Always Be Prepared

The following story is 100% true. My boss walks into my office and says "What a day. I wish I had one of those hand grips that you squeeze to get my frustrations out." "Like this?" I say as I reach over and produce the exact item he is referring to. "Somehow that doesn’t surprise me," he says. "You probably have a slinky, too." "Like this?" I say as I open my drawer and take out a slightly rusty but still operational slinky, to which he just shakes his head and leaves.

First, let me clarify. I am not a hoarder, and you won’t find an episode of me on A & E tearfully asking for help amidst old newspapers and empty milk containers that I cannot part with. In fact, I am obsessively neat and enjoy nothing better than a good spring cleaning where everything that is not needed, not used, not worn and not nailed down goes into the trash. How then have I gotten the reputation of go-to girl for Neosporin, a cash-box, birthday candles, a ponytail holder and a can opener (all of which I was asked for and successfully produced before noon this morning)?

I’m not quite sure, to be honest with you. Perhaps I was inspired by Let’s Make a Deal with Monty Hall, where the host would ask audience members to produce the most random objects imaginable for a cash prize. "I’ll give you $50 if you can show me a red marble", and I would jot down the words RED MARBLE to remind myself that I could possible need that one day- a habit I continue 40 years later. Not a day goes by when I don’t make a note of something I need, want or vow never to get caught without again. I scribble notes at work, at home, on the run and on the road, and start each day transcribing my scraps into a long list, which I meticulously cross off as items are completed. Or perhaps my fear of being unprepared goes back to childhood when I was called out in front of the class for being the only student to not bring an object to Show and Tell- a devastating admonishment for a young child so eager to do the right thing.

Whatever the reason, my ‘always be prepared’ motto has served me well over the years. My list of things not to forget to bring to a marathon is almost as many miles long as the race itself, and my event box that I drag around from function to function is an evolving mix of must need items that no party planner should be without. Yes, the consensus at home, at work and even at play is that if you need something, I’m the person you need to see.

But even the best preparer in the world will one day meet her match, and mine came sitting in my mother’s doctor’s office, as he slowly and carefully explained the test results displayed on the screen. And as I clutched my lucky red marble, it occurred to me that my quirky behavior has been a way of imposing some control in a world where so much is out of my control. And while most things can be anticipated, there are a few we will never truly be prepared for.

A Not So New, New Years Resolution

New Years Resolution- Three little words that conjure up nightmares of lifestyle changes that never happened, books never read, classes never taken, makeovers never completed and goals never achieved. Years of good intentions gone back can turn the exciting prospect of a New Year into a reminder of past failures and disappointments- discouragement so deep we are tempted to not even try lest we fail ourselves again.

But last year was different. Last year I decided I would be less talk and more action. OK, maybe not less talk, but certainly more action. So rather than set a million little resolutions destined to fall apart like a house of cards, I came up with one whopper of a resolution- I wanted to revisit my childhood dream of being a writer.

You remember your childhood dream, don’t you? We all had one. If you were lucky, you actually pursued it to fruition and became what you always knew you could be, what you dreamed of being, what you were meant to become. But many of us are detoured along the way and put off our dreams until we can get to them, until we have time to do it right, not realizing until too late that detours can be deadly to dreams, leaving us hopelessly lost.

But not this time. This time I said I would do it, not just think about it. So I told my plan to Doug. "What are you going to write about?" he asked. "I don’t know, all kinds of stuff." "Won’t you run out of ideas?" he added. "My problem is I have too many ideas- I’m like an idea machine." "Go for it" he said. So I did- 22 articles over the past 52 weeks to be exact. And while I’m not a best selling novelist or quitting my day job any time soon, I am finally writing. And I love it.

My first few columns were innocuous enough, but it wasn’t until I started writing about memories that I found my voice- not the reincarnation of Hawthorne or Shakespeare, but Me. The irony is that for most of my life, I couldn’t remember a damn thing. I’m not just talking about forgetful, I’m talking about full black outs with chunks of years and ages I have no recollection of whatsoever. But I do have random vivid moments burnt into my memory as clear as a photo. And in piecing these moments together, I discovered something great. I discovered that in writing about myself, I’ve been writing about all of us.

We share the same tragedies, fears and concerns, from losing a loved one to coming to terms with aging. A friend from the Wicked Running Club was one of the "poor kids" with the homemade Halloween costume, and another read my Thanksgiving column to her loved one to remind them of all they are thankful for as well. A runner at the Wild Turkey 5 Mile Run who came in first in her age group (70 years young) had no intention of running until she read my article about the race and put her sneakers back on. My staff and I received donations for our candy jar (including samples from Bubble Chocolate in Salem), and I found out the story behind the Lime Green Car (which is actually several cars). And the Christmas memories many of you shared with me about your own younger siblings and children warmed my heart and made me believe in Santa and Rudolph all over again.

So to anyone with a childhood dream stored high on the shelf gathering dust, or buried in your cellar under a mound of old wrapping paper and gift bags, take it out. Take it out and dust it off and rediscover that spark you once had that life can sometimes blow out. It’s still there. I know it is, because it was for me. And we are similar, after all.