life lessons

Time Well Spent

/ Ann Coleman / 67 Comments

I’ll be the first to admit that I messed up.  I’ve never had a good memory, so I usually write all my commitments down on the calendar on our refrigerator.  It’s old fashioned, but using a real calendar usually works best for me.  But from early May on, I somehow managed to get myself very over-scheduled.

You would think that someone who is in the habit of writing things down on the calendar would look at previous commitments before adding another one, but apparently I didn’t.  The end result was that the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity with no real downtime.  The things I had scheduled weren’t the problem:  a trip, a house-guest, a long-term babysitting stint, hosting a few family events, volunteering for a fund-raiser, meetings, dinners, lunches, etc.  They were all things I enjoy—just not all in the such a compact time period.

As an introvert who values having some quiet time on a regular basis, I was a little daunted when I realized just how crowded my schedule had become.  I considered backing out of a few things, but in the end I decided to simply soldier on.  I was the one who had created this situation, and it seemed unfair for me to cancel at the last minute.  Besides, there wasn’t really anything on the calendar I didn’t want to do.  I just wished I had managed to work a few breaks into the schedule.

In any event, my “busy time” seems to be winding down, and my husband and I are enjoying a three-day weekend with almost nothing on the schedule.  I say almost nothing, because I did promise to take my granddaughter to the zoo on Saturday morning.  (Actually, one morning I had told her I was taking her to school and she thought I said I was taking her to the zoo, and she very much wanted to go.  We couldn’t go to the zoo that morning, but I promised to take her as soon as possible.)

It would have been easy to cancel our visit to the zoo, but I’m not in the habit of disappointing a three-year old.  And besides, I knew it would be fun.  So we picked her up bright and early and spent a beautiful Saturday morning showing our granddaughter the local zoo.  She was thrilled by everything.  She loved seeing the animals, riding the carousel, watching the zoo train go by, and even took the time to literally smell the flowers along the path.  Honestly, it couldn’t have been a nicer experience.

Looking back on the past few weeks, I’m actually glad that I didn’t cancel any of the things I had scheduled.  I got to spend time with old and new friends, help support some worthwhile causes and spend quality time with my family.  Yes, I was busier than I’d prefer to be, and I’ll be more careful with my schedule in the future.  But sometimes in life, I think we just have to “go for it.”

A Matter of Importance

/ Ann Coleman / 91 Comments

Mom has been super busy lately, and apparently that means she’s not had any time to write blog posts.  So I decided to write a guest post on her blog, because: 1) I’m a super-helpful dog (as we all know) and 2) I’m getting a little tired of listening to Mom complain about being too busy to keep up with her blog.  I’m hoping if I take over for a few days that will both put her mind and ease and give my ears a break.  I believe that’s what they call a “win-win” situation.

Sometimes I wish that I could talk directly to Mom in a way that she would understand, but so far our communication is limited to words like “stay,” “sit,” “potty break,” “let’s go for a walk” and “get off the couch.”  But if I could sit her down for a heart-to-heart conversation, I would tell her that she really needs to stop fretting so much when her schedule gets so crowded that she can’t keep up with everything.  Why humans insist on believing that they can “do it all,” don’t ask me.  But I know it’s a myth that many of them, including my mom, believe in.

We dogs know better.  We know that life is all about priorities and the way to keep from getting all stressed out and overwhelmed is to know exactly what is most important in our lives and behave accordingly.  For example, one of my duties as the dog of the house is to greet guests, and I’m good at it.  When someone first comes through the door, I race toward them and then (if Mom isn’t quick enough to stop me), I jump up and lick their face to show them just how glad I am they’re here.

But even though greeting guests is great fun, it isn’t my top priority.  If someone comes over when I’m eating my dinner, I just go right on eating.  And if I happen to be in the middle of a good nap when someone walks in the door, even if it’s Mom and Dad, I don’t jump up to say hello.  I’ll open my eyes briefly and give a tiny tail wag by way of welcome, but that’s it.  Because in my opinion, eating and sleeping are top priorities, whereas being a one-dog welcoming committee is not.  Which is why I don’t feel guilty about neglecting my greeting duty when I’m eating or sleeping.

I’d love to tell Mom that it’s really okay to neglect things like blogging, attending meetings, volunteer obligations, cleaning house, etc. once in a while, especially if she’s neglecting them because she’s doing things that are more important.  You know, such as babysitting the grandchildren, going on a much-needed vacation or celebrating the holidays with family.  Or even just plain old taking a little time to herself for a change.  But since I can’t actually tell her, the best I can so is set a good example and hope she manages to learn from it….

Love,  Finn

Small World

/ Ann Coleman / 140 Comments

One of the nicest things about blogging is the connections you make with other bloggers from all over the world.  I may have started my blog simply because I love to write, but one of the main reasons I’ve kept it going all these years is that I really value the friendships I’ve made because of it.  The people who read my blog and take the time to comment on my posts have provided more encouragement, new perspectives, and advice than I ever would have imagined, and that’s a gift.  I may only know these people through our blogs, but they still touch my life in a real and positive way.

A few years ago, a blogging friend who lives in the Netherlands was in my area to visit her son, and she asked if she could stop by the animal shelter where I volunteer for a quick tour.  (I occasionally write about my experiences at the shelter.)  I agreed, and was happy to discover that she was just as nice in person as I had expected.  It was fun meeting someone from halfway around the world who I had only known through her excellent blog,  https://thecedarjournal.com/blog/ .

A few months ago, she emailed me to say that her son and daughter-in-law had bought a house here in St. Louis and asked if I could give her any information about the neighborhood.  As it turned out, I could give all kinds of detailed advice about the neighborhood, because her son’s new house was a mere two blocks from my own.

Last weekend, my friend came to visit her son and daughter-in-law and offered to meet me and my dog Finn for a quick walk.  Finn, of course, thought this was an excellent idea so I leashed him up and we met in her son’s yard.  I got to meet her husband, son, and daughter-in-law before we set out.  It was a beautiful Spring day, and I enjoyed our walk very much.  But I just couldn’t stop wondering:  what are the odds that someone  I met through my blog and lives in the Netherlands would have a son who moved into my immediate neighborhood?  Neither of them are originally from St. Louis, and she hasn’t lived in the States in years.  And yet there we were, walking and chatting like old friends.

Clearly, people who say, “it’s a small world” know what they’re talking about.   And you know what?  I think that’s a very good thing indeed…..

Clean Living

/ Ann Coleman / 81 Comments

I blame it on Agatha Christie.  Both of my parents were fans of Agatha Christie’s mysteries, so I had access to dozens of her books and read them while I was still young and impressionable.  Most of her works featured Hercule Poirot, a retired Belgian police officer who had a love for cleanliness and a passion for order and tidiness.  I read dozens of books in which Poirot solved his cases not just by “employing his little grey cells,” but by methodically gathering clues and putting them into the proper order.

I may not have Poirot’s detective skills or brain power, but I must have assimilated his love of cleanliness and order.  How else do you explain the fact that the spices on my spice rack are in alphabetical order?  Or that the books on my bookshelf are grouped both according to the author, with subcategories for hardback and paperback books?  I read a home-decorating article once that said end tables must be decorated in groups of threes, and now all my end tables have exactly three framed photos or knick-knacks on them.

My kitchen is small, so I have an extra pantry in the basement where the food is sorted according to size and expiration date.  The tops in my closet are hung according to style, with the sleeveless tops at the far right, followed by short-sleeved, three-quarter sleeved, and finally, long-sleeved.  Those are the casual tops.  The dressy ones are on the rack directly above, similarly sorted.  My shoes, on the other hand, are just haphazardly stuck in there, don’t ask me why.  Poirot would be horrified.

Luckily, or unluckily, depending on how you look at it, my husband is at the complete opposite end of the spectrum.  I have a photo of the contents of one of his drawers I keep just in case I’ll ever need it for blackmail.  If I tell you the photo contains both underwear and a screwdriver, you’ll get the idea.  One of the many reasons we have a happy marriage is that we never share closet space or dresser drawers, and I do all the cooking.

I have long since learned to stop apologizing for my compulsive desire to organize things, or to try to change my husband’s lack of organization.  (Clearly, he didn’t grow up on Hercule Poirot novels.)  Because I’ve learned that a happy home doesn’t have to be either clean or messy.  It just has to be the place where we get to be ourselves, and know that we’re loved and accepted for exactly who we are.

No Choice

/ Ann Coleman / 125 Comments

As anyone who spends time with young children knows, choice is important.  For instance, you don’t tell a child it’s time to put on her pajamas, you hold out two pairs of pajamas and ask which pair she would like to wear tonight.  Ditto with eating vegetables.  You don’t announce,  “You’re having vegetables with your dinner!”  You ask, “Would you like carrots or green beans with your dinner?”  That may not guarantee success, but it does improve the odds of actual vegetable consumption.

I haven’t been a child for decades, but I have kept some of my childlike ways.  And one of them is that I, too, like to be offered choices.  When I book a room at a hotel, I study the types and prices of rooms on offer and select the one I like best.   If I need a dress for an upcoming wedding, I try on several before choosing the one that is the most flattering and comfortable.  (If I have to choose between flattering and comfortable, I go with comfortable, because I’ve reached the age when flattering is a relative concept.)  In short, having the ability to make choices is just as important to me now as it was when I was a toddler myself.

Which explains why I’m having such a hard time dealing with situations in which my choices are being taken away.  I prefer to cook on a gas stove, because it’s so much easier to control the temperature.  As someone who routinely sets off the smoke alarm when I’m preparing a meal, I truly need all the help I can get in the kitchen.  But I’ve heard that gas stoves are becoming increasingly expensive and will soon be phased out entirely, so I’ll have to struggle with an electric one.  Similarly, I don’t like online banking, but banks are slowly but surely pushing customers into it by cutting branch hours and raising checking fees.  Soon online banking will be the only “choice.”

One of my favorite ways to spend time is browsing through a bookstore, picking up any book that looks interesting and skimming through it to see if I like the writing style.  But all across the nation, bookstores are closing.  Clothing stores are also being slowly replaced with online shops, but how can I tell if a pair of pants, or worse, a swim suit, will fit simply by looking at a tiny photo?  A photo also doesn’t show the quality of the fabric or the true color.  Face it, as brick and mortar stores keep closing at a record pace, soon everything will have to be purchased online.  And we’d be fools to believe that free shipping is going to be offered once the online stores have a monopoly on the market.

I’m not against change or progress, but  I don’t appreciate the steady erosion of choices that often masquerades as progress.  We never really outgrow the desire to choose what we like, and I don’t think we need to apologize for that.  Lack of choice often translates to lack of control, and it’s only natural to resent it.  More importantly, having options means the freedom to make the decisions that work best for our unique personality.  It’s a way to respect the diversity of our community.  And that is why I will always choose to have a choice.

Getting Better

/ Ann Coleman / 84 Comments

I’ve never been good at being sick.  I lay in bed, feeling immensely sorry for myself, and whine a lot. I also fret about all the things that I’m supposed to be doing, but can’t do because I’m sick.  I know when I don’t go to the animal shelter to walk the dogs, the other volunteers have to walk even more dogs than usual.   And even if I had the energy to babysit my grandkids or help my mom, I can’t risk giving them my germs.  So between the misery and the guilt, my mood is very dark when I’m under the weather.

The only thing that helps is remembering my illness won’t last forever and eventually, I’ll feel better.  It rarely happens as quickly as I wish, but so far, I’ve managed to recover each time I’ve been sick or injured.  Bearing that in mind really does help me cope when I’m lying in bed with my stomach doing flip flops and my head pounding.  “This, too, shall pass,” I tell myself, as often as I need to until I can actually believe it.

Personally, I’ve found that remembering that tough times don’t last forever is very helpful, period.  When my daughter tells me her baby kept her up most of the night, I sympathize because I remember just how sleep-deprived I was when my own children were young.  But then I try to cheer her up by reminding her the time will come when both she and her baby will routinely get a good night’s sleep.  When I’m watching my back yard wither in the dry and unrelenting heat of a drought, I remind myself that the rains will come again, as they always do.  The grief that accompanies profound loss may never disappear, but it does become more bearable with time.  Life may never be the same, and certainly not the way we want it to be, but there will be moments of joy and happiness again.  Sometimes, we just have to wait it out.

Recently, my husband and I had the chance to visit Sanibel Island, which had been devastated by Hurricane Ian last September.  We used to love the first sight of the island as we crossed the causeway, because it was beautiful and it meant our vacation had truly started.  This time, the causeway was a mess of construction, the surrounding water was a dirty brown, and much of the greenery on the island was gone.  Some buildings were intact, but others had gaping holes and others had been swept away entirely.  Piles of refuse, waiting for pick up, lined many of the roads.

I’m not going to lie, the devastation did make us a bit heart-sick, especially for the residents who had lost so much.  But we also saws unmistakable signs of recovery.  Some businesses had reopened, and some bike paths were clear.  We actually ate lunch at one of our favorite restaurants which had somehow come through unscathed.  And through the restaurant’s windows we could see palm trees still standing.  Their palms had blown off, but they were already growing new ones.  It was a timely and much-needed reminder that “this, too, shall pass…..”

Fresh and New

/ Ann Coleman / 111 Comments

I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, mostly because I can’t seem to keep them.  I used to resolve to lose a little weight, spend less time worrying about things I can’t control, take better care of myself, and eat a healthier diet.  Secretly, I’d also hope that the new year would be the one where my writing career finally took off, and I’d get a nice big contract for one of the children’s book manuscripts I was trying to get published. 

Sadly, none of those things actually happened, at least for very long.  I’d diet for week or so, and then go right back to my love affair with all things sugary or fried.  I’d still worry far too often about far too many things.  The only children’s book I ever managed to publish was sold to an educational publisher for a one-time payment of $2,100…..and the check came three months late.  (If you Google “rich and famous children’s book authors,” my name does not appear on your screen.)

Still, there is something about a new year that feels like a fresh start.  It’s not that the previous year was a bad one, because in my case, it wasn’t.  I was able to travel again, which meant visiting friends and family I haven’t seen since before the pandemic began. My husband’s scans and blood tests revealed the wonderful news that his cancer is still gone.  We finally got the floor in our back family room leveled, and my husband began his partial retirement just last month.  (Never mind the fact that so far, he seems to believe that being partially retired means working lots of overtime.)  

But whether the previous year was good, bad or a mixture of the two, starting a new year always seems like a good thing. I see my house with new eyes once the Christmas decorations are packed away, and I always recognize a few things I’d like to change.  And while I might not make major changes to my diet, once the holidays are over I do stop having Christmas cookies for dessert after every meal.  I no longer write children’s books, but I do write a blog (yes, the one you’re reading) and I’ve come to enjoy that very much.  I don’t get paid, but it is a creative outlet and it’s put me in touch with some wonderful people from all over the world.

So instead of resolutions, I’ve decided to start the new year by simply appreciating whatever gifts the previous year brought and being willing to make at least small adjustments that could result in a better year ahead.  It’s my way of trying to embrace the best of the old and carry it on into the new year, while letting go of the things that it’s time to leave behind.  Because a new year can represent a chance to look at things in a new way, without all the baggage we accumulate through the years.  I guess that’s what “seeing through the eyes of a child” means….  

Happy New Year, everyone!

The Little Things

/ Ann Coleman / 83 Comments

I tripped over my slippers a couple of weeks ago and injured my big toe.  I wasn’t sure if it was broken or merely sprained, but since the treatment for both is basically the same, I didn’t go to urgent care to find out.  I figured it wasn’t worth spending an hour or two in a waiting room surrounded by Covid, RSV and flu germs just to be told to stay off my foot, elevate it and apply ice.  Honestly, I didn’t think injuring a toe was a big deal.

Turns out, I was wrong. Although the swelling was minimal, I couldn’t comfortably wear most of my shoes or even my slippers.  And not being able to put weight on my big toe meant I couldn’t walk normally, which caused my back and other parts of my foot to hurt if I walked too much.  That meant I couldn’t do my regular volunteer shifts walking dogs at the local shelter, had to choose my outfits based on my limited footwear, and in general plan my life around what my injured toe did and did not allow me to do.  I felt guilty, annoyed and frustrated, not to mention embarrassed when I begged off commitments because “I tripped over my slippers and hurt my toe.”  I considered wrapping my ankle and claiming I’d sprained it rescuing a small child from a burning house, but I’m not that good of a good liar.

The good news is my toe is finally starting to heal, and I’m no longer limping very much.  I’m back at the shelter, but sticking to walking small dogs that don’t pull, and the list of shoes I can wear without pain is growing steadily.  I believe it won’t be too much longer before I can resume my normal life, and that gives me some much-needed hope.

I learned many things from the past two years, but one of the most important lessons was the importance of hope.  Dealing with hard times for the short-term is one thing, but when you don’t see any “light at the end of the tunnel,” it’s very, very hard to keep your spirits up.  Believing that things will eventually improve, one way or another, really is essential to our emotional heath.

I think about that when I sit in church, enjoying a Christmas concert, or dine with good friends in our favorite restaurant.  There was a time when such things weren’t possible, and yet I’m doing them again.  In the past year, I’ve visited friends and family I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic started.  Covid and other viruses aren’t going away, but we are learning to control them with vaccines and better knowledge about how they spread.  That’s progress, and that gives me hope.

My beloved Sanibel Island is still severely damaged by the hurricane that hit three months ago, but it’s also beginning to recover.  Some stores and restaurants have reopened, and the island will be open to the public for day visits after the first of the year.  That’s a huge step forward, and it also gives me hope.

The truth is, there are signs of hope all around us, hidden among the world’s many problems.  We just have to be willing to look for them, and to recognize them when we spot them.  It’s true that those signs of hope may be small and easy to dismiss, but trust me, the little things really do count….even something so small as a toe that is finally beginning to heal.

Room for Improvement

/ Ann Coleman / 73 Comments

One of the downsides of buying “fixer-upper” houses is that they require a lot of work.  Over the years my husband has become adept at hanging dry wall, replacing basic plumbing fixtures, doing light carpentry, etc.  My job is usually painting and assisting, although once I surprised him by widening a doorway with my trusty crowbar.  (Sadly, my husband wasn’t impressed.)   But some jobs require a professional, and that’s when things get a little tricky.

The problem is while I love home improvement projects once they are finished, I hate the process of actually having the work done.  It’s not fun having to live with the noise and dust of demolition, and I’m not a fan of having workers in my house, no matter how nice or professional they are.  It never fails that if I get up extra early to be showered and dressed before the crew arrives, they don’t show up until around ten in the morning.  But if I dare to venture down into the kitchen to get my early morning Diet Coke, three carpenters are sure to come in the back door, calling out a cheerful “hello” while pretending not to notice I’m still in my pajamas.  You get to know the people who work in your house, but we don’t need to know each other quite that well.

Our latest project was supposed to be tearing out the carpet in the small family room off our kitchen, leveling a small section of the floor and laying down a new laminate floor.  What it turned into was the complete demolition of the entire floor (you could see the slab the room sits on), redoing most of the joists and then laying a new sub floor, laminate floor, baseboards and thresholds.  They also repaired some hidden holes in the exterior walls (we were wondering how a chipmunk got in our house).

None of this was easy.  I know because I could hear the workers complaining as they struggled to remove wood that was rock hard and nailed in with what seemed to be a thousand nails per square foot.  And just to make things extra fun, the nails were so old that the heads often came off when they were trying to pry them out.  I thought the worst was over when they began laying the new floor, but soon discovered that involved using the loudest nail gun I’ve ever heard.  And of course the sound of it terrified our dog Finn, who promptly took refuge on our antique and recently-refinished dining room table.

The project is just about complete as I write this, and the new floor really does look good.  It’s nice to know that the chipmunk entrance is now blocked off and new insulation has been installed.  A few hours with a good vacuum and a few dozen dust cloths should clean up the last of the mess, and then we get the fun job of moving our heavy furniture back into the room and finally placing my Christmas decorations where they belong.

Right now I’m swearing we’ll never tackle another home-improvement project, but I know that isn’t true.  Time has a way of making bad memories fade away, and eventually we’ll add that dormer to our bedroom I’ve been wanting for years.  All I ask is when that day comes, please ignore my whining and complaining.  Because no one likes to be reminded they really should have known better….

Anticipation

/ Ann Coleman / 82 Comments

One of my favorite Christmas memories is picking out each year’s Christmas tree with my father.  We would go to a local tree lot, where he would find several trees that he thought would do nicely.  I, on the other hand, was in search of the perfect tree, and I didn’t believe it was a decision that could be rushed.  I inspected dozens of trees, often asking the assistants to hold them so I could step back and see them from every angle.  Sometimes we visited more than one lot, because none of the trees in the first lot were quite good enough.  And I have a vivid memory of him standing in the freezing drizzle, his crew cut  spiking from ice, holding a tree and saying, “I really think this one is good enough, don’t you?”  There was something in his tone that made me realize disagreement wasn’t an option.

These days, my husband I put up two Christmas trees.  The artificial one goes up in our living room the day after Thanksgiving, and the real one goes in our basement family room in early December.  When we were first married, my poor husband was dragged along from tree lot to tree lot as I searched for a tree that was exactly right.  One year we actually returned a live tree because we didn’t like the way it looked in our living room when we got it home.  From the look on the face of the woman who ran the tree lot, I’m pretty sure we’re the first customers who ever did that.

I think the reason I tried so hard to find the perfect tree was simply that I really love the Christmas season.  I love the decorating, the shopping, the baking and the gatherings.  Because I loved the holiday so much, I wanted everything about it to be perfect, starting with the tree.  But the truth is, no matter how hard I tried, I never…not even once….celebrated a perfect Christmas.  I’ve had some very nice Christmases, but never a perfect one.

And all these years later, I’ve finally realized that’s okay.  I’ve figured out I can still enjoy the holiday season, even with a tree that’s too short or too skimpy, with cookies that don’t look a thing like the picture in the recipe book, and even when a holiday gathering I’d looked forward to is cancelled.  Christmas can be quite nice even if my allergies are acting up and the dog decides to eat the gingerbread house I spent two hours decorating.

My very favorite church service of the entire year is the Christmas Eve candlelight service, but in 2020, no church was open. But that year my sister sent me a link to an online “service” her church had created and I loved it.  Turns out, watching “Silent Night” sung by candlelight is almost as good as being there.  And the year my entire family came down with a cold on Christmas Day wasn’t the disappointment I thought it would be.  We slept in, then gathered around the tree to open presents.  It was a subdued celebration, and we went through an entire box of tissues that morning, but it was still special.

So yes, I’m looking forward to Christmas this year, but no, I’m not expecting it to be perfect.  I know gift receipts will be lost, someone in the family will get sick, schedules will have to be reshuffled, and tempers will frayed.  But through all the messiness of real life, the joy of Christmas will still be there…..and that’s good enough for me.