HIDING OUT
by Roberta Jean Bryant
Growing up in Santa Fe, New Mexico I had two favorite hideouts. Indoors I’d take a blanket and pillow and a stack of library books into the high top shelf of my bedroom closet where I’d have to shinny up the doorframe to gain access. Outdoors I’d take my books and climb up into the backyard tree house -- both happy places where my mother couldn’t find me.
Hideouts have been an integral part of my life ever since. As a teenager my mother was running Skyview Lodge (an early version of a motel for summertime tourists). It was two stories tall with the Southwestern pueblo-style architecture that featured a flat tarpaper roof. My books and I would migrate up top when there were chores to be done.
When I was eighteen I rode along with a friend and her mother to Chicago. After they left I stayed for my first solitary travel adventure. I got a trainee job and hid out in a Michigan Avenue pea-soup-green basement room where I shared a bathroom with the tailor shop down the hall.
The next year in college at Highlands University in Las Vegas (New Mexico not Nevada) I had to live in the women’s dorm with a doors-locked curfew at ten o’clock. I’d sneak out of the dorm several nights a week to hide out at Storrie Lake with my boyfriend and a shared sleeping bag.
We later married and my hiding places grew increasingly desperate in my increasingly manic-depressive life. In manic phase I’d shriek at the children and leave the house to huddle around the corner near the garbage cans until I could “get a grip.” Depression was a gray hideout all its own.
Years later when I began to earn money from my writing I made a down payment on a large station wagon to ferry the kids around in. The station wagon became my favorite hideout and my symbol of independence.
Divorce brought me a nine months reprieve from daily motherhood and a place of my own at the Blue Ridge apartments; finally, a place of my own, and no need to hide anywhere else. Then, a return to motherhood, and my car became my refuge once again; my car, and my queen-sized bed -- half for sleeping and half serving as a makeshift desk.
My next move was into a small office suite on Eastlake just north of downtown Seattle. I decided to temporarily sleep on a futon in the larger room where I held classes until I could afford a separate apartment of my own. With the doors locked and the drapes closed I had once again a place of my own. Eight and a half years later I discovered that temporary had obviously meant eight and a half years of camping out in my office.
Deciding to actively promote my second book, I closed down my office, put furniture in storage, and bought a small RV that functioned as a hideout on wheels. I became an itinerant teacher, working my way down the west coast presenting workshops in the major cities, attending American Book Association conventions, doing book signings in independent bookstores.
I figured if I couldn’t eke out a living, or got tired of all the driving and phoning, I could always return to Seattle and open up an office again. I knew how to do that. In the meantime I was living out my teenage dream of traveling for a living. My hope chest had been a cardboard carton full of travel folders. Marriage and children had sidetracked me for several decades. When I was back in the Seattle area I parked in what my oldest daughter-in-law called the “mother-in-law driveway.”
I loved my vagabond life. For twelve and a half years I loved my vagabond life. I finally had reached retirement age, was tired not so much of traveling as the upkeep and breakdowns of an aging vehicle, and put my name on a waiting list for senior housing.
My final hideout is my senior housing one-bedroom apartment; third-floor western exposure. All I see out my windows are trees and sky and occasional spectacular sunsets. People tell me the place is tiny, but having lived in a small RV for years, it still feels spacious to me. I feel like I’m living in the best of both the hideout worlds of my childhood. It’s clean and warm like my closet shelf, and hidden in the trees to give me a perfect tree house perspective.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
FOOLS AND CHILDREN
They say God protects fools and children. It’s obvious to me that I’ve been operating as one or the other most of my life. After all, life is a risky business.
When I was thirteen I lobbied hard to come up to Washington state and repeat seventh grade with my younger cousin Janyce. I talked her into hitchhiking from Marysville to Everett to ballet class once a week “I’m a good judge of character,” I told her.
When I was fourteen and back home again I used to sneak out of my window at night and ride over to the movie theater on the wrong side of town. I got creeped out a few times, but never frightened enough to stop.
When I was fifteen my mother, younger brother, baby half-brother and I were living in a primitive cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific north of Arcata, California. My brother, thirteen-and-a-half, and I had carved out a rough trail down the sandy bluff to the tiny beach 600 feet below. We talked my mother into going down with us for a picnic one day. I assured her I could carry baby Russell. “No problem,” I said. And so I climbed down and back supporting Russell on one hip while clinging to sketchy handholds and bushes. No problem.
At the age of seventeen, having just graduated high school, I traveled to Chicago on my own, found a trainee position, and a tiny basement apartment on Michigan Avenue, promptly got fired, and found a less demanding job as a waitress at Stouffer’s Tearoom. I also, on one of my late night walks, acquired a stalker who wanted to take me to Florida with him. I went home to my mother instead.
Marriage and motherhood tied me down for a few years, and I became an armchair traveler courtesy of the public library, but I never passed up any opportunity for adventure with or without the kids. I wore out a Chevy station wagon in those years.
After a divorce, travel was high on my list of priorities. I picked up hitchhikers on a trip back from Los Angeles (a story for another day). I racketed around the greater Seattle area to singles dances at night after the kids were in bed. I answered singles ads in The Weekly for a while, after which I taught an Experimental College class titled “Playing the Personals.”
On a trip to see a friend in Salishan on the Oregon coast I stopped my car on a steep driveway and had to step outside the car for a moment to push the buzzer to get the gate raised. As the car began slowly drifting backwards I flung the door open and myself inside just in time to brake to a stop. One of the scarier moments of my life!
Other than the trip down the bluff with my baby brother and hitchhiking with cousin Janyce most of my close calls only risked my own neck. Then I agreed to lead a small group of writers on a trip to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. As group leader I assumed responsibility for those who traveled with me, but did not understand how challenging that would be until I encouraged one young woman to ride the subway back to Chapultepec Park after a group excursion there one afternoon. I felt sure she could handle any problems, but four hours later when she still hadn’t returned I was in a torment of worry. After another hour and a half she returned happy and full of stories. “I knew you could do it,” I told her, vowing to be more cautious regarding other people in the future.
I should have understood from that experience how worried my children might be when I began traveling around the states and Canada all alone in a small RV, or took off at Christmastime to travel by local bus without reservations in Mexico and Guatemala. But I was as clueless as ever as I accumulated more adventures and close calls. I even left for seven weeks in South America without much of an itinerary and without any way for my kids to contact me. This was before the age of cell phones and e-mail, but my kids were busy with their own lives and it never occurred to me that it might be important to stay in touch.
Although these days I’d like to think I’m neither as foolish nor as childlike as I’ve been throughout most of my life, the feedback I get from family and friends suggests that I’m still more delusional than not. And when I lock my keys in the car, set off the smoke alarm regularly, or trip over the hem of my long skirt and fall down, it’s a good thing that I can trust God to continue to protect fools and children.
They say God protects fools and children. It’s obvious to me that I’ve been operating as one or the other most of my life. After all, life is a risky business.
When I was thirteen I lobbied hard to come up to Washington state and repeat seventh grade with my younger cousin Janyce. I talked her into hitchhiking from Marysville to Everett to ballet class once a week “I’m a good judge of character,” I told her.
When I was fourteen and back home again I used to sneak out of my window at night and ride over to the movie theater on the wrong side of town. I got creeped out a few times, but never frightened enough to stop.
When I was fifteen my mother, younger brother, baby half-brother and I were living in a primitive cabin on a cliff overlooking the Pacific north of Arcata, California. My brother, thirteen-and-a-half, and I had carved out a rough trail down the sandy bluff to the tiny beach 600 feet below. We talked my mother into going down with us for a picnic one day. I assured her I could carry baby Russell. “No problem,” I said. And so I climbed down and back supporting Russell on one hip while clinging to sketchy handholds and bushes. No problem.
At the age of seventeen, having just graduated high school, I traveled to Chicago on my own, found a trainee position, and a tiny basement apartment on Michigan Avenue, promptly got fired, and found a less demanding job as a waitress at Stouffer’s Tearoom. I also, on one of my late night walks, acquired a stalker who wanted to take me to Florida with him. I went home to my mother instead.
Marriage and motherhood tied me down for a few years, and I became an armchair traveler courtesy of the public library, but I never passed up any opportunity for adventure with or without the kids. I wore out a Chevy station wagon in those years.
After a divorce, travel was high on my list of priorities. I picked up hitchhikers on a trip back from Los Angeles (a story for another day). I racketed around the greater Seattle area to singles dances at night after the kids were in bed. I answered singles ads in The Weekly for a while, after which I taught an Experimental College class titled “Playing the Personals.”
On a trip to see a friend in Salishan on the Oregon coast I stopped my car on a steep driveway and had to step outside the car for a moment to push the buzzer to get the gate raised. As the car began slowly drifting backwards I flung the door open and myself inside just in time to brake to a stop. One of the scarier moments of my life!
Other than the trip down the bluff with my baby brother and hitchhiking with cousin Janyce most of my close calls only risked my own neck. Then I agreed to lead a small group of writers on a trip to San Miguel de Allende in Mexico. As group leader I assumed responsibility for those who traveled with me, but did not understand how challenging that would be until I encouraged one young woman to ride the subway back to Chapultepec Park after a group excursion there one afternoon. I felt sure she could handle any problems, but four hours later when she still hadn’t returned I was in a torment of worry. After another hour and a half she returned happy and full of stories. “I knew you could do it,” I told her, vowing to be more cautious regarding other people in the future.
I should have understood from that experience how worried my children might be when I began traveling around the states and Canada all alone in a small RV, or took off at Christmastime to travel by local bus without reservations in Mexico and Guatemala. But I was as clueless as ever as I accumulated more adventures and close calls. I even left for seven weeks in South America without much of an itinerary and without any way for my kids to contact me. This was before the age of cell phones and e-mail, but my kids were busy with their own lives and it never occurred to me that it might be important to stay in touch.
Although these days I’d like to think I’m neither as foolish nor as childlike as I’ve been throughout most of my life, the feedback I get from family and friends suggests that I’m still more delusional than not. And when I lock my keys in the car, set off the smoke alarm regularly, or trip over the hem of my long skirt and fall down, it’s a good thing that I can trust God to continue to protect fools and children.
Friday, June 18, 2010
CONFESSIONS OF A SCRABBLE SLUT
by Roberta Jean Bryant
“You’re nothing but a Scrabble slut!” my friend Delilah remarked. “You’ll play Scrabble anywhere, anytime, with anybody.” Delilah likes stirring things up, using provocative language, always hoping for a good argument.
“Pretty much,” I cheerfully agreed, to her dismay.
Scrabble for me, I confess, is an addiction, an affliction, a passion, a joy. Although I’ve always been obsessed with words, Scrabble was just a fun game that I was pretty good at for a long time. And for years I was too busy earning a living to have time for much game playing.
After I stopped traveling and working fulltime I joined the National Scrabble Club on a whim. The weekly meeting of the local chapter was in the U district at night and I hated driving at night so I seldom attended. I read the monthly newsletter, found a Sunday afternoon meeting in Lake Forest Park and started playing three or four games a week there. I noticed that some of the Sunday afternoon players used what looked like a chess clock
I discovered that any relationship between Scrabble Club games and family Scrabble was in name only. This Scrabble had less to do with words than it did with
strategy and intimidation – like a combination of chess and poker – ultimately a numbers game. It was important to keep track of the power letters – the high-face-value J, K, Q, X, Z and the four versatile S tiles, to memorize the Q words such as qat -- which did not require a U, and to be bold about swapping puny letters in lieu of taking a turn. This new-to-me Scrabble was challenging and bloody serious. I loved it. And I didn’t always win. But with delight I always learned.
I found out about a tournament in Portland over the Labor Day weekend and decided, again on a whim, to sign up. At that time I was still living in a small motorhome so the travel and accommodations were no problem; I could sleep in the hotel parking lot. Playing Scrabble with a clock might be a problem. So, I managed to play a few games with the clock before Labor Day. To my dismay it added a level of distraction to my game because every time I completed a move I had to remember to hit the clock; this stopped dinging my quota of twenty-five minutes and started ticking away at my opponent’s minutes. Each game took fifty minutes total.
I’d always been a fast player, but this clock thing could bite me if I forgot to hit it and allowed my opponent to take his turn on my minutes which I did several times. I headed to Portland with both excitement and trepidation. I feared I’d be outclassed and outmaneuvered in every game of the twenty games scheduled. My goal was to play as many games as possible with people who were capable of beating me. I figured that covered everybody, so, how could I lose? At the very least I’d have the opportunity to learn a lot about this new Scrabble.
I was astonished to win over a third of the games I played, and I did learn a lot. I knew I was seriously hooked when I bought my own clock and began accumulating gear. I now own seven sets of letters known as “tiles,” four Scrabble boards, three tournament dictionaries or word lists, two travel Scrabble sets, one clock, and several instruction books for tournament players. Some of these things I actually won at tournaments.
These days I play as often as I can manage. I play games with Maven -- a computer Scrabble setup. I play several e-mail games daily with people I met at tournaments. I used to have a friend I played two games with nightly, and when I spend up to three months in Guatemala during the winter I have a group of friends I play with every day.
In addition, I keep attending nearby tournaments resolved to continue doing so as long as I am having fun. I never considered myself to be particularly competitive until I began playing tournament Scrabble. Now I know myself to be intensely competitive. And although winning is important, winning is still not as important as having fun and learning. I am perpetually in search of a worthy opponent -- someone who is as avid about playing as I am.
What I like best about my guilty pleasure is the fact that playing requires everything from me in every moment I spend at the board – all my problem solving ability, all my stamina, all my patience. What I get for this investment of time and energy is pure joy in being in the now. For years I failed to properly appreciate the value of a joyful pastime in my life, until I experienced a deep depression with no joy to be found anywhere.
Bottom line on this wordy subject? Have board; will travel. Scrabble, anyone?
by Roberta Jean Bryant
“You’re nothing but a Scrabble slut!” my friend Delilah remarked. “You’ll play Scrabble anywhere, anytime, with anybody.” Delilah likes stirring things up, using provocative language, always hoping for a good argument.
“Pretty much,” I cheerfully agreed, to her dismay.
Scrabble for me, I confess, is an addiction, an affliction, a passion, a joy. Although I’ve always been obsessed with words, Scrabble was just a fun game that I was pretty good at for a long time. And for years I was too busy earning a living to have time for much game playing.
After I stopped traveling and working fulltime I joined the National Scrabble Club on a whim. The weekly meeting of the local chapter was in the U district at night and I hated driving at night so I seldom attended. I read the monthly newsletter, found a Sunday afternoon meeting in Lake Forest Park and started playing three or four games a week there. I noticed that some of the Sunday afternoon players used what looked like a chess clock
I discovered that any relationship between Scrabble Club games and family Scrabble was in name only. This Scrabble had less to do with words than it did with
strategy and intimidation – like a combination of chess and poker – ultimately a numbers game. It was important to keep track of the power letters – the high-face-value J, K, Q, X, Z and the four versatile S tiles, to memorize the Q words such as qat -- which did not require a U, and to be bold about swapping puny letters in lieu of taking a turn. This new-to-me Scrabble was challenging and bloody serious. I loved it. And I didn’t always win. But with delight I always learned.
I found out about a tournament in Portland over the Labor Day weekend and decided, again on a whim, to sign up. At that time I was still living in a small motorhome so the travel and accommodations were no problem; I could sleep in the hotel parking lot. Playing Scrabble with a clock might be a problem. So, I managed to play a few games with the clock before Labor Day. To my dismay it added a level of distraction to my game because every time I completed a move I had to remember to hit the clock; this stopped dinging my quota of twenty-five minutes and started ticking away at my opponent’s minutes. Each game took fifty minutes total.
I’d always been a fast player, but this clock thing could bite me if I forgot to hit it and allowed my opponent to take his turn on my minutes which I did several times. I headed to Portland with both excitement and trepidation. I feared I’d be outclassed and outmaneuvered in every game of the twenty games scheduled. My goal was to play as many games as possible with people who were capable of beating me. I figured that covered everybody, so, how could I lose? At the very least I’d have the opportunity to learn a lot about this new Scrabble.
I was astonished to win over a third of the games I played, and I did learn a lot. I knew I was seriously hooked when I bought my own clock and began accumulating gear. I now own seven sets of letters known as “tiles,” four Scrabble boards, three tournament dictionaries or word lists, two travel Scrabble sets, one clock, and several instruction books for tournament players. Some of these things I actually won at tournaments.
These days I play as often as I can manage. I play games with Maven -- a computer Scrabble setup. I play several e-mail games daily with people I met at tournaments. I used to have a friend I played two games with nightly, and when I spend up to three months in Guatemala during the winter I have a group of friends I play with every day.
In addition, I keep attending nearby tournaments resolved to continue doing so as long as I am having fun. I never considered myself to be particularly competitive until I began playing tournament Scrabble. Now I know myself to be intensely competitive. And although winning is important, winning is still not as important as having fun and learning. I am perpetually in search of a worthy opponent -- someone who is as avid about playing as I am.
What I like best about my guilty pleasure is the fact that playing requires everything from me in every moment I spend at the board – all my problem solving ability, all my stamina, all my patience. What I get for this investment of time and energy is pure joy in being in the now. For years I failed to properly appreciate the value of a joyful pastime in my life, until I experienced a deep depression with no joy to be found anywhere.
Bottom line on this wordy subject? Have board; will travel. Scrabble, anyone?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
KILLING POLLYANNA
Niceness is a plague upon women. Society places a premium on it -- deeming niceness as an unmitigated and necessary virtue. This has resulted in generations of women pretending to be nice at the expense of their own integrity; women violating their selves lest society do it for them.
Pollyanna, the heroine of a 1913 children’s lit classic, plays the glad game – always finding something in every situation to be glad about. The glad girl serves as the poster child for philosophical statements such as: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” “Silence is golden.” “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” That one works really well if the goal is the accumulation of the most flies! Pollyannaism has been defined as “excessive optimism to the point of naivety; a refusal to accept facts.”
Back when I was married I tried to keep myself in line using the comparison game. Telling myself, at least I’m not as bad off as Louise. Or, regarding my husband, at least he doesn’t drink, or smoke, or beat me. I should be glad for my many blessings. Ignoring the fact that I was miserable. Ignoring his verbal abuse of me, and our children. Ignoring the fact that he had no respect for women in general, and no respect for me in particular.
At that time I had no way of sticking up for myself; I had grown up in a religion of lonely women; my mother simply took to her bed if things didn’t go her way. Besides it was a different time in society as a whole. One result for me was that I squandered my lifetime quota of pity on myself. Wallowing for months at a time, drowning in inarticulate grievances. Struck mute by abysmal self-esteem, and a sense of deserving no better.
There is something to be said for the power of positive thinking and all that crap, but not here, not now. I find it interesting these days that people are often more interested in my rants (of which this is an example) than they are in my occasional lyrical or descriptive efforts.
Ironically, ranting aside, I know myself to be a genuinely kind person – fundamentally good. I abhor hurting people’s feelings. Despite the fact that I’m uncomfortable when I’m accused of niceness in general, I admit that, in particular, my kind behavior can seem to fall into that category.
However, being referred to as “nice” these days is a damning-with-faint-praise cliché. Call me boring, call me rude, call me tacky, just don’t call me nice. For a long time I’ve known that, for women writers, niceness needs to take a backseat to truth telling anyway. Therefore, I think killing Pollyanna – that false niceness inside me still – is a continuing worthwhile goal.
Niceness is a plague upon women. Society places a premium on it -- deeming niceness as an unmitigated and necessary virtue. This has resulted in generations of women pretending to be nice at the expense of their own integrity; women violating their selves lest society do it for them.
Pollyanna, the heroine of a 1913 children’s lit classic, plays the glad game – always finding something in every situation to be glad about. The glad girl serves as the poster child for philosophical statements such as: “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” “Silence is golden.” “You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.” That one works really well if the goal is the accumulation of the most flies! Pollyannaism has been defined as “excessive optimism to the point of naivety; a refusal to accept facts.”
Back when I was married I tried to keep myself in line using the comparison game. Telling myself, at least I’m not as bad off as Louise. Or, regarding my husband, at least he doesn’t drink, or smoke, or beat me. I should be glad for my many blessings. Ignoring the fact that I was miserable. Ignoring his verbal abuse of me, and our children. Ignoring the fact that he had no respect for women in general, and no respect for me in particular.
At that time I had no way of sticking up for myself; I had grown up in a religion of lonely women; my mother simply took to her bed if things didn’t go her way. Besides it was a different time in society as a whole. One result for me was that I squandered my lifetime quota of pity on myself. Wallowing for months at a time, drowning in inarticulate grievances. Struck mute by abysmal self-esteem, and a sense of deserving no better.
There is something to be said for the power of positive thinking and all that crap, but not here, not now. I find it interesting these days that people are often more interested in my rants (of which this is an example) than they are in my occasional lyrical or descriptive efforts.
Ironically, ranting aside, I know myself to be a genuinely kind person – fundamentally good. I abhor hurting people’s feelings. Despite the fact that I’m uncomfortable when I’m accused of niceness in general, I admit that, in particular, my kind behavior can seem to fall into that category.
However, being referred to as “nice” these days is a damning-with-faint-praise cliché. Call me boring, call me rude, call me tacky, just don’t call me nice. For a long time I’ve known that, for women writers, niceness needs to take a backseat to truth telling anyway. Therefore, I think killing Pollyanna – that false niceness inside me still – is a continuing worthwhile goal.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
TEN WAYS I KNOW I’M DEPRESSED
By Roberta Jean Bryant
1. It’s sunny outside
I know it’s sunny outside
I don’t care if it’s sunny outside
2. I hate myself
I hate everybody else
No exceptions
3. I see everything in shades of gray and black
even rainbows
4. I don’t feel like going to the library
5. I’d rather take a nap than play Scrabble
6. One of my children calls and I find a way to screw it up
I don’t even know what “it” refers to
7. I feel as if I’ve outlived my usefulness
and they’ll be sorry when I’m dead anyway
I don’t even know who “they” are
8. “Cheer up, things could be worse,” I tell myself.
So, I cheer up
and, sure enough, things get worse
9. I am not hungry
and I never stop eating
10. I’ve quit writing
even in my head
CAR TROUBLE
by Roberta Jean Bryant
My 1995 Toyota Corolla is important to me. It’s certainly my most valued possession--maybe more important to me than my small apartment. A recent visitor to my apartment asked me why I didn’t have a sofa even though I’ve lived there almost six years; I didn’t have a good answer for her; it had never occurred to me to question it. The previous twelve years I had lived in a small RV where I did not have running water. If I wanted hot water I heated it on the propane stove. Practically speaking I did not want to drive around with heavy gallons of water in the tank sloshing around. All these things represent choices—peculiar choices maybe, but choices nonetheless. I do love that my apartment has hot water on demand.
My car represents freedom, independence, and mobility. I am currently coping with decreased physical mobility, so being able to get around in my car is more significant than ever. I identify and over-identify with my car. Even though car insurance and maintenance takes a disproportionate amount of my social security income it’s worth it to me. More choices. I do not have any extra money for car repairs; I do budget for routine oil changes.
Several months ago my car was having problems; the heater didn’t work very well; the engine sounded like a 747 when I started it up; there was a funny smell inside. I thought maybe cold weather and old age were affecting the car the same way they did me. I talked to two of my sons about the problem. They agreed that fifteen years old is getting up there for a little car. I was feeling old myself and definitely had problems getting started on cold mornings.
I’d been wrestling with a seasonal depression--wondering if I’d outlived my usefulness. I began disasterizing. Maybe my car had outlived its usefulness. I worried about the car breaking down, getting stuck, or causing an accident. Not my usual frame of mind. Driving was anxiety producing; not fun. Despite all that, I did not take the car to my reliable mechanic, Dave. “I can’t afford it,” I told myself. My head was firmly stuck in the sands of denial. I kept putting off getting it checked out. Making no choice is a choice.
Weeks later when I finally took the car in for an oil change I mentioned the 747 factor. A short time later came the bad news. $800. worth of bad news; something about a water pump causing all the trouble, and them needing to keep my car overnight. And $800. “Maybe I could sell a kidney,” I said in a let’s-kill-the-messenger tone of voice. Not cool. Wrong choice of words, but I felt no choice about getting it repaired.
The good news was that I did trust my mechanic, and he gave me a loaner car. And I had a credit card that would handle the $800. It might take me the better part of a year to pay it off, but peace of mind was worth almost that much.
After ransoming my pride and joy, I tucked my credit card back in my wallet and prepared to drive away. “You know,” Dave remarked, “it’s a good little car; there’s a lot of life left in her.”
Dave’s words followed me as I drove home in the cold rain feeling better than I had for months. Maybe, I thought, there might be a lot of life left in me too. Suddenly I chose to feel better. $800. worth of instant therapy!
By Roberta Jean Bryant
1. It’s sunny outside
I know it’s sunny outside
I don’t care if it’s sunny outside
2. I hate myself
I hate everybody else
No exceptions
3. I see everything in shades of gray and black
even rainbows
4. I don’t feel like going to the library
5. I’d rather take a nap than play Scrabble
6. One of my children calls and I find a way to screw it up
I don’t even know what “it” refers to
7. I feel as if I’ve outlived my usefulness
and they’ll be sorry when I’m dead anyway
I don’t even know who “they” are
8. “Cheer up, things could be worse,” I tell myself.
So, I cheer up
and, sure enough, things get worse
9. I am not hungry
and I never stop eating
10. I’ve quit writing
even in my head
CAR TROUBLE
by Roberta Jean Bryant
My 1995 Toyota Corolla is important to me. It’s certainly my most valued possession--maybe more important to me than my small apartment. A recent visitor to my apartment asked me why I didn’t have a sofa even though I’ve lived there almost six years; I didn’t have a good answer for her; it had never occurred to me to question it. The previous twelve years I had lived in a small RV where I did not have running water. If I wanted hot water I heated it on the propane stove. Practically speaking I did not want to drive around with heavy gallons of water in the tank sloshing around. All these things represent choices—peculiar choices maybe, but choices nonetheless. I do love that my apartment has hot water on demand.
My car represents freedom, independence, and mobility. I am currently coping with decreased physical mobility, so being able to get around in my car is more significant than ever. I identify and over-identify with my car. Even though car insurance and maintenance takes a disproportionate amount of my social security income it’s worth it to me. More choices. I do not have any extra money for car repairs; I do budget for routine oil changes.
Several months ago my car was having problems; the heater didn’t work very well; the engine sounded like a 747 when I started it up; there was a funny smell inside. I thought maybe cold weather and old age were affecting the car the same way they did me. I talked to two of my sons about the problem. They agreed that fifteen years old is getting up there for a little car. I was feeling old myself and definitely had problems getting started on cold mornings.
I’d been wrestling with a seasonal depression--wondering if I’d outlived my usefulness. I began disasterizing. Maybe my car had outlived its usefulness. I worried about the car breaking down, getting stuck, or causing an accident. Not my usual frame of mind. Driving was anxiety producing; not fun. Despite all that, I did not take the car to my reliable mechanic, Dave. “I can’t afford it,” I told myself. My head was firmly stuck in the sands of denial. I kept putting off getting it checked out. Making no choice is a choice.
Weeks later when I finally took the car in for an oil change I mentioned the 747 factor. A short time later came the bad news. $800. worth of bad news; something about a water pump causing all the trouble, and them needing to keep my car overnight. And $800. “Maybe I could sell a kidney,” I said in a let’s-kill-the-messenger tone of voice. Not cool. Wrong choice of words, but I felt no choice about getting it repaired.
The good news was that I did trust my mechanic, and he gave me a loaner car. And I had a credit card that would handle the $800. It might take me the better part of a year to pay it off, but peace of mind was worth almost that much.
After ransoming my pride and joy, I tucked my credit card back in my wallet and prepared to drive away. “You know,” Dave remarked, “it’s a good little car; there’s a lot of life left in her.”
Dave’s words followed me as I drove home in the cold rain feeling better than I had for months. Maybe, I thought, there might be a lot of life left in me too. Suddenly I chose to feel better. $800. worth of instant therapy!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
GOOD MOURNING
by Roberta Jean Bryant
No it’s not a typo. I deliberately put the U in morning.
For a long time now I’ve had trouble with the standard greeting, “Good morning.” Even more trouble with its counterpart, “How are you?”
I understand intellectually that these pleasantries are social lubricants and probably necessary in a polite society. However, I have a literal mind and a perhaps misguided sense of honesty. Maybe I should have lived in a ruder society.
The problem is that it’s not always a good morning for me. And, more importantly, people do not want to hear my opinion about what kind of morning I think it is. So, there I am – always on the brink of spoiling somebody’s perfectly good day.
I’m trying out a new response to your good-morning greeting: “Good mourning, spelled with a U.” It covers the bases of social nicety. Most people will hear just the good-morning part, and all of us should be happy. The few that understand will know that I’m in mourning on account of the wretched day.
Back to, “How are you?” People don’t really want to know that either. When I complain I’m depressed or in mortal pain it’s a real conversation stopper. Equally distressing is when I’m happily burbling on about the glorious pink dogwoods blooming, and my fellow human being is in pain. Outside of my internist, nobody, me included, appreciates an impromptu organ recital.
I’m experimenting with ambiguous, but honest, responses to, “How are you?” Such as, “I’m ambulatory. I like the fact that many people don’t know what ambulatory means. These days I’m favoring, “I’ve been better.” Or, “I’ve been worse.” Covers the bases.
Now that you’re listening, I am also incensed by the ubiquitous, “Have a good day,” said upon departure. Who are you to tell me what kind of day to have? I do understand how snarky that sounds, but that’s how I feel. Not that you asked. Not that you really want to know.
My favorite daughter used to have the following outgoing message on her voice mail, “Have a good day… unless you have other plans.” Makes you think, don’t it? Works for me!
by Roberta Jean Bryant
No it’s not a typo. I deliberately put the U in morning.
For a long time now I’ve had trouble with the standard greeting, “Good morning.” Even more trouble with its counterpart, “How are you?”
I understand intellectually that these pleasantries are social lubricants and probably necessary in a polite society. However, I have a literal mind and a perhaps misguided sense of honesty. Maybe I should have lived in a ruder society.
The problem is that it’s not always a good morning for me. And, more importantly, people do not want to hear my opinion about what kind of morning I think it is. So, there I am – always on the brink of spoiling somebody’s perfectly good day.
I’m trying out a new response to your good-morning greeting: “Good mourning, spelled with a U.” It covers the bases of social nicety. Most people will hear just the good-morning part, and all of us should be happy. The few that understand will know that I’m in mourning on account of the wretched day.
Back to, “How are you?” People don’t really want to know that either. When I complain I’m depressed or in mortal pain it’s a real conversation stopper. Equally distressing is when I’m happily burbling on about the glorious pink dogwoods blooming, and my fellow human being is in pain. Outside of my internist, nobody, me included, appreciates an impromptu organ recital.
I’m experimenting with ambiguous, but honest, responses to, “How are you?” Such as, “I’m ambulatory. I like the fact that many people don’t know what ambulatory means. These days I’m favoring, “I’ve been better.” Or, “I’ve been worse.” Covers the bases.
Now that you’re listening, I am also incensed by the ubiquitous, “Have a good day,” said upon departure. Who are you to tell me what kind of day to have? I do understand how snarky that sounds, but that’s how I feel. Not that you asked. Not that you really want to know.
My favorite daughter used to have the following outgoing message on her voice mail, “Have a good day… unless you have other plans.” Makes you think, don’t it? Works for me!
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