Through the Prism of Music

 

It all began with music.Language was next, and because I grew up in America English was what we spoke.  I always  have had a knack for languages, but music definitely came first.

Because of this I never considered a life outside of music.  I  started formal piano lessons at age 4 because I was playing all of my older brother’s piano pieces note for note by ear.  I majored in piano in college, and for several years was a staff accompanist at a respected university.  It was as natural as breathing or talking, and I think anyone who knows me will agree that talking has always come very easily to me.  It all  was just so darned simple …I practiced and played for hours every day, but it was always pure joy and release from tension.  I seemed to think in musical terms…I was constantly imagining musical phrases in my fingers.  Add to this the fact that I had near-perfect pitch, and my life was filled with music.  Fortunately I married a musician too, and our children  were also musical, so life was rich and filled with flowers, art, books, laughter, and–most of all–music.

Then came the accident.  Or as I prefer to say,  “a truck hit me.”  Everything stopped.  The music stopped.  My life came within moments of stopping.  And it has been excruciatingly s–l–o–w in starting up again.  Some days I am more successful than others at coming to grips with this new reality.

All my life has been some wonderful combination of teaching vocal music, leading worship, teaching piano, or simply participating in music.  At church, school or home,  I sang and was at the piano most of  the time.  After the accident all that came to a screeching halt.  The part of my brain that processes the information  coming in from my eyes and ears was badly damaged, so I could see and I could hear, but I couldn’t make much sense out of the signals I was receiving.

Besides this, I had major physical injuries to deal with as well as my damaged brain.  The things that directly affected my singing were:  my diaphragm was torn and had to be repaired surgically, several ribs were broken which still causes me pain when I try to draw deep breaths,    I had a tracheostomy in my neck for weeks.  There didn’t seem to be much hope that I would ever sing again.

At first, when we went to church, I couldn’t even match pitch, or sing more than two or three notes without having to take a breath. For several months, just getting there, and being there, was adventure enough for me.

I couldn’t make sense of the faces, the music, I was worried about things like where we would sit and having to get to the bathroom.  My main emotion was paralyzing fear, but I was determined to get better.  That’s pretty strong motivation for getting out and about again, and I knew I needed God, and church, more than ever before.  So I made myself keep going.

After several months of listening I started trying to figure out the time signatures of the songs.  I would try tapping along, and periodically ask a member of my family what I was thinking it was, and ask if that was correct.  Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t.  Gradually I improved.  Then I got somewhat more adventurous.  I decided I would try to match a pitch.

I knew this would  be quite an important endeavor for me. I remembered from my years of teaching that listening was vital to matching pitch, so I thought starting with humming would be best.  One morning they were singing a piece I particularly loved, I  so I finally got my courage up.  I tried to breathe as deeply as I could, I hummed along for a few notes, but couldn’t hear myself at all so I decided to vocalize along with just a few notes.

Total train wreck.  Not even close.  My only consolation was that absolutely no one noticed, because my voice was so weak that it was practically inaudible.  I was so shattered that I stood, blinking back tears, for the rest of the singing time.

That was another rough stretch.  It was difficult to collect  the broken pieces of my identity  one more time and create  another action plan.  Hadn’t I done enough starting over?

I did a lot of thinking and self-reflection about my life, and realized that this had always been a core piece of my identity, something that I never wanted to lose. The idea of “music” is so much deeper to my identity than any nonsense about having a beautiful singing voice, or playing piano well.  It is the lens through which I see the world  It very much brings everything into focus for me.  I knew that if I was going to find any joy in the remaining years of my life, it was absolutely essential for me to get music back.  I just had to find a way to not let memories of what HAD been destroy my joy in what WOULD be.  I resolutely pointed my face towards the future, and desperately tried not to glance back over my shoulder.

As a teacher I had always greatly enjoyed working with adolescent voices (there’s some speculation that may be because of my somewhat immature sense of humor) but that’s beside the point.  Anyway, now I had to bring all those lesson  home to myself.  I was among the worst singers I had ever worked with, but  I was also my favorite kind of student.  A pretty quick study, very motivated, and there’s a big difference between learning for the first time, and remembering skills and theory that you’ve taught others all your life.  All I had to do was think.  Note names and their places on the staff, note durations, music theory, vocal pedagogy….all of that was in there.  I just had to unlock it,

It all starts with breath, both in voice and in piano.  Deep, rhythmic, relaxed breathing.  How many times had I said that to my students?  Breathe in tempo BEFORE you begin the music and then join in.  It’s very much like children in a game of jump rope on the playground;  if another child wants to jump into the game  already in motion, you teach them to watch for a while, count along, then breathe in time and “join in with the rope.”  Don’t over think it, just relax, breathe in tempo, and jump in.

I decided it would be most time-effective to combine practicing singing with practicing piano.  So I formulated a plan for daily practice of both.

That Christmas my family bought me a stationary recumbent bike to strengthen my legs.  When I finished my piano practice, I would climb on my stationery bike and start pedaling and singing.  This, I reasoned, was not only strengthening my singing voice and breath support, but my memory.  During that  Christmas season I would sing every Christmas carol I knew, and all the verses. Especially Good King Wenceslaus.  My oldest daughter and I, when she was in high school, challenged each other by memorizing ALL the verses to that carol.   Every Christmas since we (somewhat teasingly) test each other on the words.  That was one thing I was simply desperate to get back.

I had taught general music for years, so I knew lots of folk songs.  Those all came in very handy during our child raising years as lullabies, and they came back into use now.  Again, all the verses.  I thought of it as “double” or “triple teaming” my therapies.

My singing voice now no one would describe as “beautiful.”  Not anyone who didn’t know about the accident.  But at least I can contribute to singing in church now, and I can pretty much make it through a complete phrase.  That was a necessity for my inner musician. Now that’s all I ask.  But I’m still working.  Still pedaling away madly on my bike doing vocal warmups.

Now for piano.  This was definitely the most painful blow.  I was never an operatic vocal soloist, but I was a very serious pianist.  The accident threatened to steal all that me.  I forgot everything.  Except that, once upon a time, I had been very good.  Now  I couldn’t see the notes…they didn’t stay still on the page.   I couldn’t remember what they meant.  My cerebellum was damaged, which greatly affects one’s coordination, so my fingers wouldn’t work right, and my hands wouldn’t work at all together.

My music therapist at OWL was wonderful.  My family had told her how vital music had always been to me, so they all thought music would be a great way to reach me.  So they started taking me in to sit in front of the piano, and putting my hands on the keyboard.  I was wearing a heavy neck brace, so I couldn’t keep my head upright for very long. Multiple times a day my husband went through this pain.  Then, one day, a miracle.  My hands played a major chord.  Then, a few seconds later, another one.  Then slowly, back to the first one.  Back and forth this went on, for quite a while.  Then my hands fell to my lap, and my head fell forward.  After the first chord, he had begun videoing, and when it was finished, he sent it to our children,  They happened to be all together, on a rare afternoon off-duty, off for a walk.  They watched in disbelief, and then hugged each other.  They told me afterward that even though I still hadn’t spoken, or recognized anyone, they knew in that moment it would be all right.  That I would be back.  That I was still in there.

Fast forward several months:  when I first came home, I was able to pick out single melodies again by ear, and could vaguely remember how to read music, but the notes still wouldn’t hold still at all, and I couldn’t tell the notes apart on the page.  Fortunately my whole family reads music, so someone was always available to help me out.  My cerebellum injury left me with very little sense of tempo, so I’m reliant upon a metronome.  I had to start over with the simplest exercises, one hand at a time, then work up to scales.  At first I tired extremely quickly, so I could only practice a few minutes a day.

When, eventually, it became clear to me that I would never hold a full-time job again, or possibly ever drive myself again, I sank into a deep, dark depression and thought “why practice?  I’m never going to use it again!”  Then, one day while (hopelessly) praying about it and the thought stole into my mind “you’re never going to be ready for ANYTHING if you don’t get your butt over onto the piano bench and start practicing!”  After all, it took me years of practicing the first time when it was all so easy.   Now it  seemed it was going to be much more complex.  Better not waste another minute.  It seems as if I can’t even succeed at giving up.  Believe me, I’ve given it quite a few tries.

As of writing this, I’m mid way through the Grade 4 Alfred books.  I’m tempted always to compare it to how I was before, but I  simply cannot do this.  It’s just much more difficult for me this time around.  I laugh that I’m not only like most “ordinary” piano students, I’m like the most challenged ones now.  The ones that I always watched in wonder.  The ones that I sometimes thought “How I wish I could just climb into their heads to see what it’s like!”  Well, how I got my wish.  Except it’s more than a visit.  Now I live here.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Definition of Laughter

I’ve always loved to laugh.  I realize everyone’s probably nodding along in agreement:  that’s certainly not a controversial statement.   But I seem to really need it–deep down need it–maybe more than most people.  My default facial expression has always been a smile.  My life’s ambition is to have one of those faces you sometimes see on elderly people which are very deeply creased with laugh lines.

I was listening to a podcast recently, and the speaker, a comedian,  was saying that one day he had been researching the definition of laughter.  It said “laughter is hope made tangible.”  I have no idea where that definition came from.  I’m using it without giving the proper credit, but I felt it was too wonderful not to share.  So I am.

Laughter has gotten me, and my entire family, through SO MANY extremely dark periods. Take my mother’s heart surgery a few years ago. During the time I was staying with her in the hospital, it didn’t look at all hopeful.  I got so desperate for anything cheerful or funny that that at night, when she was sleeping, I would stretch out in the ICU waiting room or the couch in her hospital room and stream the latest Jim Gaffigan comedy special on my laptop. Sometimes that was the only thing between me and a nervous breakdown.

Following my accident, while I was at On With Life, my regimen was very demanding  both physically and mentally.  In the evenings a member of my family would help me down the hall to my room where there were side-by-side leather recliners.  I became very attached to them–so much so so that I decided that they belonged to us, and we should take them home when I was discharged.  This may not entirely have been due to my broken brain….

My speech aphasia was still severe, so my family relied on “a series of yes” or “no” question.  My world was very tiny, which was probably a good thing.  The list of my possible needs was finite.  “Hungry?  Thirsty?  Bathroom?  Tired?  Cold?  Chapstick? “As you’ll probably guess from this post, I seem to be obsessed with chapstick.

They would ask me which of the chairs I wanted, and if I wanted the foot rest up.  We would call “Shpring it,” and then my current family-member-in-waiting would pull the lever to raise my feet.  The origins of that phrase, once again, must have been another example of dark humor.   I have forgotten now, but I may have mispronounced “spring.” Our oldest daughter has the gift of creating fun out of  the most mundane tasks.  After the accident, in those months, I certainly cherished that.

Then they would ask if I wanted “Burt’s Bees,” which was what I called all chapstick for several months, drape me with a blanket, and we would stream episodes of The Office on the TV. My daughters called this “my evening relax and smile therapy.”

My addiction to this show led to a little embarrassment.  That Christmas when I made my first overnight home visit, I was still very prone to speaking in memorized quotes and poems and song lyrics. I was not yet very skilled at composing original sentences, which is a really complex process for the brain.  This apparently  led to my making a “that’s what she said” joke in front of my  very conservative mother, who was up for the day from Missouri. It was 24 hours of various sorts of ribald comments,  all of which I found vastly amusing.  My filter, never very thick at the best of times,was totally MIA.  Thank goodness I was never one for cursing or automatic bad language, or I don’t know what would have happened!

During my time on the feeding tube, I lost a lot a weight.  I have gained some back since, but I’m pretty careful about monitoring my weight gain. For the time being vigorous exercise is very much out of the question.  I eat little with my low level of activity.  Besides,  I get pretty defensive about my sweet tooth–when you can’t digest rich food, hate the taste of any drink other than water, can only tolerate tiny portions at a time, especially when in public…I mean, cut me some slack!  I honestly feel as if eating sweets is my only real consolation.  I know, I know, that’s a pretty unhealthy relationship with food.  But it’s at least my own sickness, and I don’t feel I can control much these day.

Since the accident my family have relied a lot on very dark humor. So when people (a few of whom haven’t seen me since the accident,)  say “you look great!”, my response sometimes is “Thank you.I call it the coma diet.  But I can’t recommend it;  it almost killed me.”  Hopefully, after a startled second, this gets a huge laugh.  It never fails to crack me up.

One night I was talking on the phone to my lifelong friend. It was during the time our youngest son was busy applying to colleges, and struggling to get the very best financial aid package.  I told her that I had given him my permission to fully exploit the story of how how, during my entire hospitalization, he had continued to go to school as normal.  This had resulted in him finally buckling down and starting to really take school more seriously, as was evidenced in the sudden rise in his cumulative GPA. I think I was also explaining to her that I felt my family had gone through so much they should get something out of it.

Sally didn’t miss a beat.  She said, “there’s nothing a good mother won’t do for her son.  Nothing.”

It took my poor fractured brain several seconds to get it, and then I laughed until I almost wet my pants.  That’s one big reason for our lifelong friendship–we can share jokes.  What a rare gift.  When you find that someone, all I can tell you is, keep the attachment alive!

That definition of laughter; I love it so much.  “Hope made tangible.”  Hope heals. I’m a living example of that. Beauty and laughter have always been life values for me, but I used to be able to leave to go out to get them.  Not anymore.  So I have to be proactive to fill my house, and my life, with them all the more .   Bring on the laughter!

Toothbrushing 101

toothbrush

 

Toothbrushing is such a boring affair.  Something that one does, automatically, without even thinking about it.  Put some paste on the brush, scrub your teeth for a while, spit, rinse and spit again, and finite.  Until one day you wake up from a coma with a major brain injury and have to learn how to do the whole thing again.  Plus you’re not even cleared to swallow liquids yet, so you have to be very careful not to let any of the “liquid” get accidentally down your throat.  Where to begin…

 

First you have to be helped into the bathroom.  The CNA hands you a little cup and you have to figure out how to a. turn the faucet on and, b. get the cup under the stream.  When you have all that coordinated enough to get a little into the cup, you have to figure out how to turn the faucet off.  That completed, you have to strategically organize the order of operations, taking the lid off the toothpaste, putting the toothbrush against the tube of toothpaste while you squeeze, getting a little on the TOP of the toothbrush (not the side or the bottom), and juggling the whole thing to put the cap back on the toothpaste.  I usually bailed at this point until I was finished with the whole operation.

Now to the mouth.  Slowly, slowly, keeping careful aim.  Remember to keep your mouth open…too many times I was concentrating so hard on hitting my mouth that I hit…with my lips closed.  Sigh.  Bingo!  Fully loaded toothbrush inside my open mouth.  Now where to start brushing?  Top?  Bottom?  Side?  So many choices.  I need to get started because too often I just stalled out here.  Now I’m getting somewhere.  So far so good.  Now spit.

Ohhh nooo.  I forgot to lean over the sink, and I’m dribbling toothpaste slobber all over my chin.  Close my mouth a little, and bend slightly at the torso and try again.  Better.  Continue brushing.  I’m wearing out, but I’m not nearly finished.  Still lots of jobs to go before this task is complete.  Midway I usually have to go through the whole rigmarole of rinsing my brush out again, because I have too much foam.  Finally I believe I have done a good enough job.  What to do next?  I try to collect my thoughts.  Oh, yes.  Rinse out my brush.  I do that, then try to figure out whether to tap the brush on the side of the sink to get rid of excess water or not:  I decide to go for it, but get it upside down, then sideways, then hit my hand on the sink trying to tap my toothbrush.  Ouch!  Darn it!!  Ah well.  Good enough.  Now to get a little water in the cup again (a fairly monumental task with my skewed eyesight), and put some in my mouth, swish it around, and spit.  Darn.  I forgot to bend again.  It just runs down my chin.  I try to laugh at myself, because, after all, it IS pretty funny.  Do it again. Try to pitch the cup at the trash.  Miss by a mile.  Just look over and shrug because I’m too exhausted to go over and get it. Look in the mirror.  Smile weakly at the drool-stained, disheveled woman staring back at me from the mirror, because  I’m  moving forward every day, and that’s definitely better than backwards.

Grandma Harriet

My sister-in-law’s family owns a campground in Wisconsin that we’ve been returning to frequently for nearly 18 years now. The entire surrounding area owns a huge chunk of real estate in our hearts, because of so many shared memories and funny stories.

Grandma Harriet lived in a modest house right on the shores of the lake, and we always had full permission to walk down from the campground and use the beachfront that came along with the house.    I only knew “Grandma Harriet” as a tall, lively, red-haired, former music teacher, who had been married three times (the first two husbands had died) and who would sometimes bring her accordion up to the campground and lead the sing-a-longs they used to have there on weekends.  We always got a kick out of how incredibly spunky she was…she used to get up and dance along with the song, and her current husband (who obviously adored her) was, as far we saw, almost totally silent when they were in public and just sat watching her smiling.  And then one year we heard that her husband had died, and not long afterward Grandma Harriet went too.  The family kept the house and often one of the adult children were living there, so we just kept using the beach and telling stories of Grandma Harriet to our kids.

 

And then came my accident.  At age 52,  I was naturally struggling with depression and feeling that my life was over.  I had recently come to grips with the realization that I would most likely never teach high school chorus again, or play piano at all well or so easily again.  I had most of my identity and self worth wrapped up in that.  I was determined not to be whiney or negative.  I wanted to be someone people wanted to be around, but it was just so HARD!  I kept praying about it and reading only positive things and trying to think only positive thoughts, but I was starting to lose the battle.

And then we were invited to visit the lake and stay in the house for a week with our daughter and her husband. We hadn’t dreamed of having a vacation with our financial circumstances, and with my problems, but this seemed perfect!  We quickly said “yes” and agreed on a week.

 

It was the most magical week ever.  Ever.  The bedroom we slept in had a giant picture window that opened right on the lake, and we went to sleep every night to the sound of loons, and woke up every morning to sunshine sparkling on the lake.  It must have rained sometime, but it didn’t seem like it ever mattered.  And then there were Grandma Harriet’s scrapbooks.

 

Beside the fireplace in the living room were built-in shelves holding a number of photo albums and scrapbooks.  One lazy afternoon, early in the week of our vacation, we were lying around in the living room talking about what might be in those old books.  My husband started pulling them out and looking through them.  Quite a few of them had been compiled by Harriet, and told the story of her life.  In a paraphrase of her words, ” by the time your children and grandchildren become old enough to be interested in your life, you’re not around to tell them stories.”  These books were her way of leaving a story behind so that by the time her descendants were interested enough to want to know more, the whole story would be here for them.

Turns out she was quite a girl with quite a story.  The last line in every one of the books, save one, was “This has been the best year of my life!”

 

When she and her first husband had been married over 30 years and had 2 adult children, he was fixing a gravel truck right in front of their house when it fell on him and crushed him.  She saw the whole thing happen.  That was the only year she left that line out of the book.  She wrote that she took to her bed several weeks with grief, and then one morning she heard her son and daughter in the kitchen discussing who would drive her down to Florida (she and her husband had spent winters in Florida for years).   She lay there thinking “I’m not a baby!  I can drive myself!”  and hopped out of bed and ran into the kitchen and explained that to her children.  They eventually agreed to let her try it, and so started a whole new chapter in her life.  We started seeing many more references to a group down in Florida named the “Sojourners” that was made up of snowbirds, who would have weekly meetings, socials, dinners, eat at restaurants, card games, and in every newspaper clipping and picture about the group there would be Harriet smiling somewhere.  Husband #2 she had met through this group.  He had been a widower, whose wife had been dead several years.  That marriage was a happy one and lasted quite a few years before his death.  More years went by, and then she reconnected with Clark.  He and his wife had been friends of Harriet’s and her husband years before, and the two men had hunted together.  They had lost touch through the years, but reconnected through the Sojourners Group and fell in love.  This was the husband we saw, the quiet man that just sat watching her, quietly adoring. And again, after several years, he died first.  They were all good marriages.  Because her first marriage had been so fortunate, she wasn’t at all afraid to run wholeheartedly toward the next opportunity with no hesitation, no worries about “this time it might not…”.  And so it always worked out.  Who could resist being loved by such a woman?

Harriet had a daughter with polio, she had seen her husband of over 35 years die in front of her eyes:  she had had the courage to remarry, and that had been a strong marriage, but he had died too.  She had still had the heart to risk another time and that had been another win, but he too had predeceased her:  yet at the end of her book she wrote these words which I’ll never forget:  “Life has treated me kindly.”  What a gift to another woman who feared that her life was over.  Harriet started over and over and over, and at the end wrote those words.  I’m certain that it was a God-thing that placed us in Harriet’s house with those scrapbooks and led us to them.

Our last morning, I woke up very early and walked out in the dim early light of morning.  “Harriet?”  I whispered.  “Are you here? If you are, I want to thank you so much.  I think you saved my life.”  But there was no answer, no sense of her presence.  Not that I expected there to be.  Harriet had moved on to better things.  She wasn’t the type to stick around when things were over.

 

War and Peace Mother-Daughter Style

I love, love love my mother.  She is the sort of person that will inspire “would you believe it” stories for generations to come.  She weighs barely 100 pounds and stands 5 feet tall.  It is dangerous to interpret “small” as “weak”, however.  She is anything but.  Her opinions are many, absolute, and iron-clad.  There are no 50 Shades of Grey for my mom……not in any sense of the word.  The universe is divided up into two camps–right and dreadfully wrong.  On the right side–Republicans, Tide detergent, red shoes, homemade bread, Israel, decaf weak coffee, Ronald Reagan and G.W. Bush, Fox News, the Midwest, farmers, red meat, Protestants, guns and gun owners, John Wayne, terriers, American-made products, maps, women in dresses, McDonald’s, Christmas cards, Buicks, potluck dinners, Clinique face cream, black and white cats, rocking chairs, the King James Version of the Bible, fleece robes, Celtic Woman, handwritten letters, visiting friends in nursing homes.  On the wrong side–Democrats, liberal Christians, ERA laundry soap, NPR, Japanese cars, smart phones, any popular music, orange cats, Coca-Cola, alcohol, Obama, the entire Mideast (see above for exception), Taco Bell, China, strong coffee, New York City, pets inside the house, obesity, eating out too much, Time magazine, and……too often…..me.

Go ahead and ask my mom about me.  She will launch into a litany of my awesome awesomeness.  I am beautiful, have a beautiful home, have beautiful children, am amazingly successful at my job, an extremely talented musician, a gifted public speaker, compassionate, and I love Jesus.

Now spend a day with us.  I will be wrong in more ways than you ever imagined possible.  We go for a simple drive in the car–she has me drive her car.  I put my drink in the wrong cup, in the wrong holder, don’t brace it up with wadded napkins the right way.  I pull out of her garage at the wrong angle which makes me turn too much to miss the curve.  I take the wrong road to get to our destination, causing us to lose upwards of 20 seconds (she lives in a town of 4,000).  I don’t know how to get to where we’re going (I have never lived in this town).  I don’t remember the people who speak to us there.  I am not dressed warmly enough, I must give her the car keys because I might lose them while we’re out of the car.  I hit the remote to lock it only 1 time, not 2 times so that it will beep.  I get the wrong kind of bread/milk/lotion/nightlight bulb.  I don’t beat my scrambled eggs with the mixer, I use a peeler for potatoes instead of a sharp paring knife, I put the knife back in the drawer before I let it dry on the counter long enough, I use sugar instead of Splenda, I don’t know to spray the shower with the daily cleaner, I change my sheets when she meant to leave them on the bed, I pull the car too far forward in the garage which (she demonstrates) causes her to turn sideways when walking in front of it.  I leave the mashed potatoes lumpy, I let my children have a tattoo/dyed hair/piercings (they are 28, 24, and 21….the 15 year old is still in my control– and call their grandmother all the time and send her cards and texts and she adores them beyond belief).  I don’t manage to make my son get good grades.  I wear pants to church, I often clean my plate, I drink Diet Coke occasionally, I have an espresso machine, I listen to NPR and watch PBS, I don’t have guns and don’t much like them, I live in a city.

How can she apparently disapprove of everything about me but adore me.  I don’t know.  I’m pretty sure she does, though.

Why does this matter tonight?  Because she had open heart surgery last Monday.  Because she’s 78.  Because the weekend before the surgery was one of the worst times I’ve ever had with her, and I could barely feel sorry for her because she was so awful to be with.  Because I overreact to her, just like I did when I was 13.  Because I’ve been in the hospital with her for a week, away from my home and family and job, and she’s driving me crazy.  I’m pretty sure I’m driving her crazy too.  She behaves better with everyone than with me, yet wants me.  Because she’s not recovering very well and I don’t know what lies ahead.  I’m not ready to plan her funeral.  She is beloved by hundreds of people and is a surrogate mother/grandmother to battalions of women, girls, men, and boys in her community.  She is complicated.

My mom should have been born in the Old West.  She’s a cowboy through and through, really, without liking horses.  She likes men in charge…strong, doubt-free men who carry guns and crack wise while helping ladies through the mud.  She likes it when John Wayne spanks the female lead, then kisses her.  She could shoot 20 bad guys in a fight without flinching or losing any sleep, and still organize the first town school in her spare time.  I don’t know anyone like her, which is a sentiment echoed by everyone who knows her. Revisit the list of “wrong” things and then understand that, if any of those “wrong” people were her neighbors, she would help them in every way they needed, bake them a cake, love their children, and correct their mistaken beliefs at every turn.

My mom’s heroes are Billy Graham, John Wayne, and Ronald Reagan.  Rock Hudson, her former crush, became problematic for her, but she still likes his movies.

I am confused, scared, guilty, grateful, compassionate, angry.  Am I the only one?  Maybe I’m the same about her as she is about me……I dislike many of her beliefs and opinions and most of her inflexible “this is how I do it!”  I hate having to turn around to go the way she wants to go, despite the fact that turning around actually makes our trip longer.  I hate being corrected at every turn.  I love love love love love her, though.