy fix. As I drew breath in, my hysteria was audible. I squeaked and wheezed and sniveled. 

   “Now, calm down,” Dad said, the way he might talk to a horse who was spooked. But his tone only frustrated me more. I didn’t want to calm down! I wanted to scream and shout about how unfair it was that I had to work three jobs — one in a dusty old feed store for Chrissake! — while my friends vacationed and perfected their tans at the Country Club. 

   “You don’t understand!” I shouted. “They’ve raised tuition! If I can’t find a way to make another five hundred dollars, I can’t go back to that school!” 

   A new flood of tears followed. Dad walked out of the office with a armload of merchandise and calmly began placing cans of Shoo-Fly powder on the already crowded merchandise shelves. He took a deep breath and although my vision was obscured by the blur of my tears, I could feel his steely blue eyes on me. I had cried myself into a dither, and I was hiccupping, trying to catch my breath.
    “You... just... don’t... underst—” I sobbed.

   “STOP IT!” Dad said, in a stern voice. “Stop it, right now!” 

   His firm tone, not quite angry, but clearly annoyed, surprised me. My hiccups subsided, as if someone had sneaked up behind me and yelled, "Boo!"

    “Crying about it is not gonna help,” he said. “Now cut that out! We’ll figure it out, but you’ve gotta stop that foolishness. You’re just making yourself sick, and that’s not helping anything.”

   I nodded my head and wiped my eyes. “Okay,” I said, chastened, and oddly, feeling better. We hadn’t resolved anything. The same amount of money was due in about 45 days and I was short my goal, but Dad said the magic words, “We will figure it out,” — and I believed him. 

   I went to the bathroom, blew my nose and splashed water on my face. On my way back through the storeroom I grabbed the push broom and began sweeping out the store. Dad continued restocking the shelves with pinkeye oinment and udder balm, and we didn’t talk about my deficit again that day. "We’d figure it out," Dad said, and I knew we would.

  That fall, I moved into an off-campus apartment with a girlfriend. I was able to save money on room and board by eating peanut butter sandwiches and walking four blocks to campus each day. I continued working part-time jobs throughout the school year and as many hours as a could during the summers in between. It wasn't easy but I graduated from Southwestern on schedule.

 

   Although I learned a lot at on that college campus, for all the thousands of dollars spent on tuition and all the time I spent studying Shakespeare and Chaucer, I gleaned more wisdom that day from my Dad. He taught me that when difficulties arise, I have two choices: I can scream and cry and allow irrational thought and emotion carry me down the rabbit hole and make me sick; or I can shrug off set-backs, and choose to look for solutions, turning the problem over and over, like a Rubik's cube, until an answer arises. (By the way, that’s Buddhist Practice. My Dad for his devotion to the Catholic Church was actually an excellent Buddhist practitioner.)

   Yes, I’m fortunate to have had a father who was wise and compassionate. And yes, on this Father's Day, and everyday, I miss him. He wasn’t perfect, but he gave me and my sisters a lot of good tools that continue to help us through this life. Among other things, he taught me how to run a business, how to file quarterly tax reports and maintain cash flow. More important, he demonstrated how, even in business transactions, you can extend loving-kindness and compassion. He treated every customer—whether he owned a few scrawny chickens or a posh Quarter Horse ranch—with the same dignity and respect. Often, customers asked Dad to extend credit for a bag of feed until their next payday. I can’t recall a single time Dad turned them away empty handed. Even when he knew he would never be repaid, he couldn't abide by the thought of an animal going hungry. As it turned out, that old feedstore was the best classroom I ever attended. And my Dad—with his high school degree—was certainly my wisest professor.

[First published 6/19/2011; updated 6/15/2025]