More Than a Flyer

It’s that time of year again. Time to shake off the winter chill and get into the spring of things as we prepare for the 13^th Annual Spring Dance to benefit the Stephen M. O’Grady Foundation.

So reads the opening line of our first mailing of the year for the charitable foundation started in memory of my brother Stephen M. O’Grady, Salem Little League VP and Executive Director of the Boys & Girls Club of Greater Salem, killed by a drunk driver in 1999 at the age of 30- those last few words rolling off my tongue with disturbing ease as I’ve repeated them hundreds if not thousands of times over the past 13 years.

Losing someone you love is painful.  Losing someone you love in a senseless tragedy at a young age is more than painful- it’s a reality check to everyone breathing to remind us that the only guarantee in our lives is the moment we are living in. It’s as much that shared pain and fear of our own mortality as it is the love for our son/brother/friend who left us behind that begs us to do something more. To do something to remind us that while he is gone we are still here,  trying to do something to leave a positive impact in this world for the honor of living another day.  To do anything to make sense of the fact that our lives go on, when one with so much promise was ended so violently, leaving us to wonder  the day after or even 13 years later, ‘why him and not me’.

It may seem straightforward to be on a small foundation board, and in a way I guess it is. You create a mailing list, ask for community support, tell your friends and family when the events are and hope they show up.  Behind the scenes you edit the website, update the Facebook page, and print flyers.  But there are those times when you stare at the computer screen and his photo stares back at you, and you wish you could ask him if this is what he would want, if it is making a difference, if he’ll really be waiting at Heaven’s gate to say “good job”. Then you wonder  if you’ve done enough good in the world to even make it to that gate, and if not can he at least try to stick his foot in it to hold it open. You stare closer and try to remember how tall he was next to you, what his voice sounded like, how big his hands were when he shook yours.  You take a moment to think of the cowlick that drove him nuts, how he was constantly trying to lose a few pounds, or how he never stopped liking spaghettios.

As the years go on the man and the foundation seem to drift apart as guests and scholarship recipients no longer know who Stephen was, and others who knew him their whole life join him in Heaven. You see the faces of those who have lost their own loved ones in the crowd, and want to tell them “this is for you too, for everyone who has lost someone they love”. You struggle with how much to remind people about the tragedy, without taking away the fun they are having.  You wonder what people want to hear, what they need to hear. You wonder where they were when they heard the news of the accident, and know you’ll never forget where you were.

You think of all of this, and then you relax a little bit when you hear a small voice inside of you that tells you “do what you need to do”, and you realize it really is that simple because you can’t imagine not doing it.

So you stuff the envelopes, sealing inside of them dreams of what should have been,  hope that one day you’ll find out if he still has a cowlick in Heaven, and gratitude for the honor of living another day.

End of the World As We Know It

I hate to be the one the break the news to you, but if you haven’t heard yet the world is ending on 12/21/12. If you don’t believe me, Google end of world and see what comes up. Apparently, the Mayans, Hopi Indians and Nostradamus knew what our fate would be long before we had a chance to mess things up pretty good on our own. Other apocalyptic dates have come and gone, but this one is the biggie. And it’s less than a year away.

As a child, I worried about the end of the world so much I had two recurring dreams that haunted me throughout my adolescence. 

In one, people are pouring out of their homes and being herded to the end of my street to find out if they are going to Heaven or Hell, accessible by an up and down escalator. When I saw my paperwork was sending me in the wrong direction, I swapped it with someone formerly destined for Heaven. Instead of feeling relief on my ride to the sky, I experienced overwhelming guilt and sadness about my actions, which would become my personal hell for eternity.   

In the other, people are running into the streets, randomly disappearing into thin air. I locked myself in a room with a stranger, thinking we were safe from whatever was happening, just as he disappeared with a poof. I’ve since learned this sounds like an event called The Rapture, where good people are called to Heaven at the end of the world, leaving everyone else to fend for themselves. As I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what a rapture was at age ten, I’m hoping this was not an omen of things to come, as in my dream I was not one of the lucky disappearing ones.

There are different approaches to take when anticipating the end of the world. One is to throw caution to the wind, eat anything you want, stop exercising, and ring up the charge cards because no one is going to worry about collecting on your debt when the world is overrun with zombies.

Another approach is to believe salvation truly is possible, and we reap what we sow. While we’d all like to think that when and if Judgment Day comes we’d be on the fast track to Heaven, we still have about 10 months to make things right just in case.

For starters, drop all grudges. The weight of that anger drags you down more than the person you begrudge, so let it go and you’ll be that much lighter, making it easier to catch the updraft to up above. 

It might also help to stop chasing down the latest and greatest gadgets, because I’m pretty sure coveting anything – including the newest phone- is like tying a rock to your soul, and the goal this year is to travel light.

And it’s never too late to build your heavenly resume by giving back to others, because the more selfless we are, the lighter our egos become, allowing us to drift upwards like a balloon cut free from its weight.

They say if we can repeat a behavior for 21 days, it will become habit. So let’s make a habit of smiling. You remember smiling, right? It’s when you lift up the corners of your mouth and crunch your crow’s feet. Studies show that even a fake smile makes you and others feel better. So why not give it a try? It’s cheaper and easier than stockpiling cases of water, batteries and duct tape, and perhaps in your time of need, someone you smiled at will remember you, and invite you to share their supplies with them.

As I think of it, preparing for the end of the world is actually pretty simple. Live as if you only have until 12/21/12 to save your soul. Then wake up on 12/22/12, and repeat. Perhaps if we all did this, we could turn this into a world worth saving.

 

If it's Broke, Don't Fix It

I have no problem calling the doctor if I suspect something could be wrong. I’m not a “wait a few days to see if I get sicker” person. If it hurts, I’m on the phone. In fact, my doctor is one of my speed dials. I’d say I’m not a hypochondriac, except that I’m pretty sure someone who is a hypochondriac is convinced they aren’t, so that remains to be seen.

It helps that I have a compassionate and patient primary care doctor who doesn’t flinch when I provide her with my annual list of aches and pains to check out, which can be as long as Santa’s “good” list. And while my physical woes have verifiable causes and treatments, I’ve noticed a disturbing new trend. What would have been fixed immediately in the past now seems to be optional, “given my age”.

Apparently, once we pass 50, doctors weigh the benefits of fixing non-life threatening health issues against just how long we plan to be around, sort of like a Vegas betting line on your longevity. 

Checking on the persistent pain in my right arm from an old car accident, the specialist asked me how much I use that arm, because unless I’m a pro tennis player, it may not be worth fixing. He may as well have told me I’m no longer worth fixing, and that is a real eye opener. And this is the first I ever heard about a right arm being optional.

Inquiring about my painful bunion, I was told to just shop around for sensible, wide shoes and live with it, as the recovery is long and may not be worth it. Which makes we wonder if the recovery could possible take more than 20 years- which is how long I hope to still be running pain free – and which will impact my life worse: recovery for a year or ugly shoes for the rest of my life?

Inquiring to my dentist about straightening my teeth, he asked if I wanted to get into fixing that stuff “at my age”. “Oh, you’re right”, I wanted to answer. “It’s just my face. Who even looks at it now that I’m over 50?”

I even have a friend who moves easily forward and backwards, but not sideways, as she is limited by an old MCL injury that she was told didn’t need to be fixed considering she is not a professional athlete. Which makes me wonder if active people are more worthy of fixing, while the cerebral ones should just learn to live with pain and limitations, as they don’t do much but sit around anyhow.

Whatever the reason, it’s clear I have joined the ranks of high mileage cars and beloved aging pets, both of which eventually force the question of how many good years are left, and if the high cost of prolonging the inevitable is worth it.

Left with no recourse, I’ve decided to see if I can learn to accept my nagging aches and pains gracefully. So when you see me limping down the street in sensible shoes, smiling a crooked smile with my right arm dangling loosely from lack of use, just know that I’m happy inside, and that’s all that matters. At least to my insurance company.

Miss Predictable

It happened twice in the same day at work. First, I sent an email to the staff about an issue, followed by an individual email to someone with an example. That’s when a co-worker popped up like a Jack in the Box and stated what was obvious to everyone but me: “So who got the 2nd message?” Unbeknownst, I’ve done the same thing for 20 years. First I send a group email about something “that affects us all”, and then I lower the boom with an individual one.

In the 2^nd instance, a co-worker asked me where my magazines were, as apparently it was the first time in decades I missed sharing some on Monday, even though I had no recollection that this was expected behavior on my part. And in fact, she was right, as I remembered recycling them by accident. When I lamented to her that I didn’t realize I was so predictable, she laughed and said I needed to find a new trick for April Fool’s Day next year, as they were onto that as well.

Out to breakfast that Saturday morning, I reflected solemnly on the fact that I am not nearly as mysterious and spontaneous as I fancy myself, only to have the waitress greet me with a cheery “Good morning… the usual?”

Once I started looking for it, my predictability was undeniable, as evidenced by the following statements that came rapid fire: “I knew you were going to say that”, “I knew you were going to do that”, “I knew you were going to blow up when I said that” and the ever popular “You’ve told me that story about 1,000 times already”.

Which led me to the conclusion that I don’t actually need to be present in my life to make an impact, so instead of engaging me in conversation or discussion when you already know what my response will be, just leave me out of the equation and insert the obvious and act accordingly. I am giddy thinking of all the time I could free up in my life not having to carry out my predictable behavior.

Instead of trudging around work every day repeating myself over and over again like a workaholic cockatoo, I could hire a full time trainer and become the picture of physical fitness for my age, eventually qualifying for the senior Olympics and accepting the silver medal on the podium on behalf of the USA. Or instead of choosing just a few charities to volunteer for with my limited time, I could volunteer all day, every day, and make the world a significantly better place while my coworkers wander in and out of my office, correctly predicting how I would respond to each question they ask or situation that arises and proceeding on their own. Genius!

At home, my partner would assume all day absence meant I was on my usual schedule of running, food shopping and doing errands, but instead I’d be taking rock climbing or scuba diving lessons, or re-learning the violin. Then I would finally start my long delayed book project while friends and family have witty conversations with an imaginary me, correctly predicting the moments that I would interject a wise remark or timely chuckle. Or they could go to a movie they know I would like, followed by my favorite restaurant and my predictable dinner order and talk about how they knew that movie would make me cry.  And while my predictable life is being lived without me, I would take French lessons so I would fit in seamlessly when I up and move to Paris.

I confide to a close friend my dream of escaping my repetitive “Groundhog Day” life and moving someplace new where I can redefine myself, make a fresh start, and live the life I’ve dreamed about. To which she smiles and aptly says “You say the same thing every New Years”.

And with that, I realize that even my dream of being unpredictable is predictable. Leaving me with more to ponder next time I order my usual breakfast at my usual place.

Becoming Scrooge

I have yet to get around to trading out my swimsuit drawer for my hat and mitten drawer, and its Christmas again. Didn’t we just celebrate that, and can’t it wait a few more months? My schedule is too full for festivities right now. Bah humbug!

I’m not sure when time started moving faster for me, but I estimate I’ve lost about a day a year since I turned 21, which adds up to 30 days, or pretty much the whole month of December. That might explain why my holiday spirit has been lacking.

Or perhaps it is because the heralding of the holidays that once started with the Bing Crosby Christmas special now proceeds with protests of whether the public tree with lights on it should be called a holiday tree or a Christmas tree. How about if we just call it “pretty” and leave it at that? And lately I noticed the jolly Santa sledding on an electric razor (a great gift for Dad!) has been replaced by Give a Lexus for Christmas ads, sending me into an anti-Santa spiral as I envy all the people who might really be getting a Lexus for Christmas, while I estimate my recent car repair bill to be paid off sometime in early 2013.

Over the years, my Christmas list has changed from ‘things I would love and can’t live without’to ‘things I need but can’t afford to buy’, to this year’s festive lament ‘please don’t buy me anything as I have no time to shop for you’. Needless to say, it has become painfully obvious that whether by choice or natural evolution, I am in danger of Scrooging myself, and turning into the cranky, joyless, workaholic I swore I’d never be.

But all is not lost, because those who know me know I can’t do anything half way, including this Scrooging myself thing. And if you recall the story, the ghost of Christmas’yet to come gave Scrooge the opportunity to change and re-capture the true meaning of the season before it was too late; which is not about carrying heavy burdens of shopping bags from the mall to the car, but about lightening the load for others we can help along the way with positive thoughts, words and actions and appreciating the same thoughtful gestures shown to us by others. And while I haven’t gone as far as screaming Merry Christmas out of my 2ndfloor window to passer bys, I have taken a deep breath and realized that I still have much to be grateful for, including memories of Christmas’ past.

Which leads me to my annual holiday story about my brother Stephen and me, retold every year as a reminder of the beauty of the season, youthful innocence and faith that anything is possible if you just believe.

I call it The Night We Saw Rudolph.

Twas the night before Christmas on Webb Street in Salem. Stephen is five years old and trying desperately to fall asleep amidst the holiday excitement and anticipation of Christmas morning.

I tell him that if Santa comes and he is still awake, he will fly right by and not bring him any toys. Just then, someone drove into the driveway of the liquor store that use to be our neighbor and put their brake lights on, causing the bedroom to glow in a bright, red light.

His eyes grew as big as saucers as he looked at the window, then at me, and muttered “Rudolph…!” just before falling asleep.

From that year forth, every Christmas Eve Stephen would turn to me and say,“Remember the night we saw Rudolph?” and we’d laugh at the memory. But as we grew to adults, I began to respond, “That wasn’t Rudolph, it was….” and before I could finish the statement he would give a little smirk and say, “SShhhh, it was Rudolph” and we’d just smile.

My brother has been gone 12 Christmases now, but I still tell this story to anyone who will listen. Because looking back, Stephen was right. It was indeed Rudolph.

Thankful, Part III

This is the third year I’ve shared a list of things I’m thankful for. This past year proved more challenging than most, and I feared having to skip this year’s column and hope for a better year ahead. But as it turns out, being thankful is less about having a lot of great things happen to you, and more about reflecting on the small things that make the not so good stuff bearable. So once again, I humbly share my 3^rd annual thankful list.

Being humble, not having to eat humble pie. Lemon meringue pie. Kids who run lemonade stands. Seeing your friends’ kids grow up. Seeing your friend’s kids have kids. Kidding around with them. Still feeling like a kid on the inside. Accepting what you look like on the outside. Being outside. Acceptance.

Confirmation of acceptance to the Boston Marathon. A strong tailwind. Feeling strong, physically and mentally. Getting out of something what you put into it. Not putting anyone out. Not fearing the unknown. Knowing something for sure. Contentment.

Exercising your right to vote. Having rights. Exercising. Climbing Mount Washington. Not making a mountain out of molehill. Turning a negative into a positive. Turning a wrong into a right. Not always needing to be right. Not being needy. Good news when you desperately need some. A massage when you desperately want one. Knowing the difference between need and want. Not being desperate. Just being, for a minute.

Bubble baths. A fluffy bathrobe. Dark chocolate. Those last three things, enjoyed in that order.

Having nothing to hide and nothing to lose. Going for it. Big ideas. People who say things like “What’s the big idea?” People who give back to their community. Community service. Getting great service. Extended business hours. Expecting to get a bill for service and receiving a donation to charity instead.

Generous donors who make special events possible. Believing anything is possible. Not having flooding rain during your charity golf tournament. Friends who come anyhow, and make it a record success.  A successful track record.

Drivers who let you pull out. Drivers who wave thank you when you let them cut in. Plenty of parking. No traffic. Not hitting the Kernwood Bridge. No wait for a table. No line at the registry. Realizing the police car behind you is not pulling you over.

Dreaming about going to Paris with friends. Going to Paris with friends. A trip that lives up to the dream. Dreaming of going back. Visiting Normandy. Remembering those we have loved and lost. Remembering how fragile life is. Living it. 

Fresh air. Friends you can be fresh with. Friendly competition. The competitive spirit. The spirit of giving. Realizing the best gift is not a present. No time like the present. Good timing. A whole day spent not looking at a watch.

Watching funny videos. Using your credit card points to buy a video camera. Making your own funny videos. Making fun of yourself. Friends who pretend you are funny.

The calm before the storm. A snow blower after the storm. Not losing your power. Not losing your cool when you do. Surviving the storm. Surviving a layoff. Knowing when to lay off of someone. Not laying it on too thick.

An invitation to an exciting event. Not getting invited to a boring event. Things that turn out better than expected. Finding out the new way to do things really is better. Butter.

Raking a big pile of leaves then jumping in it. Not getting injured doing aforementioned. Reaching into the pocket of a coat you haven’t worn since last year and finding $10. Score!

Escaping a close call. Escaping the office for lunch. Chipping in with the office for a lottery ticket. Dreaming about what you’ll do with your riches. Not giving up on your dreams. People who say “living the dream” when you ask them how they are. Sweet dreams, and someone to share them with.

Teaching old dogs new tricks. Teachers. Old dogs. Letting sleeping dogs lie. Lying in bed and thinking of all the things you are thankful for before you fall asleep. Thanksgiving. Giving.

Thanks for reading.

The Tipping Point

Life is about balance. It’s about knowing when to push, when to pull and when to leave things alone. It’s about making your statement loud enough to be heard, delivering it confidently enough to be believed, and stepping back so it can speak for itself. Continue to hammer your point in too hard or hang around too long, and your previously positive message runs the risk of ruin. In other words, you’ve passed your tipping point. 

Lately, it seems the Occupy Boston encampment has passed its tipping point. Occupy has the potential to be a voice for change, because even if we don’t understand exactly what they want, we are curious enough to listen while they figure it out. But recently, their physical location has received more attention than their message, causing the shifting tide to turn into a tidal wave, washing over their camp and leaving the debris and ruins of what it destroyed. At least that is what I saw when I walked down myself to check it out. No longer a gathering place for political ideas, it has become a gathering place for anyone who thrives on large gatherings, including drug dealers, thieves, transients and others with random, unrelated platforms hoping to steal the spotlight. The Occupy camp has passed its tipping point.

Which led me to think about more ordinary tipping points in life. 

In a disagreement, it’s the point where you feel you’ve won, lost, or forgot what the point was. This is the time to call a truce. But too often one side pushes too much for too long, reigniting the fire that was almost extinguished. My recent tipping point at work went something like this:

Me: You know, you are probably right.

Him: What? Ah, yes. Thank you.
Me: Ok, back to work! (here comes the tipping point…)
Him: You know, I’m right a lot more than you give me credit for.
Me: Huh? I thought we were done….
Him: I was right about that other thing a few weeks ago you fought me on, and remember that other thing five years ago you were wrong on too?  My ideas are not as bad as you think they are and it’s about time you finally gave me credit.
Me: Aaaahhhhhh!

As a teen, my love of yogurt hit a tipping point when my mother realized I liked it and added it to her weekly food-shopping list. First I was in yogurt heaven, feasting non-stop like royalty on my bountiful bacteria supply. But soon, my appetite couldn’t keep up with the abundance, and instead of being a yogurt-eating bundle of joy, I became the ingrate who let good food expire while others around the world were starving.

There’s even a traffic tipping point, where I know that if I’m the last car to pass through the first green light on 1A in Lynn headed towards Boston, I’ll hit every green light after. But if I’m the first car to hit red, my commute is doomed.

And perhaps there is even a life lesson to learn about tipping, as demonstrated by my favorite childhood ride, the Tilt-A-Whirl. Tip in the wrong direction and you’d wobble back and forth weakly with no momentum just waiting for the crappy ride to end. But tip in the right direction and you’d twirl around at top speed, jowls stuck to the back of the cart from the intensity, catching your breath just long enough before the end to exclaim “What a great ride, I wish it didn’t have to end!” Not a bad ending for a ride.

Or a life, for that matter.