Thursday, November 3, 2016
“I notice you have a lot of shoes.” A simple observation by a co-worker that at one time would have been met with an enthusiastic response of “Yes! I love shoes! I think I might possibly be a distant relative of Imelda Marcos!” now casts a dark spot over what was once the subject of a past column. Yes, I do have a lot of shoes. And yes, I still love shoes, but now the simple truth is that shoes don’t love me. I collect all kinds from flats to flip flops to boots. I have shoes in a rainbow of colors so that I can be certain of one thing. I won’t leave home with footwear that doesn’t match my daywear. As I listened to people at work lament about their various foot related issues like plantar fasciitis, I still happily wore my terrible-for-feet-toe-squeezing-no-arch-support but “gee aren’t they cute?” flats. I have these memories of my grandma’s orthopedic shoes, which she had to wear because of fallen arches. They were black with buttons on the side. She wore them with everything. Every outfit. Every color. That was never going to be me. Until a year or so ago, that is.
I started getting out of bed in the morning and hobbling from foot pain to the bathroom. But I shook it off because by the time I came out of the bathroom my feet were ok. I chose to ignore this little warning sign because I wasn’t willing to give up the vanity of having the cutest of cute shoes to go with my semi-fashionable yet age-appropriate wardrobe. But as the pain followed me into my day, it became clear to me that the cutesy flats would have to be replaced (most of the time) and I would need to buy better, more supportive shoes. It appears as though I have come to the age where my shoes need to be sensible if I don’t want to be in pain. Thank goodness we live in a day and age where we aren’t stuck with my Grandma’s ugly orthopedic shoes. A good friend of mine has pretty much the most impressive collection of Dansko shoes that I have ever seen. It is remarkable to say the least. When I see her I immediately look at her feet to see what super-cute pair she has on today. When I inquired about them she told me that they are great shoes for people with foot issues, they’re just a little pricy. But best of all, they are stylish! So my updated shoe collection consists of 3 different pair of Birkenstock sandals, (for summer of course) and 3 different pair of Danskos with no plans of stopping there. The good news is that I can have it all. Only now the comment will be “I noticed you have a lot of highly fashionable orthopedic shoes.”
Monday, October 3, 2016
I'm coming up on my 30th class reunion and I couldn't be more excited. It should be well attended and pretty fun. Reunions are fairly predictable so I'm actually not excited about the reunion itself. Oh, it'll be nice seeing people I haven't seen in years and reconnecting with them face-to-face. But that is really just a sidebar to the real reason I'm going. Girls night. Me and some of my dearest, been-friends-since-middle-school, friends are going to get together and just catch up after years of absence and hundreds of miles of separation. Robin, Glenda, Heidi, Beth, and I are going to eat, talk, laugh, and drink some wine for as long as we have stuff to talk about. These women know the secret to friendship and what it means to have relationships that span the decades. No rules. These are girls whom I can not talk to for literally years and if I shoot them a message to check in I can count on the fact they will respond like it was only yesterday. They don't fire back an angry response with a “you don't follow the friendship rules” scolding. They wouldn't dare! Because they don't follow them either. They don't get feel rejected if I don't call because they don't call me either. Robin, Glenda, and I keep up by reading posts on each others Facebook accounts while Heidi and I text once in awhile. Every 10 years or so Beth tracks me down or I track her down via email. And it's always the same. They understand like I do that life gets in the way most of the time and that a lack of contact doesn't equal a lack of caring. It's just life. We all have kids and jobs and dinners and sports and other stuff that wears us out and makes time fly by. But in a couple of weeks we will pick right up where we left off all those days or months or years ago. I am so excited to see these ladies that I get butterflies in my stomach. I can't wait to see their faces, ask about their families and hear about their lives while they ask about my family and hear about my life. We will make big plans to get together again and promise to do more than Facebook, email, or text, even though we know deep down that it won't happen. Nobody will get offended, or feel slighted. We will enjoy the moments we are together as much as we enjoy the few times we touch base when life gets in the way again. No judgement. No accusations. No rules. Just as it should be.
Ever since I’ve been riding motorcycles either as a passenger, or a driver, I’ve been a “fair-weather rider.” Literally. I usually say “no thanks” to a ride that’s going to take place if the temperature is below 60 degrees (no, we don’t own anything battery-operated that will keep our fingers and toes warm). I also don’t care to ride in the rain (sleet & hail included). Most of the time, once you get wet on a motorcycle, you get cold. When I protest about riding in less than ideal conditions Tom will say, “You can’t be a biker AND a wimp.” Now that I have my own bike, this summer I was out to prove that I am a real biker. A few weeks ago we went to downtown Charlevoix to support our friends’ fundraiser, a motorcycle poker run to benefit military veterans in the area. Since the forecast showed rain, we decided we would just ride down, buy a couple of t-shirts and then head home. But when the sky started looking OK’ish, we changed our minds and joined some friends on the poker run, heading south of town (the exact opposite direction of our house). Somewhere around Norwood, the rain started. I had on my leather jacket and jeans, but no real rain gear. It rained for roughly a minute and then it began to pour. Buckets. And buckets. And buckets. I thought to myself, “Ok so I’ll get a little wet. My jeans will dry. At least I have my jacket on.” As the rain refused to let up I thought, “I won’t turn around. I can’t be a biker and a wimp.” Around Eastport, my boots began to fill with water. My jeans were completely soaked and then my coat soaked through to my shirtsleeves. It was like that kids’ song “I’m being swallowed by a boa constrictor and I don’t like it very much!” We inched our way to Bellaire in the monsoon conditions. When we got there I took my boots off and squeezed the water out of my socks. I was wet and cold to the bone. We checked the radar and decided to cut our losses and head home. The ride home was worse. We were already wet and cold, but the wind had kicked up. My teeth were chattering and I was thinking “This is the worst. I am never, ever, ever, going to ride if there is even the slightest chance of rain in the forecast!” As we neared our home I pictured myself hugging the hot tub. Looking back, some would say I passed the wimp-test. But I disagree. That miserable ride was enough for me even though I’m not giving up riding. I’m here to tell you that you CAN be a biker and a wimp. So if you ask me to ride on a day with a questionable weather forecast answer will be “Call me a wimp, but I don’t ride in the rain.”
Friday, July 29, 2016
She wore a cotton day dress
all flowered and sensible
With her orthopedic shoes
for her fallen arches
And a smile that lit up the room
She wore a smile to cover
the secrets and the scandal
With her beautiful eyes
and snow white hair
And those mints in the
“be careful” glass jar
She wore costume jewelry
and a corsage every Mother’s Day
With her clip-on earrings
to hide that one earlobe
longer than the other
And a heavy green coat that
buttoned at the neck
She wore her title of Nurse
proudly although she hadn’t
worked in decades
With her sister Bea
And unspeakable memories
too frightening to repeat
Sometimes I see her
long after she’s been gone.
God’s gift to me. A reminder
that she isn’t far.
She wears a cotton day dress
all flowered and sensible
With her orthopedic shoes
for her fallen arches
And a smile that lights up the room.
There’s a wooden sign at a store in downtown Charlevoix that says, “Anything is possible with sunshine and a little pink.” I know that it’s meant to be hung up in a little girl’s room because it’s displayed in the baby section. However, when I saw that sign I wanted to buy it for myself; for totally different reasons. Last year I got my first motorcycle. It was matte black, which to me said “guy’s bike.” But we knew that our sons would want to ride it too, so I thought that would be a good place to start. What we didn’t know was that the boys would want to ride it, but would be vehemently against riding “Mom’s bike.” So this year, they both decided that they would buy their own motorcycles. Since Sammy rode mine the most, it really made more sense for him to buy it from me. Suddenly, I was on the hunt for a replacement. Tom came across one that was white with pink flames. I was in love. It screamed “Dawn’s Bike.” You see, when I was young I was a girly-girl, a bouncy curls and dresses girl, an “only boys wear jeans” girl. I thought Pinky Tuscadero, the motorcycle-riding girlfriend of Fonzie (remember Happy Days?) was so cool with her pink name and her pink scarf around her neck. Knowing that about me, you can see why I fell in love with this pearl white with pink flames and blingy rhinestone emblems bike. But the more I thought about it I wondered if that was maybe a little bit too “girly” for an all-grown-up woman. Would I get sick of it? Do I really want the attention that a Pinky Tuscadero ‘esque motorcycle would get? It would match my black with pink flames helmet though. Then Tom found another black motorcycle on Craigslist that had everything that this one had without being too “girly.” Maybe I should be safe and get that one instead? I wondered. I flipped and I flopped, finally rationalizing that if I got sick of the pink, we could always repaint it. The decision was made. On the day I got the bike I stopped at the Secretary of State’s office. On my way out, two women walked past me as I was getting ready to leave. “That is the most beautiful motorcycle I have ever seen!” said one, and the other woman replied with “Yes, that is really pretty.” So I guess I did make the right choice after all. “Sunshine and pink?” you ask. “Yes,” I say. “Now anything is possible.”
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
I hear and read complaints by Christians about how “God isn’t allowed in the public schools.” I beg to differ. If you don’t see God in the schools then you aren’t looking hard enough. Sure, we aren’t allowed to pray (out loud) or read the Bible to kids, but He definitely is in the schools. Here are just a few examples.
On the Monday before spring break, my friend and colleague posted this on Facebook:
As a teacher, this week is hard. It's hard to get homework ready for students who are leaving early, or will be returning late. It's hard to keep students interested when their minds are elsewhere. But the hardest, most heart-wrenching thing for me are the students who know that they don't have a fun-filled spring break to look forward to, and their worry is if they will get any food next week because they aren't at school where we make sure they get breakfast and lunch. So when I get a text from a friend saying, "hey- are you making food bags for some of your students like you did at Christmas? If so, I will help you," it literally brings me to tears. So thankful! So blessed!
The results were overwhelming. By the time they left for spring break, 70 children had bags loaded full of food (heavier than the average kindergartener) to take home thanks to Sara, and the community members who showed up with food and bags.
I saw God there.
Last fall as it got colder more and more children came to school without what they needed. Children arrived without socks, clean clothes, or with worn out shoes that no longer fit. Stephanie and Theresa came up with an idea for a “kids closet,” spread the word, and it began to take shape. What we have now is a fully stocked room with underwear, socks, clothes (sizes 2T to mens and womens large), shoes, boots, and winter snowclothes. If children have accidents or forget their boots they simply go with an adult to get what they need, returns not necessary.
God was there too.
God was in school when a teacher took 3 special needs children home with her for the weekend so their dad could stay with their mother in the hospital when she had major surgery.
He was there when we collected food and gas cards for the family who took weekly trips to Grand Rapids to take their son for his chemo treatments. He was also there with the children who sold ribbons and had bake sales for that same family.
I saw God in the public school when the teachers spent their own money on school supplies and paid field trip fees for kids who didn’t have them. I saw Him with the teacher who tutored a girl after school for free because she knew it would be a financial burden on the parents.
If you think that God isn’t allowed in the public schools you aren’t looking hard enough. He doesn’t need to be invited. He just shows up. And if you don’t believe that you are grossly underestimating the power of God himself.
Monday, March 7, 2016
My new favorite author is Jen Hatmaker. I recently read her book For the Love and enjoyed every minute of it. My favorite chapter was the one about LAP (leggings as pants) and TAP (tights as pants). She’s a girl after my own heart on the subject, especially when she says:
Leggings-As-Pants (LAP) is permissible if the following rule is obeyed: Your privates are covered by a shirt, sweater, or dress. Privates heretofore are understood as areas north of upper thigh and south of muffintop. I don’t want to see your hinterlands…I am just shopping at Target and feel like I’ve gotten to second base with you.
Jen is about 8 years younger than me so this might be a new phenomenon for her, but if you went to high school in the mid 80’s like I did, leggings as pants are not. We just didn’t call them leggings. We called them “stretch pants” or “stirrup pants” (for which I am anxiously awaiting a comeback). We wore our beloved stretch pants under cute swishy skirts in capri length (except we didn’t call them capris either), or ankle length, with either Tintables pumps or flats. If we wore leggings as pants they were always under a long, oversized sweater, sweatshirt, or tshirt. Never were our “hinterlands” on display for the general public (unless you were writhing around on the hood of a car in a Whitesnake video). In those days we thought that leaving something to the imagination was a good thing when it came to stretch pants. And we never wore tights as pants. We just didn’t. It’s weird.
And while I’m on the subject, tight jeans aren’t new either. These days I find the banter about skin tight “jeggings” to be quite comical. If you are my age, you undoubtedly jumped up and down, swiveling your hips to and fro to pull up those Jordache jeans that you saved up your babysitting money for, and then laid on your bed like a mannequin, in order to get them zipped. There was no stretch in those jeans. It took a few deep squats and a prayer in order to get them to the point of walking in a somewhat normal manner without blowing out the zipper you worked so hard to pull up (maybe with pliers). When you could bend over, you pegged the ankles, slipped on your flats or pumps and off you went. But before you left you tossed on that oversized sweater or sweatshirt to cover up the unsightly muffin top, because again, we understood the importance of leaving something to the imagination.
I loved the 80’s. I loved the hair, the clothes, the “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” music, big, oversized shirts, and the stretch pants. I love the return of those fashions and colors. I’m glad it’s back in style and I’m happy that women my age can enjoy the trends without scorn. But I tend to agree with Jen when it comes to covering up. Wear what is comfortable ladies, just please remember to leave a little something to the imagination.