The fires in California – devastating. I cannot imagine the loss, the helplessness..

I overheard a couple people talking about the fires today. One said something to the effect that she doesn’t feel bad for the rich people who lost their homes.

How sad, I thought. Homes are a deeply personal space for everyone who is lucky to have one, including those who can afford to live in mansions. Beloved family members and pets reside in them. It’s often where irreplaceable prized possessions are kept and where one can (hopefully) be their true self.

Even if one doesn’t feel too sorry for rich homeowners – after all, it may be one of their many homes – there are people who work in and businesses that serve those homes.    

However, I am a cynic by trade and could easily fall into apathy for the Hollywood types I detest.

Instead, I’m choosing compassion and empathy – as a dog and cat owner, a mother, daughter, wife, and friend.

And, as a homeowner.

I could sit on my front porch – as I am right now – all summer and look at rain clouds pass by. I should be writing, I tell myself. Or throwing another load of laundry in the washer. Or, or…

Instead, the impending storm brings me back to memories of my youth, when the neighbor kids would pile into my mother’s station wagon and head to the lake. We’d swim and play on the beach for hours, no one worried about the differences in ages or the cliques we belonged to during the school year.   

My mom always packed chips, popcorn, and a thermos full of Kool-Aid, which she’d pour into wax Dixie cups.  When it was time to leave, we’d shake out our beach towels (mine: paper thin with some 70s cartoon theme printed on it) and head to the car, all of us jockeying for a seat in the “way in the back”.

Many afternoons we’d be chased by storm clouds all the way home, where we’d race to our own homes as the rain came pouring down.

It was those times I felt the most comfortable – and comforted – in my house. My brother and I would turn on afternoon TV (Brady Bunch and Gilligan’s Island). I’d bring out my dolls and my brother would play with his Millenium Falcon, our mother in the kitchen or reading on the couch.

I was content with feeling secluded and safe, with the rain allowing me to just – be.

Must we always be “on”? Must we be continually busy and productive?

If so, why do my most pleasant moments occur when I’m quiet and content, when I enjoying the here and now?

I’ve come to believe that a form of prayer is awe.

It’s noticing the beauty around me – the green of the grass against the green of my apple trees against the green of the meadow behind them.

It’s sitting on my patio, secure and dry, watching the dark clouds looming overhead and listening to the low roll of thunder a few miles away, anticipating the cool breeze that will come with the rain.

It’s loving my house, one that I have the privilege to clean and sleep in. Where I can tend to my flowers in the summer and decorate for Christmas in the winter.

These daily snippets of awe remind me that ticking off items on my to-do list is great, but sincere appreciation of what God has given me in the here and now is enough.

A lighted candle transforms any room into a cozy, intimate den and makes it a place in which you’d rather not be anywhere else.

1990. I just completed my sophomore year at the U. It was summer and a bunch of friends and I formed a co-rec softball team. I had played slow pitch softball a good portion of my life, save high school when it changed to fast pitch and I didn’t make the cut. Alan, a friend of my friend Carol’s, joined the team. He was tall, cute, and blonde (my favorite). After games it was standard to line up and slap the other teams’ hands and say good game, as kids still do. Then we’d circle back and slap our own teammate’s hands. One time (not at band camp) Alan’s and my hands lingered a bit too long. Soon after, we were making out in secret at social gatherings. It was intense and incredibly exciting.

Eventually he invited me to an evening at his house, or, I should say, his parents’ house.

Though the hookup wasn’t as climactic as I hoped (figuratively and literally) there was something else that made an indelible affect on me through the brief affair.

Alan graduated a year before I did from the same high school, though shortly afterward his parents moved from our inner ring suburb to what was probably then considered an exurb. Though I hadn’t driven more than 12 miles from my folks’ house, the homes out there were newer, larger, and nicer than where we grew up.

Due to my extreme lack of not knowing north from south (and years before smart phones and GPS were the norm) I found myself driving around in literal circles. Desperate to get to Alan I turned into a cul-de-sac, determined to ask for directions.

The first house in was massive, at least to my very middle-class digs. I remember it was a two-story with a white stucco façade and black accents. Parked in the wide cement driveway was a gleaming white car, decades newer than my crappy silver Dodge Colt that still held lingering smells of the Denny’s I worked at in high school.

And getting into the car, dressed in white shorts and a white top, was a blonde bombshell of a girl, around my age. She was in a hurry and had her hand on the driver’s door when I stopped, rolled down my passenger window, and asked where the street was I was looking for. She threw a long lock of silky hair over her shoulder, smiled, and shrugged her shoulders.

Before I even circled the cul-de-sac, she was gone.

Over the next several months I’d think about that encounter often. Where was she going? She definitely had somewhere to be. What I did know, or so I convinced myself, was that she wasn’t thinking about how lucky she was.

She had the long blonde gorgeous hair I always dreamed of. She had just exited a house I didn’t think I’d ever get to live in – or deserve. She got into a car – most likely paid for by her parents – who would never want her to be seen in anything like my old junker driving around their great and wonderful neighborhood.

Worst of all, I assumed she had some hot jock of a boyfriend while I was chasing down some guy who told me to enter his house through the basement sliding door.

Memory is a funny thing. Was the girl really wearing all white? I think so; the car for sure was…  

But she was blonde and cute and the whole neighborhood was new. And she represented everything I wanted to be.

Sure, I had some assets. But I was a cheaper version than the girl in Alan’s neighborhood (as I came to refer to her as).

I was blonde.  And I had a great body and was going to college, the first in my extended family.

But I had to work at it. My clothes were almost always on sale from the big department stores (Dayton’s!) or purchased from Contempo Casuals, which sold cheap, fast-fashion.

I didn’t have a boyfriend all through high school. It wasn’t until the end of my freshman year at college that a guy asked me out on a date.

The girl in Alan’s neighborhood represented what I always wanted to be – born with it.

I thought the best kind of beauty was one you were born with. And I assumed beauty and money went hand in hand. So when I saw the girl in Alan’s neighborhood and the carefree way she ran out of her house like she always had both, jealousy and self-doubt overpowered me. 

Yes, perhaps I’ve thought about this too much over the years. Maybe it wasn’t her house. She could have been leaving a friend’s or boyfriend’s house and was heading back to her double wide (not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course).

And her clothes could have been passed down from rich cousins or her outfit was the one nice thing owned.  And perhaps the car belonged to her parents or they made her buy it herself…

But no.

I know that bitch lived there and her parents made a buttload of money and she’s still thin and blond and married to the hot jock who is now a lawyer.

And all I got from Alan was crabs.

I remember reading something years ago in which a mom was in a car with her teenage daughter. They were at a stoplight when she looked over and saw a young guy in the car next to her smiling at them. She thought at first he was looking at her but quickly realized the smile was meant for her daughter.

I recall thinking what that would be like – to have passed that torch, in a sense, to your daughter. To no longer be the object of a stranger’s eye.

It reminded me of a TV show I saw where a character had been ma’amed.

“It is ‘miss’, thank you very much,” she retorted. I laughed out loud and vowed to say that when my time came.

Well, now it apparently has. And, if I really admit it, it arrived about 5 – OK, 6 – (7) – years ago.

I was at a professional hockey game recently and a (male, of course) concession worker ma’amed me.

“It is ‘miss’, thank you very much,” I said. And to my delight, another gal, a bit younger than me, gave a fist pump in solidarity.

Where were the days, I lamented, when I used to be annoyed by the looks and leers from guys?

I mean, it used to be effortless. Being thin and blonde was my thing.

It was who I was.

Several years ago I was at Home Depot, hopelessly looking for some obscure screw or whatever for the husband. I was wearing baggy pants and a tight tank top, my hair piled high in one of those messy buns all young girls seem to look hot in. I thought I looked bedraggled. Some guy sidled up next to me and said, “Damn, you look hot.” I ignored him and he muttered something about just giving me a compliment. I shrugged, said OK thanks, and continued on my search.

As with so many things age teaches us, I never realized it until it was gone.

I know, poor me. At least you had that time, a good friend of mine recently told me.

Sure, I could do something about my weight. I often ask myself why I look the way I do as I’m chugging another tap beer or my third glass of wine, all the while stuffing my face with a slice of pepperoni pizza or a loaded bacon and cheese hamburger. (Oh man, now I’m starving.)

After all, is it other people who aren’t seeing me or is it me not seeing me?

I was at a club in my late 20s when a girl I didn’t know came up to me and said I could have any guy I wanted in there.

True, it wasn’t Studio 24 in NYC but rather a suburban bowling/nightclub in the Midwest. But I got lustful looks often from college on until I was 50. I looked younger than my age too. One friend I met while our boys were in kindergarten thought I was a child bride. And I’d get actually upset in my 30s when I’d still be carded at bars and restaurants.

Should I be content with my husband and the fact he still wants to be intimate with me? Yes. Could I actually work out instead of just dress like I’m going to? Yes. Could I drink more smoothies instead of Pinot Grigio? Absolutely.

Over the past decade I’ve discovered who I am and I feel content and confident in the thoughts and feelings I have regarding people, places, and things.

But every once in a while; every so often…

I want to scream – don’t you know that I came in second place in the biker shorts contest of 1992? And the infamous tight jeans contest two years later??

Some people may view married life as boring, especially once you’re empty nesters. The routine – get up, shower, dress, the sometimes hour-long commute to work. The need to be completely focused and engrossed once you’re there, only to struggle to stay awake on the drive home. Then there’s dinner, maybe some TV, and then bed.

 A kiss on the lips and both partners roll over.

But there’s something to be said about the everydayness of it, at least for me and my husband.

It allows both of us to be individuals with the comfort of being in a committed and comfortable relationship.

Maybe it’s cozying up to each other on the couch in the evening, candles lit and the game on TV, each looking at our phones but knowing someone else we love is a hand-hold away.

I mean, must we always be “on”? Sure, date nights and dinners are fun. But the little times, the everyday-ness of life, can also be how we express affection.

And let me be honest, I feel completely content doing a crossword or jigsaw puzzle while he watches fishing and cooking videos. And I’m perfectly OK being engrossed in a novel while he’s puttering around in the garage. To allow each other the time to freely pursue our individual interests is a form of love.

Relationships of all kinds need spicing up every so often. But allowing the freedom to expand each one’s mind and hobbies is just as important.

Sure, at times I have been bored as I stare at my husband’s back, hunched over the breakfast counter, entirely enrapt at some (stupid, albeit) video on his phone.

But then I look down and see I’m crocheting a blanket or hard at work on an article and I’m grateful for the space in which I can do that.

Being in each other’s presence – in each other’s world – definitely counts for something.

A lot of feelings I have about myself come from the adults of my past – some good, and some not so good.  

I know memories are funny things and not always accurate or even true. But some – whether they are iron clad or manifest in your mind as more of a feeling – stay with you forever…

I was a shy and awkward child, especially around adults. I usually didn’t talk unless spoken to, especially to strangers.

Take the time my mom brought my brother and me to an “all about animals” type of event one summer. After introducing a variety of animals to adults and children alike the presenter said she’d be open to questions after the program. I had some burning question regarding our family’s guinea pigs (I don’t remember what exactly) and patiently waited behind a woman speaking with her.

While waiting our turn, my brother began lightly tapping on a glass enclosure that housed some small creature. The random woman – I remember short, dark hair – stopped what she was saying, turned around, and scolded my brother.

“That would be like if someone put a bucket on your head and started banging on it,” she said rudely.

I froze – scared and embarrassed, our mother nowhere in sight.

I don’t even remember if I asked my question or not. But the image of that lady, mimicking someone banging on an imaginary bucket on her head, has stayed with me for over four decades.

Junior high found this shy and awkward child now a pre teen, without the right clothes, hairstyle, or teeth. I got good grades but I rarely spoke up in class unless called upon. However, I was responsible, got my homework done on time, and didn’t give teachers any grief.

Which is why I felt entirely betrayed by Mr. Schleeter, a 7^th grade sociology-type teacher.

One day I timidly approached him before class and asked him not to call on me, as my throat was sore and it hurt to talk. He nodded and I took my seat.

Imagine my utter surprise then, when during his lecture he looked me in the eye and asked me a question.

My eyes swelled up with tears. I don’t recall what the question was, but I remember a teacher I liked and respected erased all trust I had in him.

I still turn red in shame and disappointment when I remember the smug look on his face.

Did he think I was trying to get out of something – perhaps didn’t study the night before? Why would he not believe or be sympathetic towards a nice student?

I had never before spoken with him privately and, needless to say, it was the last time.

Not-so-fast forward to high school, when I finally got rid of my coke bottle glasses and cultivated a semi-decent wardrobe.

I was working a part time job and having more responsibility around the house and so my mother decided I was dependable enough to drive myself to doctor visits.

Reluctantly, I went to an eye appointment, where I recently experienced great difficulty in putting in my new contacts. I probably was a pain in the ass while doing it, but the round-faced and bespectacled optometrist (think Dr. Bunsen Honeydew of The Muppets fame) didn’t hide the fact he was irritated and sighed impatiently.

He was no picnic, but the equally bespectacled assistant lady was worse. Way worse. At every appointment after that (for years, I should add) she would “welcome” me with an eye-piercing frown from behind the front desk. I recall trying to be overly friendly and nice to no avail. Already a girl with few friends, I remember wondering why she didn’t like me. I treated her with respect and my folks paid my bills on time. Why the utter rudeness?

To this day, I’ve never met anyone so bitter and ugly.

Was I too sensitive as a child? Absolutely. Were there worse things that happened to other kids around the globe for centuries? Of course.

But in a world where kids can be mean to each other – and I see it every day on the playground – why should adults contribute to the fray?

I need to remember that my words – and how I say it – matters, and take a gentler approach when coming in contact with kids. Perhaps smile at a crying kid in the grocery store instead of sneer.

After all, I don’t want to be remembered as a smug, bespectacled, anal, sex deprived (OK, I’m only guessing they all were) adult who walks around with a bucket on her head.

A thought popped into my head the other day regarding the whole desert island scenario:

If I could have access – free, unlimited, and complete – to only one medium, which would it be – music, books, or movies/TV?

Of course the whole premise of being stranded alone on a deserted island is preposterous, but it’s fun to debate with other people.

Music?

I ruled that out first.

I can go for days without listening to any music. When I do, it’s the same stuff over and over – older country: think Conway, Kenny, John (Denver or Cash). I also love The Stones, James Taylor, and soundtracks to the musicals Chicago and Les Miserables. Sinatra.

Movies?

I admit access to any movie or television show – past or present – does sound tempting. I’d probably start off with my old soap operas from the ‘80s, true crime documentaries, and anything Grace Kelly was in.

Yet, it’s a no brainer – books are my jam.

I prefer silence.

No sound, no voices.

Would it be difficult to endure? Sure.

But books… long, luxurious, endless, and uninterrupted hours spent devoted to the written word?

Buy me a ticket on the SS Minnow.

And if a certain hot professor happens to join me, well..

One of the greatest gifts my parents ever gave me was the ability to say I love you.

Odd, since I don’t think they ever said it within their families. They both came from large Catholic broods with several brothers and sisters. I didn’t witness any outward affection between any of them as I was growing up. There were no hugs when we all got together for holidays.

But somewhere, somehow, that changed. I don’t know if it was a conscious decision by my parents that they would make sure my brother and I heard the words I love you.

I know words aren’t everything; showing love is just as important as saying it. And if that’s all someone can do, I get it. Words are difficult for some people. But by nature I’m a word person. And I don’t just like to say I love you to others – I also put a lot of weight on someone saying it to me.

It’s only been the last seven years or so that I started to say it to friends. Some say it back to me and some don’t. No matter. It feels good on my part to tell them how I feel.

It came naturally for my husband and me to tell our kids daily that we love them. We still end every phone call with an I love you.

Now I’m looking forward to grandkids and how my parents’ legacy of love will continue on.