Rings

It begins with a ring.

A former co-worker recently announced on social media that she became engaged.  With that announcement, she posted a picture of the nice, big diamond that now sits on her finger.

I am overjoyed for her and wish her all the best on this journey she is about to begin.  It got me thinking, however, about the significance of rings. And not just the ones we wear.

A ring is a symbol of eternity.  It has no end or beginning and just continues on endlessly.  Thus, it is the perfect symbol for a promise to always love and cherish. During the upcoming holiday season, we are bound to see at least a few people we know showing off new rings.

An engagement ring is just a beginning, to be followed by a pair of wedding rings that symbolize the commitment by both partners.  As time goes on, in my opinion, rings worn as jewelry take on a lesser significance.  Eventually, life and love become less about the rings on our fingers.

What takes on more significance are the rings that surround us, whether we recognize them or not. It's these circles, those endless rings, that eventually matter more.

It is the ring of your spouse or partner, and perhaps children that envelope you.  The rings that toddlers seem to endlessly run around us.  The seemingly endless circle of sports, school activities, and volunteer commitments.  Most of us also have a circle of friends, along with our children's friends, that surround and bolster us. The people who make up those circles may change and grow over the years as our family changes and grows.

There is a loop of holidays throughout the calendar year that we celebrate.   We have a circle of family members who help us commemorate the good times and support us during bad times. As the years go by, your family may grow as children marry and begin to bring in babies of their own, and the circle expands.

There is also the ring represented as the circle of life, as babies are born and elderly relatives pass away. Even our beloved pets leave a trace. Those who leave us are never really gone but surround us in a ring that encircles our hearts and remains with us always.

In a way, we are like trees.  The growth of a tree is represented by the number of rings it holds inside.  Our rings are not visible, inside or out.  Yet they grow and expand with the years of our lives.

Most of us can't afford a big, expensive ring when we are young and beginning a life together.  At some point, larger and more elaborate anniversary rings have begun to grace the fingers of many of my friends.
 
But I am fine with the same rings I have always worn. Because the rings which I now possess are far more priceless than any diamond.

It's these rings that have grown from that one promise that I proudly display these days. And always will.

Look for the Helpers

The morning started out fine.  Until the morning news show was interrupted by a Senate hearing on the latest chaos in Washington.  I lasted about 10 minutes and decided it was a good time to walk the dog.

As fate would have it, however, the day got worse.  Chloe at one point tried to bolt into a ditch in front of a neighbor's house.  As I pulled her back I looked into the ditch.  There was a black squirrel laying near the drainage pipe.  It was able to move it's head and front legs, but its back legs were frozen.  Apparently, it had been hit by a car and was partially paralyzed. 

As I watched the poor thing struggle and tried to figure out what to do, I almost started to cry.  With the incredible amount of disturbing news in the world coupled with the helplessness of this poor creature right in front of me, there felt like an incredible weight was on top of me.

Then an odd thought popped into my head. It was Mr. Rogers.

A few years back in the the wake of the Sandy Hook shooting, I had heard a quote from The Mr. Roger's Parenting Book about how to help children cope with frightening situations: "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers.  You will always find people who are helping.'"

As an adult, we would all like to imagine ourselves as the "helpers."  In any disaster, there will be those who run away (or stand there and film the unfolding tragedy on their phone) and some who are frozen with fear, confusion or horror.  But there will always be those selfless people who charge head-on into the chaos. Often these people are firefighters, police or EMTs.  But on many occasions, they are ordinary citizens who leap into action without a second thought.

Right now, I was not a helper.  I was frozen in a world that was overwhelming on both a large and a small scale. With no "helpers" in sight.

After about a minute, I realized I could indeed be a helper for that poor squirrel. I called the non-emergency number for our township police department and explained the situation to the dispatcher who answered.  She had me give the address of the house and a detailed description of where the squirrel was located and assured me she would contact Animal Control to take care of it.

But the reality remains that there really is no good advice for adults when we face situations that seem, on a national or global scale, overwhelming.  And much of the news today is certainly overwhelming.  Sure, it is possible to tackle the problem on a small scale. Volunteer. Get out and vote.  Do your part to make the change you want to see.  But in the moment that the entire world seems to be out of control and the only people running in are trying to make the situation worse, where do you find the helpers?

But this is where the definition of "helper" can be expanded.  Sure, "helpers" are people who jump in and render aid.  But they are also incredible examples of selflessness and humanity.  And despite the current political culture and the endless stream of bad news, there are still plenty of those in the world.

A quick internet search will reveal thousands of them.  How many times do we see those people who--in the wake of hurricanes and massive floods--hitch up their fishing boats and drive hours to help rescue both people and animals who are stranded?  And I am certain no one is asking about the race, religion, sexual orientation or political affiliation of either the rescuers or the victims they help.

I read a story just yesterday about a couple whose dog escaped from a hotel while they were on vacation and disappeared.  The woman in the story quit her job in an effort to find her dog.  And she was aided by an entire community who were essentially strangers to her.  The hotel owner distributed "Lost Dog" flyers and fielded calls.  Farmers allowed her to search their property and put out live traps.  A local couple gave her a place to stay free of charge.  And many people in the community would go out with her, day after day, while she searched.  When the dog was found 57 days after she disappeared, it was with the help of a woman who saw a dog matching the description wandering through her backyard. The video of the dog returning home, recognizing her driveway and seeing the woman's husband for the first time in almost two months is priceless. The dog's exuberance as it yips, bounds around the car excitedly and wags its tail is enough to make you laugh and cry at the same time.

Just this morning, I saw a story of a 10-year-old girl with spina bifida who was unable to attend a class field trip to locate fossils because the area was not wheelchair accessible.  When the girl's mother obtained a harness that could be strapped onto the back of an adult in which she could ride, one of the girl's teachers offered to carry her on his back.  This young girl was able to join her classmates to search for fossils because of the dedication of one of her teachers. If a story like that doesn't restore your faith in humanity, nothing will.

The fact is that there are some situations in which even adults can feel overwhelmed and frightened.  It's not always possible to be a "helper." Sometimes even grown-ups need to look for them.  But they are there.  When the world seems to be falling apart, there is a story out there about those people who are going above and beyond simply to put a small corner of it back together.  And restore our faith in each other in the process.

There is hope for us after all.

So from now on, when I am faced with a world that seems out of control, I will take Mr. Rogers' advice.

Look for the helpers.  They will always be there.

Finding a Broken Branch of a Family Tree

About a year ago, I began doing genealogy research after taking an Ancestry DNA test.  The results of the test itself were fairly predictable. The surprises I have found lay within the branches of my family tree. More specifically, one I never really knew was there.

I knew that my maternal grandmother, Irene Hropovich, had divorced my grandfather when my mother was only a baby.  For most of my life, I did not even know this man's name.  It was a topic that was not discussed in my family.  All I knew is that he was an alcoholic who, after the divorce, moved to New York and died sometime in the 1970s.

Research on my family tree, however, began opening doors that had been shut by vague answers for decades.  I learned his name was Louis Wildner, not "Lewis" as I had believed.  I learned the name of both his parents and that his family had immigrated from near the border of Germany and Austria (they list both locations on various documents).

Last week I came across the death certificate of my great grandfather, also named Louis Wildner, and learned that he had died about a year after I was born.  I also learned he had lived in Johnstown, PA, the same town in which I was raised. Then I located the obituary from my great grandmother.  And my heart sank.

She too had lived in Johnstown.  And she had died in 1984 when I was in college.

My great grandmother had lived in my hometown and died when I was 19 years old.  And I never even knew her name.

Over the years, I heard very little about my grandfather, although family members would let small details slip through now and again.  The only mention my grandmother ever made of her ex-husband in my presence was a comment that he stole her wedding rings and sold them, presumably for alcohol.  And another relative once let slip that when my grandfather Louis had passed away in 1970, New York authorities tracked down my mother several years later to give her his insurance money, as she was his only heir.

The discovery of the missing branch of my family tree has not given me any true answers, only more questions.  What happened between my grandparents that was so awful that his name was never even spoken within the family?  And why had his family, who must have known the whereabouts of my mother and that she had a family of her own, never even attempted to make contact with us, especially after my own father died in 1977? Or even when we became adults?

This is a mystery which I am looking to solve.  The only problem is, most of the individuals with direct knowledge of the story are long gone. And my mother over the years has revealed very little about her own father.  The only time I heard her volunteer anything about him was when she told me that he apparently used to write her letters when she was a little girl, but her mother would intercept them and burn them. As to how she found this out, I have no idea.  She has otherwise been reluctant to talk about this branch of her family.  Either she truly does not know, or simply does not care to find out.

My only recourse is to go to those who are living--siblings, aunts and even my mother herself--to try and construct the story.  These are the branches that remain of the family tree through which I must search.  It is the beginning of the story, and I hope I will be able to find an ending that will at least answer the questions of why this particular branch has been completely severed. It's a journey I hope to chronicle here.

When shaking up your family tree, you may be surprised what falls out.

Feline Shui

I've been reading lately about all the ways to bring calm and serenity into my life.  Of course, there is the popular practice of feng shui.  There are thousands of tv shows, books, and websites that talk about decluttering, the advantages of meditation, the Japanese art of minimalist living.  Looking through all this information makes my head feel like I am going to pop a blood vessel.

Until I realized I don't need to do research.  I have the perfect example to follow in my own home.  In order to bring a sense of peace and joy into my life, I simply have to act like my cats.

When you are a cat, why even worry about piles of clothing, books, etc. on the floor?  This provides a the perfect obstacle course with which you can race around at 3:00 a.m. in typical feline fashion.  Family complaining about clutter on the counters?  No problem.  With a look of utter disdain on your face, simply stare unflinchingly at that family member, and with one swipe, knock everything onto the floor.

Why bother cleaning?  From your feline perspective, life is too short to worry about such mundane pursuits.  Planning? What for? Simply depend on everyone else to feed you, serve you, pick up after you and entertain you by shining a little red light on the floors and walls every once in a while.

So what if they are annoyed? Respond by even more annoying.  Keep them on their toes, literally, by weaving in and out of their legs while they are standing and force them to do a silly little balancing dance when they inadvertently trip over you. Unnerve them by staring at them unflinchingly for hours.  And for the person who is most frustrated with you, slink silently over to them and plop yourself into their lap.

When they become immune to your tactics, up the ante.  Stand in front of a door screaming to go out.  When they open the door, walk away with complete disinterest.  Develop a sudden, inexplicable fear of the blender. If they give you a present, ignore the gift itself but demonstrate a complete infatuation with the wrapping paper and box.


But I think the best thing about imitating my feline companions would be the ability to just live in the moment.  Drop everything you are doing just to take a bath (preferably not in front of other people).  Insert yourself into a plate of syrup that your son leaves on the kitchen table (actual cat experience in my house) just because you can. And, most importantly of all, spend 14 to 16 hours of every day napping.

If anyone needs me, I'll be hiding under the bed from the vacuum.

Make Facebook Fun Again

In the past two years, I have learned an awful lot about myself.

I have learned that my opinions are ignorant and stupid. If I do not support a certain agenda, I have no class and no morals.

I have learned that I am not worthy of associating with certain people because my beliefs are not exactly like their own.

I have learned that I am un-American because I criticize my government.  And I thought that the First Amendment guaranteed my right to speak out against those in power. Silly me.

And I have learned all of this courtesy of my Facebook "friends."

This is not to say that everyone on my list of Facebook associates engages in these mind-boggling behaviors.  In fact, it is only a small percentage.  But it seems as though the posts from this small group were the ones appearing in my newsfeed most frequently.

I can't figure out what inspires so-called intelligent people to behave in this manner.  I have decided that they either: A) Have a pathological need for attention; or B) are so insecure in their own beliefs that they need to denigrate the opinions of others to prove their superiority.  I suspect it is the latter.  Playground bullies behave in the exact same manner.

It would certainly be easy to unfriend these people.  But I do not want to do that for two reasons.  First of all, everyone is entitled to their opinion.  If I were to block them based solely on the fact that I do not agree with their political opinions, I am behaving no better than they are.

Secondly, I friended these people in the first place because I genuinely like them.  I do not accept friend requests simply because having 1,200 friends would look impressive.  I have nowhere near that number.  If you and I connect on social media, it is because I admire you as a person.  You are here because I know you, and I like you.

You're welcome.

I might not like their approach to politics, but these people may be an animal lover and are staunch supporters of prosecuting animal abusers.  Perhaps they are great cooks and post terrific recipes.  Or they may be family, whom I have to like.

All kidding aside, I want to see the good things that these people post without having to be insulted on a daily basis.  Fortunately, Facebook has a way to make this possible.

Therefore I am initiating a campaign to Make Facebook Fun Again.  And you can do it in a few simple steps.

I began to notice that most of these insults start flying when they share posts from other sites. There is little you can do about a general rant, but if it results mainly from obnoxious posts they share from others, you can keep them from appearing on your wall.

Say one of your friends posts something on their wall claiming that Obama's Kenyan birth certificate is hidden in the basement of a Washington, DC pizza parlor that is a cover for a sex ring run by Stormy Daniels and Rush Limbaugh.   And if you don't believe Obama is really a Kenyan operative placed in the White House as a Manchurian candidate by Al Qaeda, you are a communist and (the ultimate insult) A LIBERAL who will soon be indicted for hiding Hillary's missing emails, which you apparently shredded in the said pizza parlor and disposed of by passing them off as a mozzarella cheese substitute.  And by the way, you're stupid.

At the top of this friendly little post, there will be something like this: "Joe Schmo shared a post from Americans Standing Too Close To Microwaves and Losing Brain Cells." To the right of this, you will see three little dots.

By clicking on these three little dots, Facebook gives you several options.  You can save or hide this particular post.  You can snooze Americans Standing Too Close to Microwaves or snooze Joe Schmo for 30 days.  You can unfollow Joe Schmo, or hide all from the post's originator.  By clicking on "Hide all from Americans Standing Too Close To Microwaves," you will never see a post from that particular organization again even if your friends continually share them.

By choosing the last option, you are not only saving your sanity, but you will no doubt be doing your part to cut down on the spread of misinformation by troll sites. People who tend to spread these posts are generally too busy believing in anything that backs up their own biases to bother checking for truth or accuracy. And everyone knows that pizza parlor is actually in Hoboken, NJ.

I started doing this on a regular basis, and a surprising thing happened.  My newsfeed suddenly got happy.  I started seeing posts from people who had been missing on my Facebook feed for months.  I saw more funny cat videos and fewer posts telling me what a horrible person I must be. Rather than seeing the worst of my friends, I began seeing the best of them again.

And I don't block all political posts.  I don't mind knowing that my friends support a particular candidate or political viewpoint.  But when you have to insult others to make a point, don't assume that I, or anyone else, has to put up with it. Do it often enough and you will only be preaching to an ignorant and narrow-minded party of one.

Social media should be bringing out the best in us.  Not the worst.  Consider that you are posting this to people who are supposed to be your friends.  That should mean more to you than proving the superiority of your opinion.  And trust me when I tell you that insults do not make you seem superior. They make you look petty, immature and small.

Make Facebook Fun Again, people. I miss the days when the most controversial posts I saw were kids eating Tide pods.  Let's make Facebook a better place by going back to sharing pictures of our kids, dogs and vacations ad nauseam. The world will be a better place when we can once again return to watching cats stuff themselves in tiny boxes and see Grandpa lip sync to "Gangsta's Paradise."

Spread insights into your life.  Not insults to your friends.

When Old Eyes Are Straining

It began in my late forties.  I started noticing that book publishers were putting out books with much smaller type.  Then product manufacturers began doing it with labels.  The publishers of sheet music soon followed.

For some unexplained reason, they all began using smaller print.

It was like some vast conspiracy was overtaking this country.  All of a sudden, I could not read a newspaper unless my husband held it up across the table.  Menus looked like they were all written in very tiny Chinese characters.  And the instructions on prescription bottles could not be deciphered unless you were a flea.

That is unless you put on a pair of glasses.

Seemingly overnight, I had old eyes.

One of my favorite humor writers, Dave Barry, described when he first noticed the phenomenon in his book Dave Barry Turns 50:

At first, I thought it had nothing to do with me--that for some reason, possibly to save ink, the restaurants had started printing their menus in letters the height of bacteria; all I could see was little blurs.  But for some reason, everybody else seemed to be able to read the menus.  Not wishing to draw attention to myself, I started ordering my food by simply pointing to a likely looking blur.
 
ME (pointing to a blur): I'll have this.
WAITER: You'll have "We Do Not Accept Personal Checks"?
ME: Make that medium rare.

I had worn glasses for years when I was working on my laptop.  But all of a sudden, I had to wear them to read the clock on the wall.  So I bought a pair of those reading glasses they sell in drug stores to keep in the bedroom where I do a lot of reading so that the prescription pair could remain in my home office. And the packaging on those glasses may have well included the words "Welcome to Old Age." In a very large, bold typeface.

 Then I needed a stronger prescription pair following my next eye exam. I now have a pair of reading glasses in almost every room of the house since I can no longer thread a needle without the aid of a microscope.

There is a commercial where a couple is in a restaurant trying to order off a menu.  They tell the waiter they are not ready because they forgot their reading glasses and cannot read the selections.  The waiter then proceeds to bring them menus the size of a mini-fridge. I think all restaurants should have these available.

Either that or they should keep a basket of magnifying glasses in the center of the table for their middle-aged patrons with their ever-shrinking eyesight.  Or they can go the route of book publishers, who now offer a vast selection of large-print books, and offer us large print menus.  Otherwise, we can just ask the patrons on the other side of the restaurant to hold up the menu so that we can read it.

Rather than lament my aging eyes, I try to remember all the awesome movie and literary characters who wear glasses.  Harry Potter wears them.  Andrew Garfield wore them when he played Peter Parker in The Amazing Spider-man, and he got to swing around a city on webs and use his Spidey-sense to catch bad guys.  Harold Ramis in Ghostbusters and Robin Williams in Good Will Hunting were both bespeckled when they played professors, so wearing glasses obviously means you are smart.  Then again, Peter Griffin in Family Guy also wears glasses.  So much for that argument.

I choose to believe that wearing reading glasses makes me look intelligent, distinguished and important.  After all, Superman wore them when he was Clark Kent.  But as Dave Barry points out, "He takes off his glasses and becomes Superman; you put on your reading glasses and become...Old Person"

Feeling Hot, Hot, Hot

I, like many women my age, have been riding the happy hormonal roller coaster of THE CHANGE (cue ominous music) over the past few years. What no one tells you, however, is that your family members are forced to get on the coaster with you. And there is no amount of Dramamine that will cure the motion sickness of this up and down, multi-looping, gut-wrenching ride.

To all the gentlemen who have clicked on this and are about to think, "Oh, hell, no!" and switch over to YouTube or ESPN.com, bear with me.  This applies to you, too.

Menopause is in many ways like pregnancy.  Your body temperature changes.  Your clothes don't fit.  Your moods swing more often than a pendulum.  Only you don't get a bouncing bundle of joy as a reward for surviving it.  What you do get is clothes that still don't fit, the feeling that you are constantly in a state of PMS, and family members who think you are losing your mind.

I've had symptoms for the past few years, but they came on in full force this January.  I wake up in the middle of the night throwing off blankets, then wake up again about 30 minutes later because I am freezing.  I feel like crying over mundane things, one minute, then the next go on my merry way as if nothing has happened.  Half of what is in my closet does not fit correctly.

I began doing some research and trying some herbs that seemed to work for other women.  And, not wanting my family to contact mental health professionals, I tried my best to go on as normal.  And my family played along not wanting to release the hormonal she-beast lurking just beneath the surface. Everyone tried to act as though all was well.

But the truth was they were all on my nerves.  My husband was on my nerves.  My kids were on my nerves.  Even the dog was on my nerves.  My son would come in asking what was for dinner, and I would respond with whatever was on the menu for that night.  But in the back of my mind, I was thinking, "I don't want to have dinner with you people.  I want to have dinner by myself.  In a cave on the highest peak of Mount Everest only accessible to mountain goats." And by "dinner," I meant a five-pound box of chocolates and a bottle of anything that contained the word "alcohol" in the ingredients.

We all react differently to the magical world of menopause.  Some, like myself, could often fake it.  Others not so much.  I know a woman who got into an argument with her husband when he accused her of exaggerating her symptoms.  She responded by throwing a bunch of broccoli at his head.  Of course, it was better than throwing the knife that was in her other hand at the time.

She has my sympathy.  Been there, sister.

There are plenty of books and websites with advice for those going through menopause.  But I saw very little that offered guidance for the loved ones of hormone-ravaged women like myself.  Therefore, I would like to offer the following suggestions to those who are forced along on this hot-flashing, crying-jagging, Dr.Jekyll-and-Mrs. Hyde of a journey:

• If your significant other says, "It's hot in here," don't argue with her.  Shut your pie-hole and turn down the damn thermostat.

• When she is complaining about how miserable her symptoms make her feel, do not respond with "Well, at least you're not..." then launch into a litany of your own complaints.  Your one and only safe response to this is, "Here, have a glass of wine."

• When she opens yet another gallon of ice cream do not ask her, "Do you really need that?"  Ask her if she wants a glass of wine to go with it.

• If she asks if her outfit makes her look fat or if it appears she is gaining weight, DO NOT AGREE!!! Respond with, "That damned dryer is shrinking everything again!"

• When you have absolutely no idea how to respond to her moods, complaints or quirks, return to your safety mode, which is the phrase, "Here, have a glass of wine."

The good news for all of us that go through menopause, and those loved ones who are dragged along helplessly with us, is that it does not last forever.  I am almost to the point where I can wear sweaters again.  And the desire to throw cruciferous vegetables at the heads of family members is lessening.

So, to all my friends who are in the same hot, hormonal boat, and to those who love them, I say, have faith.  This, too, shall pass.

And don't worry, ladies.  We're still hot.  It just comes in flashes now.