Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Writers the Moment is Now
Under the warmth of a November sun, we gathered at the SF Hilton in the Financial District, just steps from the heart of Chinatown. The Writing for Change conference is one of my favorite events. The core element is non-fiction and the atmosphere is rich with individuals reaching for a better tomorrow by understanding today.
Gobble-gobble or Not to Gobble
Gobble-gobble or not to gobble.
75% of my invited Thanksgiving Day guests and family all agree - they do not like turkey.
Go figure.
I wonder then just how many people partake of this annual ritual on Thanksgiving to be polite. Are rituals negotiable? Is a turkey dinner the symbol of Thanksgiving or is the symbol the gathering together to share blessings?
I plan to share the blessing and not serve a roasted turkey with all the trimmings.
For me and my family this year it's steak, mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes.
Yes, rituals are negotiable and compromise comes in many shapes. No turkey on Thanksgiving? No way.
Compromise also comes in many flavors including See's milk chocolate foil-wrapped turkeys.
A Thanksgiving Day I don't spent probing a turkey's cavern is fine with me. For that I give double thanks.
Chocolate anyone?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Naked Men on the Market
Save for the flip-flops and one birthday hat and a sign that read vote for someone for supervisor, imagination wasn't needed. The dimpled-pock mark on the thinner man's right butt cheek; the only crinkle in his pale skin.
Mothers shrouded children's view with coats. Little boys were whacked in the head for roaming eyes. Teenage girls reeled back and laughed. Old women smiled with gentle memories. Men jeered with "Hey pencil dick" and "At least my tally-whacker is in my pants" and "There's kids out here!"
Cameras snapped, Twitter tweeted and for me, I walked behind the behind with the pock-mark on the right-cheek and noted both men's fine physical shape. Not a wrinkle or sag.
Cloaked in our inhibitions, an exchanged glance of "I wish I could do that" spoke volumes. The social barrier of ties, pants, and summer dresses hiding our desire to prance naked down the streets of San Francisco.
"You know you want to," I whispered to a man and his dog.
Block after block, they sauntered. Me, too. On the same route to different journeys, soon the nakedness became normalcy. The reaction of the people stood out in the crowd and drew the attention.
Side-by-side at the signal light, I confess, I peeked. As the light turned green, I walked ahead and spoke softly, "If that was a pencil I want an entire box."
Ah, the days of summer and a cool bay breeze.
But wait, just who was I to vote for? Guess I'll have to go back...
Monday, June 7, 2010
Bloomington Indiana Welcomes America's Columnists
My hair is styled, my airfare booked and I lost a pound or two so I can gain a pound or two at the NSNC conference. But more importantly, I plan to gain knowledge and strength as I celebrate the camaraderie of columnists from across the country.
I'm ready for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 34th annual conference, Get Schooled, in Bloomington, Indiana, July 9-11. I even rescheduled my flight so I can accept the hospitality of West Baden Springs and the French Lick Hotel to enjoy a massage or round of golf with my *free* night lodging after the conference. Since I'm a duffer with a duck hook, I think I'll take the massage.
I'm looking forward to renewing old friendships and discovering new ones. Hope you'll join me in a toast in the hospitality suite.
What you're not registered yet? I'm sure that's just an oversight. Columnists are known to procrastinate. That's okay. It's what makes us special. So let's call it a deadline. July comes right after June...the time to act is now.
For complete conference information and registration, visit the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
Now I better start packing. You know how it is for women. We pack and repack at least five times. With the conference five weeks away that's just about once a week until we share that drink...see you soon!
Cynthia
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
2010 National Society Newspaper Columnists Contest
A deadline is a writer’s best friend. It makes us excel and rise to the challenge of the midnight hour. Good news, it’s your moment to shine. The hour of decision is near.
March 15, 2010 is the deadline to enter the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 2010 contest. With seven categories including online and blog columns, there’s an opportunity for you to enter the best of your best 2009 columns.
Visit the National Society Newspaper Columnists for your entry form and contest guidelines. While you’re there enjoy the outstanding March newsletter and celebrate the accomplishments of fellow columnists.
Along with your contest entry, we invite you to join the NSNC and embrace new friendships at our annual conference, Get Schooled, in Bloomington, Indiana, July 9-11, 2010. You’ll be glad you did.
Now back to the NSNC 2010 contest…
You may have the winning entry in your hand but we’ll never know unless you get it into our hands. A deadline is a deadline. Package that entry, walk to the nearest mailbox and conquer that March 15, 2010 cutoff.
It's that simple.
Good luck and remember procrastination only puts off what you can do today until tomorrow...
March 15, 2010 is the deadline to enter the National Society of Newspaper Columnists 2010 contest. With seven categories including online and blog columns, there’s an opportunity for you to enter the best of your best 2009 columns.
Visit the National Society Newspaper Columnists for your entry form and contest guidelines. While you’re there enjoy the outstanding March newsletter and celebrate the accomplishments of fellow columnists.
Along with your contest entry, we invite you to join the NSNC and embrace new friendships at our annual conference, Get Schooled, in Bloomington, Indiana, July 9-11, 2010. You’ll be glad you did.
Now back to the NSNC 2010 contest…
You may have the winning entry in your hand but we’ll never know unless you get it into our hands. A deadline is a deadline. Package that entry, walk to the nearest mailbox and conquer that March 15, 2010 cutoff.
It's that simple.
Good luck and remember procrastination only puts off what you can do today until tomorrow...
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Babes in Toyland
With Santa’s arrival just over the rooftop, I join my niece for the required visit to Santa Claus with her two sons. Strollers and diaper bags packed, we inch along the gold braided path. A Rudolph-themed village entices anxious children and our toes tap to the music of childhood.
“We are Santa’s elves…”I hum to the surround sound of plastic trees and shredded snowflakes.
Wes, a mere breath away from three-years old, waits in anticipation to present Santa with his wish list. The look on his face leaves no doubt – this is serious business.
Once on the red-velvet knee, Levi puckers-down and the magic dissolves into reindeer tears. Quick picture snap and exit baby until next year. A seasoned-pro, Santa remains cool like the frost on a Winter breeze.
Now one-on-one with the Man, Wes chats at length; engaged in intent conversation.
We shrug shoulders and wait. After all, a year’s a long time between good friends.
A nod of understanding, the two come to an agreement. With a tip of Santa’s hat, Wes waves goodbye; his list delivered now and safe in Santa’s keeping.
I bend down to kid-level and ask, “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”
An experienced Mom, I brace for the usual barrage of hot toys and must-haves.
With a twinkle he says, "I asked Santa to bring you a present."
Speechless, I hug Wes and embrace the innocence of childhood, letting it perfume my body with wonders old and new.
Pleased, I see Santa wink as he rubs his belly and lets out a cheerful jolly.
"Thanks," I whisper to the one-who-knows-all and then turn to Wes and say, "He already did."
And that is what Christmas is all about.
“We are Santa’s elves…”I hum to the surround sound of plastic trees and shredded snowflakes.
Wes, a mere breath away from three-years old, waits in anticipation to present Santa with his wish list. The look on his face leaves no doubt – this is serious business.
Once on the red-velvet knee, Levi puckers-down and the magic dissolves into reindeer tears. Quick picture snap and exit baby until next year. A seasoned-pro, Santa remains cool like the frost on a Winter breeze.
Now one-on-one with the Man, Wes chats at length; engaged in intent conversation.
We shrug shoulders and wait. After all, a year’s a long time between good friends.
A nod of understanding, the two come to an agreement. With a tip of Santa’s hat, Wes waves goodbye; his list delivered now and safe in Santa’s keeping.
I bend down to kid-level and ask, “Did you tell Santa what you wanted for Christmas?”
An experienced Mom, I brace for the usual barrage of hot toys and must-haves.
With a twinkle he says, "I asked Santa to bring you a present."
Speechless, I hug Wes and embrace the innocence of childhood, letting it perfume my body with wonders old and new.
Pleased, I see Santa wink as he rubs his belly and lets out a cheerful jolly.
"Thanks," I whisper to the one-who-knows-all and then turn to Wes and say, "He already did."
And that is what Christmas is all about.
Merry Christmas to All
and to
All the Innocence of Childhood Awakened Anew
Sunday, December 13, 2009
No Room for One
Four books in the bag, a pot of coffee in the gut -- I am hostage in the hospital. Mom’s scheduled for a one o'clock test; the hands of my watch point to three o'clock. I flip another page of a year-old magazine and mentally catalog my unfinished Christmas shopping.
Finally, a technician enters the crowded waiting area. The holiday characters on her scrubs warm the room with a cheerful spirit and I set aside my magazine. I count at least ten of the twelve days of Christmas while she checks mom’s wristband.
With Mom’s name and identification number confirmed the employee smiles and says, "Helen, come this way."
Mom pushes her walker to the dressing stall with eighty years of grace. A drop of a sweater and black pants and she dawns a new outfit - blue floral cotton with tie tabs in the back.
Bad news. The carotid angiogram shows a blockage of the right artery and Mom’s charted for morning surgery. I gather my caffeine-riddled body as the outpatient procedure turns inpatient admission. Paperwork, questions, wrong answers. Mom’s baffled. I empty mom's purse for her hearing aid. No ear.
In between blood pressure checks, I spot the eleven pipers dancing along the mid seam, left elbow, on the technician’s top. While in search of the twelfth day of Christmas, I’m interrupted by a brisk voice. An unfamiliar employee’s presence fills the room.
"We're short on rooms right now.” The Cath Lab nurse states in measured breaths. “We'll keep your mom here until the shift change. By then we should have a free bed."
Without a moment of holiday cheer, the no-name employee glances at the overhead monitors and scribbles numbers in the chart. Ms-No-Holiday-Cheer turns on her heels, and disappears behind the pleated curtain. As the night falls silent I question if the hospital has an antidote for the Hum-bug virus.
Hours creep by. Mom sips tepid water. I lean back and finish the remnants of another cup of coffee. Gingerbread latte, peppermint mocha and cinnamon spice. I’ve exceeded my limit of holiday concoctions. I’m ready for the New Year.
Swamped, the staff scrambles to find empty beds. Dusk arrives and still no room available, we relocate for a temporary stay in recovery. Patients moan and intravenous bags hang on hooks. Tucked in a far cubicle, we order dinner and wait for a vacancy. Flat on her back I spoon feed Mom peas. One disappears down her gown.
"Everyone's so nice." Mom jokes with the staff and savors the attention.
"We're not used to having patients that can talk." The recovery room nurse chuckles and brings me salt for my bland potatoes. Low on fuel, my body craves chocolate. I smell a dark blend on her breath and spy the See’s candies at the nurse’s station.
“I was wondering if…” I glance towards the spread of goodies.
“…Happy to share,” she hands me a slice of fruitcake leftover from a staff holiday party. I pick around the chunks of petrified fruit, choke down the stale offering and cough a dry thank you. Define happy. I wonder if I can file a union grievance.
Restless, I bend and stretch. The recovery room cubbyhole stifling, my skin starts to sweat sterile spores. Unconsciously, my foot taps to the cadence of the heart monitor and accompanying blood pressure bleep; my body begs to dance in rhythm.
“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,” I hum, orchestrating the bells and whistles of the machines to my own concerto. Not bad.
Mom’s fingers curl around my hand, a joyful smile kisses her parched lips and she whispers, “…How lovely are your branches.”
Together, we finish the song and the night is brighter.
Thirty minutes creep by and we drift into silent holiday memories with an occasional “Remember when…?”
“…I remember,” I say and hold back my thoughts. I remember every wonderful moment.
Layers and layers of spent holidays unwrap like crinkled photographs. Between a giggle of a long ago memory of paper angel wings for a junior church choir the staff member checks mom’s incision.
"Nurse, did they find me a room?" The words slur and mom struggles to hear the answer.
"Soon," with a reassuring pat and a practiced smile the conversation ends.
Early evening we arrive in the telemetry unit. A tiny artificial Christmas tree welcomes visitors and patients; the symbol of the season comforts like a familiar blanket. From a neighboring room, a radio plays Away in a Manger. The words repeat in my mind, “no room for a bed” and I emphasize.
Settled into her room, Mom slumbers as I gaze at the city’s nightline. A kaleidoscope of red, green and white lights blink. Beside the hospital sign a Christmas tree welcomes visitors and staff. The glass holds away the noise of the outside world and I drift deeper into life’s threads.
Stockings stuffed with apples, oranges and nuts. A miniature box of Whitman’s chocolates wedged in the toe. Sticky cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate; the upset stomachs. A tapestry of traditions.
But this tradition; this snag in the tapestry, this stitch I’d rather not have.
Beyond the thin veil of sleep, Mom’s eye lids flicker and a peaceful mew escapes on her breath. The IV drips, the nightlight casts gray shadows and the bedding reeks of industrial- strength-baked cotton. Not chocolate chip cookies.
I sit in a nearby chair and wonder how the days ebbed into years of silver. Lost in reflections, I stroke her worn hands and wish for laughter again.
The effects of the angiogram gone, Mom can use the restroom. Wobbly from the recent stroke, she grasps my arm. We shuffle to the toilet area as a pea rolls to the floor.
Half past late, we hear the rattle of rails. I lean from my corner spot. "You're getting a roommate."
"What's she like?"
"Well," I peek around the end of the bed and say, "Your roommate's a man."
"No…" She squeezes my fingers and gasps.
"…Yes. Remember the shortage of beds.”
"What am I suppose to do? I only have this flimsy gown," she motions for me to come closer, "and no panties."
"He probably doesn't have any either." I touch her shoulder and smile. "So what's the problem?" I sneak a peek again and fan my face. "He's a stud."
"Good grief…"
I catch a glimpse of Mom as she finger combs her silver strands, primps her cotton gown and attempts to camouflage a grin. A man’s coming.
Wait! I’m the one with a new man on my Christmas nice-to-have list. Santa crossed our wish list. Or did he? Widow or divorced, mother like daughter, I rearrange her covers and wink approval.
The nurses push the gurney towards the window. "Helen meet Lillian."
Her roommate lifts a palm and waves. Mom swats me with her good arm; a hue of rose colors her cheeks.
"So I'm the bad seed." I concede. Best time I have had all day.
Curled on her side, Mom twinkles and says, “You’re just like your mother.”
I laugh and realize it’s the best time we’ve both had all day.
Tis the season to be jolly…fa, la, la, la, la.
Finally, a technician enters the crowded waiting area. The holiday characters on her scrubs warm the room with a cheerful spirit and I set aside my magazine. I count at least ten of the twelve days of Christmas while she checks mom’s wristband.
With Mom’s name and identification number confirmed the employee smiles and says, "Helen, come this way."
Mom pushes her walker to the dressing stall with eighty years of grace. A drop of a sweater and black pants and she dawns a new outfit - blue floral cotton with tie tabs in the back.
Bad news. The carotid angiogram shows a blockage of the right artery and Mom’s charted for morning surgery. I gather my caffeine-riddled body as the outpatient procedure turns inpatient admission. Paperwork, questions, wrong answers. Mom’s baffled. I empty mom's purse for her hearing aid. No ear.
In between blood pressure checks, I spot the eleven pipers dancing along the mid seam, left elbow, on the technician’s top. While in search of the twelfth day of Christmas, I’m interrupted by a brisk voice. An unfamiliar employee’s presence fills the room.
"We're short on rooms right now.” The Cath Lab nurse states in measured breaths. “We'll keep your mom here until the shift change. By then we should have a free bed."
Without a moment of holiday cheer, the no-name employee glances at the overhead monitors and scribbles numbers in the chart. Ms-No-Holiday-Cheer turns on her heels, and disappears behind the pleated curtain. As the night falls silent I question if the hospital has an antidote for the Hum-bug virus.
Hours creep by. Mom sips tepid water. I lean back and finish the remnants of another cup of coffee. Gingerbread latte, peppermint mocha and cinnamon spice. I’ve exceeded my limit of holiday concoctions. I’m ready for the New Year.
Swamped, the staff scrambles to find empty beds. Dusk arrives and still no room available, we relocate for a temporary stay in recovery. Patients moan and intravenous bags hang on hooks. Tucked in a far cubicle, we order dinner and wait for a vacancy. Flat on her back I spoon feed Mom peas. One disappears down her gown.
"Everyone's so nice." Mom jokes with the staff and savors the attention.
"We're not used to having patients that can talk." The recovery room nurse chuckles and brings me salt for my bland potatoes. Low on fuel, my body craves chocolate. I smell a dark blend on her breath and spy the See’s candies at the nurse’s station.
“I was wondering if…” I glance towards the spread of goodies.
“…Happy to share,” she hands me a slice of fruitcake leftover from a staff holiday party. I pick around the chunks of petrified fruit, choke down the stale offering and cough a dry thank you. Define happy. I wonder if I can file a union grievance.
Restless, I bend and stretch. The recovery room cubbyhole stifling, my skin starts to sweat sterile spores. Unconsciously, my foot taps to the cadence of the heart monitor and accompanying blood pressure bleep; my body begs to dance in rhythm.
“Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree,” I hum, orchestrating the bells and whistles of the machines to my own concerto. Not bad.
Mom’s fingers curl around my hand, a joyful smile kisses her parched lips and she whispers, “…How lovely are your branches.”
Together, we finish the song and the night is brighter.
Thirty minutes creep by and we drift into silent holiday memories with an occasional “Remember when…?”
“…I remember,” I say and hold back my thoughts. I remember every wonderful moment.
Layers and layers of spent holidays unwrap like crinkled photographs. Between a giggle of a long ago memory of paper angel wings for a junior church choir the staff member checks mom’s incision.
"Nurse, did they find me a room?" The words slur and mom struggles to hear the answer.
"Soon," with a reassuring pat and a practiced smile the conversation ends.
Early evening we arrive in the telemetry unit. A tiny artificial Christmas tree welcomes visitors and patients; the symbol of the season comforts like a familiar blanket. From a neighboring room, a radio plays Away in a Manger. The words repeat in my mind, “no room for a bed” and I emphasize.
Settled into her room, Mom slumbers as I gaze at the city’s nightline. A kaleidoscope of red, green and white lights blink. Beside the hospital sign a Christmas tree welcomes visitors and staff. The glass holds away the noise of the outside world and I drift deeper into life’s threads.
Stockings stuffed with apples, oranges and nuts. A miniature box of Whitman’s chocolates wedged in the toe. Sticky cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate; the upset stomachs. A tapestry of traditions.
But this tradition; this snag in the tapestry, this stitch I’d rather not have.
Beyond the thin veil of sleep, Mom’s eye lids flicker and a peaceful mew escapes on her breath. The IV drips, the nightlight casts gray shadows and the bedding reeks of industrial- strength-baked cotton. Not chocolate chip cookies.
I sit in a nearby chair and wonder how the days ebbed into years of silver. Lost in reflections, I stroke her worn hands and wish for laughter again.
The effects of the angiogram gone, Mom can use the restroom. Wobbly from the recent stroke, she grasps my arm. We shuffle to the toilet area as a pea rolls to the floor.
Half past late, we hear the rattle of rails. I lean from my corner spot. "You're getting a roommate."
"What's she like?"
"Well," I peek around the end of the bed and say, "Your roommate's a man."
"No…" She squeezes my fingers and gasps.
"…Yes. Remember the shortage of beds.”
"What am I suppose to do? I only have this flimsy gown," she motions for me to come closer, "and no panties."
"He probably doesn't have any either." I touch her shoulder and smile. "So what's the problem?" I sneak a peek again and fan my face. "He's a stud."
"Good grief…"
I catch a glimpse of Mom as she finger combs her silver strands, primps her cotton gown and attempts to camouflage a grin. A man’s coming.
Wait! I’m the one with a new man on my Christmas nice-to-have list. Santa crossed our wish list. Or did he? Widow or divorced, mother like daughter, I rearrange her covers and wink approval.
The nurses push the gurney towards the window. "Helen meet Lillian."
Her roommate lifts a palm and waves. Mom swats me with her good arm; a hue of rose colors her cheeks.
"So I'm the bad seed." I concede. Best time I have had all day.
Curled on her side, Mom twinkles and says, “You’re just like your mother.”
I laugh and realize it’s the best time we’ve both had all day.
Tis the season to be jolly…fa, la, la, la, la.
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