Thirty-Five

The doctors said I would never be able to have children. My insides were too undersized to carry and deliver a baby, they said. But they underestimated what my body was capable of; they were wrong. Thirty-five years ago today when I was thirty-five, it gave birth to the most beautiful baby ever born since the beginning of Homo sapien births seventy thousand or so years ago. And I'm not exaggerating or making that up. It's 100 percent true and Snopes.com will confirm it.

I love, love, love that boy of mine. Just saying.

Welcome to My Rambling Blog

Welcome! I realize most of the visitors to my blog are web robots who crawl around on the Internet looking for specific key words, and once they find them they send me anonymous spam emails trying to sell me things like penis enlargement drugs, anti-aging creams, brain enhancers, books on how to get rich quick, and helpful hints for decorating walls.  For example, my last post "Wall Space" has 17 hits. Sixteen are from web spider crawlers, but there is one real live person who is reading my ramblings.

If you have happened upon my blog today just by accident and haven't already clicked off of it, there is one thing you should know. The reason I'm here...the reason I've spent over five years blog rambling about everything my mind can possibly conjure up is because I'm trying to reach my children and their children.

If my blog makes no sense whatsoever to you, that's understandable. Most of the time it makes no sense to me either. That whole hindsight, prefrontal cortex thing really confused me. I'm gonna have to go back and reread that again.

My reason for this blog is simple. I just want to reach the kids, and since my calls go straight to voicemail, I thought a blog might get their attention. I want them to get to know me: who I am, where I came from, what I know, how I feel about things, why my sister Lynnette calls me _________(can't say the word on international Internet).  I want to give them my perspective on life, including lessons I've learned (or not) in seventy years. A little wisdom would be nice, and as soon as I find some of that, I'll pass that along as well.  I want to leave something behind for them so that after I'm gone they can't say, "Has anyone seen Nana? What? She's dead! Really? Well, did she leave anything behind for me?" 

Now, back to that one real person who is not a younger member of my family, but is coming uninvited to my rambling blog anyway.

Thank you.

Wall Space

As the years ticked by on Austin Drive, available flat space on which to put things was getting more and more difficult to find: cabinet shelves, coffee table, end tables, night stands,  piano, sofas, chairs, beds, the floor. If they were flat they were being covered with some of Mother's favorite things. Same was true for wall space. If Mother liked it, she would find a place to hang it.

One day when I was well into my forties, my sister Lynnette came to town to visit and my parents had us over to their house after church for Sunday dinner. My dad always fixed a roast beef covered in onions and potatoes and carrots and smothered in gravy.  It was then and still is the best roast I have ever eaten. For sides, he fixed lima beans and coleslaw (the best coleslaw in the world.)

While sitting at the dinner table, I noticed a space on the kitchen wall that was empty, so I took the bag the lima beans came in and tacked it to the wall under "Go forth and be good." Lynnette and I laughed until we peed our pants--well, I did anyway. I should add here that my little sister "gets it" and she laughs the loudest, but she thinks I'm really _________ (fill in the blank yourself because I can't put that word in print. My granddaughter is going to read this someday.)

Years later, after Dad had passed away and Mother became infirm, I decided that the joke was well beyond its expiration date--Mother and Dad never saw it--and I took it down. Had they even seen it, I wonder, would they have thought it funny? Probably not.

I'm not funny in real life. I'm not funny in my fake life either, but I play a cartoon character in my blog who gets sued for defamation of character and libel by her hindsight at the same time her brain complains about not getting to sit in the big people chairs, yet refuses to grow up and act like an adult. Kinda like pretend life imitating real life. Maybe it's just me but I find humor in that.  Okay, it's just me; it's not funny. I thought you would say that.

Mother and the Black Magic-Marker Man

Everyone has their own special lenses through which they see the world. When we are young, we are myopic and our world is small. We see only what our caregivers reveal to us.  Once reasoning kicks in about six or seven, we can take in the view spread out before us and make some sense of it. With the help of Hindsight, from past experiences we can begin to predict future outcomes. If I touch that hot stove, I will get burned. If I spill milk on the floor, my mother will scream. If I say a bad word, I will go to hell. 

As a small child my world was insulated inside the thick protective walls of a religion with lots of rules--rules that came from a Rulebook passed out to the members of our church.  To get your very own Rulebook, you had to become a member of our church and pay 10% of your income every paycheck. Or, you could chose to not become a member and come to church anyway, put a dollar in the collection plate every week, go back home and sin to your heart's delight. 

There was no sinning going on in our home. Nope. None. Nada. Zip.  We were all good in the eyes of God, and good was all we had to be to get into Heaven. Well, that and a few other things like accepting that God had a son and his name was Jesus, being baptized in holy water, paying your 10%, following the rules and...okay, there's more than just being good, but that's one of the biggies.

"Go forth and be good," was one of many Christian-based plaques that hung on the walls in my parents' home for fifty-two years. I always thought that was a direct quote from Jesus, but recently I Googled it to find out who really said it, and the "best answer" was, "It was my uncle Johnny's cousin." 

Mother's purpose for placing these plaques strategically around the house was simple. She wanted everyone to love Jesus as much as she did and go to Heaven along with her. While spending time inside our home, a sinning visitor who takes the time to read the walls might be converted over to the good side. Devil be gone! Jesus, Here I Come! Hallelujah! and Amen! Mother's motivation for putting so many Christian plaques all over the house was not unlike the motivation of the man who travels around the country in a Dodge Van, and while everyone is sleeping in the wee hours of the morning, he climbs up on a ladder and nails black magic-marker signs to telephone poles that say "Trust Jesus" or "Follow Jesus" or "John 3:16."  (Yes, it's a man; Yes, it's a van; And, yes, he uses a ladder; no one is that tall.)

Mother and the black magic-marker man want(ed) only one thing: Everyone needs to go to Heaven; the only way is through Jesus, and if it takes a message on a wall or post, they would be more than happy to oblige. And that's a good thing. Imagine if it were the other way around. What if the signs and plaques that my mother and the man in the van were posting were promoting bad behavior? The world is plenty bad enough without people crusading for evil. What if children were being raised in homes that worshiped the Devil? Oh, I'm scaring myself, so let's move on.

The lenses through which I viewed my narrow space as a very young child were smudged, but I could still see through them. The people with whom I shared my early childhood painted beautiful imagery on the walls that surrounded us with pictures of how they fantasized the world to be. Jesus was not physically living with us, but he was with us in spirit as was his Father, God. Their pictures were everywhere and they spoke to us daily. There were life challenges and family difficulties but through them all, we knew we were not alone. There was a plan and everything, in the end, would turn out in our favor. And in exchange for this wonderful life and piece of mind all we have to be is good...and a few other things that I mentioned above.

From my earliest memories--two or three--there was one message that looped around me constantly: All little children are cherished and loved by Jesus and his Father. Even me, the defective one. I was young, I was myopic and my world was small. I could see only what my caregivers revealed to me, and here is where the gratitude comes in.  I have my mother, her family, our church, and the entire village that helped hold up the walls and paint the pretty pictures to thank for that deep-down sense of well being that was instilled in me during my innocent, vulnerable early years, and even though I sometimes grapple with self-esteem, somewhere way down to the core of me is that long-ago Jesus who says, "I know your worth, Carol Louise. You are good and no matter what, I will always cherish you."

Yep! I'm crying. Not the ending I expected, but I'm keeping it.

Mother welcomes visiting sinners

All Hindsight Does is Walk Backwards

Prefrontal Cortex

The prefrontal cortex is the part of the human brain where 
logic and decision-making reside, and this is the last part of 
 the brain to develop. The average age for growth completion
 is the early to mid twenties, but in rare cases, it can take

 much, much longer. This area plays the role of the CEO,

the executive, the boss who uses intelligence, reasoning 

and complex analysis to make the best decisions possible
 for its human host.

                                                    --Mikidikipedia

My brain wants to sit in the big people chairs but they are reserved for adults only.

Whims, Wants, Whimsy and Wishes

Hindsight is suing me for defamation of character and libel. It says I am harming its reputation by making false statements about it in my blog. It says it can give example after example of instances where it gave me thorough and detailed information that put past events into perspective, that the information was clear and concise, and that the heretofore aforementioned information was delivered in such an elementary way that even I should have understood it.

Pursuant to a court order, Hindsight's lawyer will be calling an expert witness to the stand to substantiate its claims that it is not failing at its job.  The truth is, this witness will testify in court, the information is being delivered to me, but I am selecting only that information that serves my whims, wants, whimsy and wishes...not what is best for me. In other words, I am not listening to Hindsight.

Hindsight goes on to say in the court document that it admits to being overworked and under a lot of stress, thereby creating a need for an occasional sleeping aid and nap, but denies that it is sleeping on the job.

Can't Handle the Truth

Has it ever occurred to you that the reason some people keep repeating the same stupid stuff over and  over is because their hindsight is not doing its job? Could it be that there is too much depth of thought and introspection required of it? Maybe to avoid the stress and angst that comes with its job description,  it just sleeps a lot or numbs itself with antidepressants or sticks its head in the sand.  No, I didn't think that had ever occurred to you before. But it's occurred to me.

Facing the truth is sometimes difficult.

Hindsight By My Side

I lied to my mother and Hazel constantly as a little girl growing up in a restrictive world with too many no's--"No! You can't go to the sock hop. Nope! No movies.  No bowling either. No this. No that. No! No! No! No! No!" There were times when I questioned the "No's,"  and the response was always, "Because it's against our religion." But when I pushed harder and asked for a reason, a good explanation why I was shut off from the world, the hammer came down and stopped my inquisition. "BECAUSE I SAID SO!!" Hazel would say and then she would go for the switch that she kept on top of the refrigeration.  As I saw it, there was only one thing left for me to do: lie.

Time marches on and things, they were a'changing. The church relaxed its restrictive rules. Hazel was replaced by Prince Charming who rescued Mother and her two daughters. He carried us off to the suburbs, and the need to lie was diminished, but not gone completely. There was still one person left who couldn't handle the truth. And so, there was only one thing left for me to do: lie.

I hate to lie. Well, I don't hate it; I just dislike it immensely. With each lie comes a little piece of guilt. Over the years, each piece gets added to the last and before you know it, there's a whole trash bin full of guilt. It's heavy and, like all trash, it stinks. And you have to remember where each piece is because you might be asked to pull it out of the trash bin and tell it again.

There was a time, as a young adult, when I said, "I'm done with lying. No more lying. Lying be gone." I was tired of hauling around my trash bin of guilt. So to be free of guilt, there was only one thing left for me to do: Go forward with the truth. Nothing but the truth.

Once I made the decision to never tell another lie as long as I lived, I felt liberated. Telling the truth sets you free, right?

WRONG! NAH! NOPE! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

Who came up with that stupid saying, anyway? How about these sayings:

The truth will get you in trouble.

The truth will make you unpopular with people.

(Dogs and cats? They don't care, either way

they still like you.)

The truth will reduce your friend count drastically.

The truth will set you free in a world with one person: you.

The truth will make you think twice about telling the truth.

Mother can't handle the truth.

I'm old now and with Hindsight by my side, I can see clearly now--well, that's actually a lie; the computer screen is a blur and Hindsight is taking a nap. Regarding what I said above about always telling the truth...

Never mind.

Blame HIndsight

HIndsight

Hindsight's job is to look back, after an event is over, and examine

thoroughly every little detail of that event, and then put that information

into perspective, thereby gleaning knowledge, clarity and understanding

for the purpose of avoiding some of the really stupid things one might

have done in the past and will hopefully never do again in the future

assuming, that is, that Hindsight has not fallen asleep on the job.

                                                --Mikidikipedia 

Like me, my hindsight was slow to mature, and I did some really stupid things much longer than I should have; I blame Hindsight for that. Had it been paying attention and doing its job right, I could have avoided unpleasant consequences, pain and suffering that were a direct result of those stupid things I mentioned above. It has one job and one job only--save me from myself--and it has failed me.

Unlike me, my hindsight is lazy. When I have a job to do--not including cooking, ironing, dusting, washing windows, vacuuming--I am very detail minded and thorough. For example, I will revise this post fifty-six times before I post it, and after I post it, I will revise it sixteen more times. Like Tom said, "She's anal." But at least I'm not lazy like my hindsight. It claims to know a lot, but therein lies my dilemma. It's not sharing with me, so like I mentioned above, I keep doing some really stupid things.

A look back at the evolution of my hindsight.

   

Waiting to Be Picked

I was a late bloomer. My body didn't start to mature until my senior year in high school, but my brain--the part that makes decisions based on logical thinking--took much longer. I was living in a fairy tale world where maidens, dressed in their best "pick me" dresses,  hung out in a meadow adjacent to an enchanted forest waiting for a knight in shinning armor to trot out of the forest on his big white horse, instantly spot the best maiden in the meadow, sweep her off her feet, throw her up on the back of his mount, and ride off into the sunset where they would live happily ever after.  That was how it was all supposed to go down, but my fairy tale's script had been altered just a little...okay a lot.

The only thing that wasn't altered in my fairy tale fantasy was me, the maiden who hoped to be considered "the best maiden in the meadow." What did change was everything else. The enchanted forest was the dark, obscure back corner of The Holyoke Bar on Pendleton Pike. The meadow was the well-lit dance floor with surrounding tables. All the maidens, dressed in their best "pick me" outfits were on display at the tables while the knights sat in darkness waiting to make their choices.

Whoa! Hold on! Did you see movement from the enchanted forest? I thought I saw movement. Could it be a knight is coming to pick someone to dance with him? Sit up straight. Stick out your fake boobs. Lick your lips. Act demur. Here he comes. Is he coming for me? Oh, please. Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!

False alarm. It's just the waitress delivering beer to the knights.

Waiting to be picked out of a group of "desperately-seeking-love" maidens wasn't fun, and it didn't do anything to boost my self-esteem. But I was, after all, only eighteen...too young to be in a bar anyway. With the help of Hindsight's retrospective abilities, I can see that now.

1945 Brand Spankin' New

The term "Brand Spankin' New" came from doctors spanking newborn babies as they made their grand entrance into the world. Oh, the anticipation, the excitement, the thrill of something brand new. Everyone is beside themselves waiting for the big day: the day of delivery.

And then it occurred to me; people's bodies are a lot like cars. If your body were a car, what car would you be? As for me, I've chosen a 1945 Ford Coupe. Nothing fancy but reliable, I hope. This whole notion of people and cars got me thinking. One thought led to another and then another and then the next thing you know I'm drawing those "something-to-be-desired"crude cartoons again.

Here's a picture of me and my new car body seven decades ago.

Times marches on and over many years of not loving my coupe as much as I should have, a few things began to change.

With hindsight I can see clearly now, and if I could do it over,  I would have loved my coupe more and taken better care of the only vehicle I was given. At seven decades, my 1945 Ford Coupe is a classic; it doesn't look all that good, but it still runs...most of the time. The good news is I'm starting to take really good care of it now; I just hope it's not too late. I don't want to end up in a field with other broken-down chassis playing Bingo before my time.